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Straddling me.
Naked.
Eli was naked.
I felt the hard length of him nestled between my thighs. Unconsciously, I parted my legs further, and he leaned down so his chest was flat against my back and his lips were by my ear. “No intercourse, Genèvieve,” he taunted.
Goddess help me, I whimpered. “We can’t, but this is . . . nice.”
“Nice?” he echoed. He was a voice and pleasure in the dark, and I was certain that no one had ever made me so desperate so quickly.
He thrust his hips against me, groaning. Not entering me, merely taunting me with what I was refusing.
“Still just nice?” he asked.
I moaned and admitted, “More than nice.”
By the time he had me roll over, exposing my naked chest and hips to his touch, I was wishing I could find a loophole in the no intercourse clause.
He parted my legs further. “Shall I be thorough, Genèvieve?”
“Please.Please.”
His hands danced between my legs, but only for a moment, sliding along my most delicate skin, and then they were gone. In the dark, he plucked my nipples, massaging my thighs, my belly.
I could only feel and beg. “More, Eli. Please.More.”
In that moment if he’d asked me again, I’m not sure I’d have refused intercourse. Damn the consequences, I was shaking in need. Maybe he knew that, and it was why he didn’t ask.
Instead he asked, “Is it so horrible to date me, bonbon?”
“No.” I took several breaths. “Not horrible.”
He was quiet, breathing as needy as mine. I heard the strain in his voice as he asked, “Would you still only like touch or would you like a kiss? Or more?”
I knew what would happen if I agreed tomore, and as much as I wanted his mouth on my body, I wanted toseehim when we burned that bridge. So, I reached out into the darkness and trailed my hand over his hip. The oil from where his naked body had been against mine made my hand glide over skin and muscle.
“Touch,” I asked, demanded, begged.
“Yes.”
So, I stroked him as he touched me. We were nothing but hands and skin and moans in the darkness. I wanted more, but I wasn’t sure I could endure it.
Chapter Six
I’d slippedout of Eli’s house in the night. I slid away from his embrace and fled. He said I was to be myself, and well, my self wasn’t great at the softer side of dating. My world was tilted by the intimacy we’d shared—and in my usual way, I ran from emotions.
Honestly, sometimes I felt sorry for anyone who tried to date me.
I liked Eli more than I’d cared for anyone, and I suspected most of our conflicts boiled down to my innate panic at feeling tender things in his direction. Some girls had pretend-weddings as children, fantasies of gowns as teens, and thought about the future as young women. Me? I thought about monsters. I dreamed of swords or trips. I fantasized about the sort of sex that made grown men blush.
The odds of finding anyone who found my messed-up brain and monster-tainted body appealing were so thin that I never really expected to deal with it. I’d always been the person that nice boys and girls took for a spin before settling down. I was the mid-life crisis car, the thrill-ride, and not the sort anyone wanted to marry. I chose that. I highlighted my traits that kept me firmly in the “makes a great mistress, not a wife” box.
So, I was not prepared to wake up the next evening to a gift-wrapped faery-wrought dagger and antique bottle of the same oil Eli had rubbed all over me. I sniffed the bottle and couldn’t help but smile.
The post also delivered a piece of parchment with elegantly written instructions for a “celebratory holiday gathering” hosted by the dead-chick-in-charge of thedraugr.The dinner at Beatrice’s castle was later that week.
No rest for the dead, or half-dead, I supposed.
