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I want her to stay.
“I said, ‘Are you okay?’” She goes down on her knees and leans toward me. “Hawk.”
I’m definitely not okay, for so many reasons.
Her voice is soft, but her lips are so close to mine I can almost taste the words, taste my name on her sweet breath.
And damn if my dick doesn’t get excited again, the magic cross piercing in the head catching on my briefs, stopping my breath.
Can’t help the way my body reacts to her. She’s tied up in my mind with sex, mindless pleasure. Escape. My dick doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m in a bind, that there are goons standing guard outside the warehouse, or that I feel like crap warmed over. This girl’s got a body to die for, and my body, that has been beaten to hell and starved for days, shouldn’t get so easily excited at the sight of her. The soft scent of her. The warmth of her.
But there you go.
“Hawk,” she breathes, her lips forming the words, and everything has slowed down. I blink, try to get my grip back on reality.
I hate losing control over myself like that. Over my body. I’m a strong guy. I’ve rarely been sick. Even after the accident with my bike last month, I recovered quickly—the additional damage to my hearing notwithstanding.
“I’m okay,” I croak and attempt again to get up, using the pillar behind me for support.
My knees fold under me, and I sink back down with a grunt. The room is spinning, and bile rises in my throat.
“Take it easy,” she says, her voice coming in echoes.
I am. I’m taking it easy. Yeah, that’s right.
“Here.” She lifts a cup from a tray the thugs left just out of my reach and lifts it to my mouth. “How long have you been here? Didn’t they give you anything to drink?”
I reach for the cup, but my hands are shaking too badly.
She presses the cup into my palm, then cups her smaller hands over mine, guiding the cup to my mouth.
It’s… intimate. Sweet.
Not what I’m used to, not with her. Not with any woman, or anyone, for that matter. I’ve never allowed it.
And I’m so damn thirsty I almost choke on the water. Damn, it feels good, cool and fresh, going down my parched throat, wetting my swollen tongue.
She takes the cup away too soon. Way too soon.
“More.” I reach after it, and she scoots back to refill it.
“Slow down.” She helps me drink one more cup. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
But it’s impossible to slow down, or stop. Like with the way my body reacts to her, the thirst is out of my control.
This time, when she takes the cup away, I let my head loll back against the pillar and concentrate on keeping the water down.
“You’re dehydrated,” she says, then something else I don’t hear as she fusses with the tray.
Goddammit. “Why are you still here? You should leave. Now, before anyone finds you.”
She stills, then resumes gathering up a bowl and a spoon from the tray. “Not before we talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You should go.”
“No.” She shoves the tray away, bowl and cup and all, and gets right in my face. “Why are you doing this? Tell me the truth.”
“You heard everything.”
