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"Come for me," he commanded, and the dam broke. Pleasure washed over me in waves and dragged his climax from him with a guttural groan that echoed in the huge room. We clung to each other as the echoes of release faded and our ragged breaths mingling.
"God, that was—" I started, but no words seemed enough. Instead, I turned my head and found his lips with mine, a gentle kiss that held the ferocity of moments ago. We stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto it. The sheets stuck to us as we struggled to catch our breath.
"Ansel," I said again, quieter this time, sobered by the whirlwind of thoughts that chased the post-orgasmic haze from my mind. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything." His eyes searched mine. They had that same intensity I'd seen in the bathtub, talking about his father and his wanting to heal.
"Oswin Yorke," I watched his face closely. "What do you know about him?"
There was a hesitation, a flicker in his gaze, but I couldn't read it—not fear, not surprise, something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
"The fucking tattoos, I knew they reminded me of something," He said with a glint of recognition in his eyes. "You shouldn't go places asking for Oswin, Averill. Not if you value your life."
“I need to know, Ansel."
He sighed, the sound heavy with things unsaid, things that might shatter the fragile peace we’d found. "Let’s get comfortable."
"Comfortable," I echoed and swallowed hard. "Right. Because this conversation is going to be anything but."
The plush of the bed was a stark contrast to Ansel's body as he pulled me close and wrapped us in a silken blanket. But comfort was the last thing on my mind. He went from a passionate lover to a guarded mystery, which was more surprising than the chill of the air on my sweaty skin.
"Where did you hear that name?" The question came out edged like steel, slicing through the serenity of the penthouse. Ansel's grip on me tightened, not painfully, but with urgency.
"Jesus, Ansel, It's not like it's Voldemort or something." But the humor felt hollow, bouncing off the suddenly impenetrable walls he'd erected between us.
"You don't understand." His voice dropped an octave and the bass vibrated against my ribs.
"Then make me understand," My tone was all sharp edges, because if there's one thing I hate, it's being kept in the dark. Especially when it comes to matters of fucking life and death. And something told me Oswin Yorke fell squarely into that category.
Ansel's sigh was a heavy cloud in the room, thick with unspoken fears. He ran a hand through his damp hair.
"Oswin Yorke is..." He paused and searched for the right words—or maybe the courage to say them. "He's an assassin, Averill. Not just any assassin?—"
"Let me guess," I interjected, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Time-traveling hitman? Comes with a free DeLorean?"
"Dammit, Averill, this isn't a joke!" Ansel's outburst echoed off the glass walls, and for a split second, the city below seemed to hold its breath. "He eliminates high-profile targets. Influential people whose deaths can change the course of history."
"Great," I muttered under my breath. "No pressure then."
"Your involvement with him... it could put you in serious danger." The concern in his voice was genuine. "You have to stay away from him."
"Too late for that now, isn't it?" I said, my laugh as brittle as the ice that formed on the window panes outside. "I'm a magnet for the dangerous and the damned."
"Please, Averill." His plea was almost a whisper as his forehead rested against mine. "Promise me you'll be careful. If you're up against Oswin, you're going to need a plan."
"Plans are cute," I interrupted and pulled away to look him dead in the eye. "But my life eats plans for breakfast and then spits out the bones. Yorke has answers, and I'll drag them out of him if it's the last thing I do."
"Be careful," Ansel said again, his voice a low rumble of thunder to the lightning that crackled in me but I was already halfway out the door, my head teeming with the dread and determination of a woman who knew too much and still not nearly enough.
Safe was for people with less interesting lives.
Chapter
Eleven
Istood at the edge of the grand ballroom and my fingertips grazed the luxurious fabric of my gown—a disguise, a charade I played too well. The shadows clung to me like old friends as I typed out a message on my phone.
Meet me out back. Now.
