Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Dragging a hand through his hair, he doesn’t have the decency to look abashed. “Yeah. I did. I needed to make sure you were safe.”
We’ve inched closer together. I throw my hands up in exasperation. He grabs one and holds it, catching me off guard. Rough and warm, his grip sends thoughts of arguing out of my head far too easily.
No.
Do not let him off the hook because he smells good and technically was being protective.
Where is my outrage when I need it? Everything annoys me. In theory, I should be so, so pissed on principle. “My ex-husband is basically stalking me. Yet you stalked me here. That’s messed up.”
Tilting his head the tiniest bit, he’s thoughtful, studying my face. “I didn’t stalk you.” I glare back, ignoring the heat of arousal building between my thighs. “I haunted you.” Shifting incrementally closer, he drops his voice. “Almost sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”
“No one thinks haunting someone is romantic,” I mutter, fighting the urge to sway into him. “Except you, apparently.”
“You think it is.” His flannel brushes the front of my jean jacket. “You said so, when Shane was talking about the Fullton Lake Haunting. Said it didn’t count as a scary story, that it was the most romantic thing you’d ever heard.”
Breath catches in my throat. I do think the legend of the Fullton Lake Haunting is romantic, in a tragic sort of way.
In the ’70s, a married couple, Martin and Silvia, drowned when their boat capsized.
Witnesses pulled Martin from the water, but it was too late.
They never found Silvia. The story goes that on foggy summer evenings, an orb circles the lake, moving up and down the shoreline, as if searching.
It appeared for the first time the night of the accident, while search parties were dragging the lake as best they could.
The townsfolk swore it was Martin, trying to help them find Silvia’s body.
But she was swallowed up by the lake, so to this day he’s still looking, unable to rest without her.
“That was years ago.” I swallow hard. Shane, Claire, Caine, a handful of their friends, and I had all been sitting around the firepit in their backyard after taking a test run through the haunt.
Shane had been adamant that he could also be scary and shared the legend.
No one was scared, just sad. I had thought it was romantic and said so to make him feel better when it was clear he’d murdered the mood.
Caine’s eyes are as dark as his voice is rough. “I have a great memory.”
“Have you ever gotten into your email account without having to reset the password?” We’re nose to nose, a standoff that feels less like a fight and more like foreplay.
“I remember what’s important.”
“And what I find romantic makes the list?” It comes out surprised and not nearly sarcastic enough. “I’m worried about your priorities.”
He chuckles, the sound making me press my thighs together.
“I’m not.” We’re touching now, my breasts barely brushing his chest. I should move.
I need to move. A step back bumps me against the wall.
Caine smirks as I realize my mistake, caging me with his arms for the second time today. “Gotcha, hot stuff.”
My heart may beat right out of my chest at our proximity. I know I probably look as turned on as I feel. Pressing against my right hip, my purse, a large, satchel-y cross-body, gives me an idea. Still staring at Caine, I ease my hand into my bag.
Caine’s breath tickles my cheeks. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re a tough little thing.” His voice lowers, tone growing more serious. “But what if it hadn’t been me?”
My hand trembles, but that doesn’t slow how quickly I pull the knife from my bag and thrust it between us. The blade presses his skin, just above the last buttoned button at the top of his flannel, but I don’t push. “Then someone would have been stabbed.”
His gaze drops to the blade, it trembles with excitement or maybe nervousness, a metal extension of its owner.
Suddenly, I feel like I’ve gone too far.
I should have just stated my plan of defense instead of physically demonstrating it.
This is not how healed, emotionally mature people make a point.
At least you didn’t push him through a window.
Mouth opening to say I’m sorry and plead temporary alien mind control, I snap it shut when Caine meets my eyes again.
The only word for his gaze is ravenous. I can’t blink.
I’ve seen this look before. That first year at the haunt, after I’d plunged the prop dagger into his heart for the final time.
When he tugged the mask off, his hair was mussed and his eyes starving.
Tonight, like then, my need runs as hot as his. Except this time, I want more, and I’m not afraid to ask for it.
When he speaks, I know I’m doing as poor a job cloaking my lust as he is.
“Killer.” His voice is a rumble. Oh god, I didn’t know people could sound like this.
“You with a knife is not a deterrent.” Leaning into the blade, he grabs my wrist when I try to pull away.
His hand cradles mine as he presses harder.
A crimson line wells up. I gasp, completely letting go of the knife.
He saves it from falling. Light from the building behind me reflects off the blade, his blood darkening the edge.
I realize how tightly my thighs are clamped together—I physically cannot squeeze them harder—when he lifts the knife, gives it an appraising glance, and carefully licks his blood off.
My mouth is open. Question marks have replaced my pupils.
Caine laughs, and it’s like a sunbeam forcing its way through pre-snowfall skies.
A flash of warmth I want to bask in, made all the more pleasurable by the surrounding chill.
Flipping the knife expertly in one hand, he pinches the blade between his fingers, extending the handle to me. I take it.
“I’d bleed for you any day.”
He is. The fine line disappears beneath his shirt, reminding me how I cut his throat the night I thought he was Nicholas.
Only a few days ago, it feels like a lifetime.
I swallow hard. “Second time I’ve drawn blood.
I’m worried this is becoming a thing.” I try for wry, but there’s no hiding how aroused I am.
Internally cringing, I wait for the rush of shame, the pang of wishing I wanted less.
It doesn’t come. The fire in my stomach burns hotter, stoked by how Caine’s watching me.
“Oh, it’s definitely a thing.” He’s back to caging me against the building. Unsure what else to do, I slide the knife back in my purse. “And you’re wet over it, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes. I am, but I’m not about to admit it.
“If I reached between your thighs, you’d be drenched.” His voice is rough but warm, the same way his hand felt around mine. “You like giving as good as you get, don’t you?”
My brain freezes. I’m a dog who just ran into a sliding glass door, a duck quacking at a decoy—nothing in the world makes sense.
Yet he’s right. I’m soaked. Again, I wait for the sting of shame, but it doesn’t come. All I feel is heat everywhere his eyes land and what has to be a legion of bats swooping around in my stomach.
Still not admitting to it, though.
“Nope.” I stare him down. “These britches are burn ban dry.”
My regret is instant. He blinks, then his face cracks into a grin. Shit. I’ll be hearing about this for the next month.
“Pretend I didn’t say that,” I mutter, pinching my eyes shut. “Rewind to five minutes ago when I was a badass with a knife.”
“Nope. It’s canon now. You wear britches.” He pauses, then adds, “Burnable ones.”
Opening one eye, I see pure delight on his face. I need to do something to distract him from this.
Deep breath.
I summon every bit of seductive energy I have, leaning in to toy with his shirt. “Do you want to keep talking about my panties or cut them off me?”
Not my best work, but it does the job. His face flashes from playful to hungry.
Hallelujah.