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He somehow managed to get her up to his room—she was past the point of noticing. He closed the door behind them, switching on the light, and she was barely aware of her surroundings. “I’m cold,” she said, her voice unnaturally loud. She dropped the coat off her shoulders, onto the floor. “I’m cold and I’m wet.” She touched the front of her shirt, pulling the damp fabric away from her body. She couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten snow on her front.
“You need to rest. I’ll have some new clothes sent up for you. I wasn’t expecting to bring you back here. The bedroom’s behind you. Why don’t you get under the covers and t
ry to warm up?”
She pulled at the soft silk jersey, then looked down at her hands in sudden horror. They were streaked with red.
She looked up at him, into his impassive face. He’d wiped his hands, but she could see the brownish red traces of dried blood on them. And his shirt was wet—she could see the shiny dampness in the afternoon light.
“Have you been hurt?” she asked. “Your shirt…” Without thinking she put her hand against his chest. Against his beating heart.
He shook his head. “It’s Maureen’s blood,” he said. “It’s on both of us.”
It was the final straw. “Get it off me!” she cried, yanking at her shirt, sobbing. “Please…I can’t…” The soft knit fabric simply stretched beneath her panicked hands, and she lost whatever calm distance she’d had. She was there, in the present, covered with a dead woman’s blood, as he was, and if she didn’t get it off her she was going to explode.
“Calm down,” he said, reaching for the hem of her shirt and yanking it over her head. Exposing her body, the lacy black bra, the streaks of blood on her pale skin.
He swore. She was past the point of speech, yanking at her clothes as she gasped for breath, and he simply picked her up, carried her through the darkened bedroom, into the bathroom. It was instantly flooded with bright light, illuminating her skin. He put her into the shower, half-dressed, and turned it on full force, getting in with her as the hot water blasted down on them both.
He stripped off the rest of her clothes, quickly, efficiently, taking the soap and washing her as she stood there, frozen, shivering beneath the steamy downpour. His hands were fast, rough, covering her body, shocking her into action, and she pulled at his clothes, at the blood-soaked fabric, sobbing now.
He pulled his shirt over his head, his chest streaked more darkly with blood, then stripped out of the rest of his clothes, keeping a steady arm around her as he did so. She took the soap from him and scrubbed at his chest, covering him with lather, desperate to wash any trace of blood away, desperate for it all to be washed away….
“Enough,” he said, taking her hand, making her drop the soap onto the tiled floor of the shower, pulling her against him under the full force of the shower, her body pressed up against his, wet and naked, the both of them.
She needed it to go away, all of it. The water wasn’t enough, the soap couldn’t banish it. She needed more, and his erection against her belly was proof that he did, too. In normal times he might not want her, but at that moment he needed her just as badly as she needed him. Needed the oblivion.
She reached down and touched him, and he jerked in her hand, big and heavy, engorged with the same need that swamped her.
She looked up at him through the heavy downpour of the shower. “Please,” she whispered, letting her fingers slip down the solid ridge of his cock. “I need…”
“I know,” he said.
He didn’t turn off the shower. He simply picked her up and carried her into the darkened bedroom, laying her down on the bed, following her, covering her, pushing inside her before she could even catch her breath.
But then, she didn’t want to breathe. She just wanted this, hard and fast and deep, and she came almost immediately, hard around him, tight and clenching as her entire body suffused into heat and light and a kind of star-studded prickly darkness that went on forever, as he moved inside her, seeking his climax with mindless concentration.
It didn’t take him long either. She was still shivering around him when she felt his cock thicken and jerk inside her, and her own climax began again. She tightened her legs around his hips as he spilled inside her. Hot, wet life filling her, driving away death and darkness.
She must have made some sort of noise, because he covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her. She welcomed it, letting go of the very last of her strength, sobbing against the hard flesh of his fingers, until there was nothing left of her, nothing at all.
Bastien pulled away from her, and her arms fell away. She was already unconscious. He would have liked to think he’d fucked her into oblivion, but he knew better than that. She craved the release, the forgetting, as strong as a junkie craved his drugs, and he’d given it to her, taken it for himself, and she’d found healing sleep before he even pulled out of her body.
Her body hadn’t followed her mind yet—the last, stray shiver of orgasm stirred her body. He’d needed her so badly, and he still couldn’t believe her need had been just as strong.
He hadn’t kissed her. But then, this hadn’t been about kissing. It had been about life, reclaiming it. It had been about sex and rebirth, pain and need, and he was getting hard again, just looking down at her.
He wondered if it would ever be about them. About him wanting Chloe, and Chloe wanting him, or whether it was just a weapon, a drug, a tool. He wasn’t going to find out. He was going to finish his job, tonight, and get Chloe on a plane. He was going to survive, because he had to, because he had to make sure she was safely out of there. And then he was going to wait to see what happened, if they would come for him or let him go.
The shower was still running. The Hotel Denis had unlimited hot water, as befitted an exclusive, discreet establishment. He looked down at her, envying her sleep, envying her oblivion. He had too many things to do, to keep her safe, to finish this. He couldn’t crawl beneath the sheets with her, wrap his body around hers and sink into the warm, sweet pleasure of her. All he could do was pull the covers from under her, covering her body. All he could do was lean over and put his mouth against her lips.
All he could do was leave her.
Chloe opened her eyes. She didn’t want to. For a brief moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Her dreams had put her back in her bedroom at home, but the light coming from the open door wasn’t right, and she didn’t recognize the muffled voice from the other room. Her body felt strange, languorous and yet oddly tense.
And then it came back like a hammer blow, everything. Every detail, in sharp, living color, and she put her hand to her mouth, stifling a moan. What the hell had she done?
She’d had sex with Bastien. Again. But in the end that was the least of her worries. It was nothing compared to the litany of death and blood and danger.
