25 #2
“Well, aren’t you the seasoned barber,” I mutter, fingering my own faded black ends as I glance around the room.
It’s not dissimilar to his bedroom back in the Reaches.
A desk is pressed up against one wall, a divan occupying the length of another.
Here, though, the windows are shuttered, the walls bare.
In the center is a large bed with a black coverlet. “What do you need me for?”
Instead of answering, Slade crosses to the other side of the room, picking up a small bowl. “I don’t have a particularly good view of the back, so if you don’t mind hanging around until I’m done, you can tell me if I missed—”
“Just let me do it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I stomp over to him and snatch the bowl from his hands, wrinkling my nose at the chemical scent. “I said I’ll do it, okay? That way you won’t fuck it up. Just…be quiet.”
He’s silent for a long moment, watching me with an inscrutable expression.
“What?” I demand.
“I’m trying to think of all the ways you could attack me with hair dye.”
I know I’m going to regret this, but there’s no way in hell I can stay here a moment longer unless I have something to do with my hands. I’m too on edge. Gritting my teeth, I point at the floor. “Sit.”
His gaze is full of mischief. “Yes, ma’am.”
I end up perched on the divan, Slade between my legs, his own long ones stretched out in front of him.
I yank off my gloves where he can’t see and work quickly, my hands moving through his soft hair.
I try not to wonder what it feels like dry.
I try not to think about how much he’ll look like Gabriel after this.
I wonder if that’s why he changed it in the first place.
My eyes keep straying to the curve of his neck, my body angling closer to his warmth.
It’s vulnerable, the position I have him in.
Me at his back, out of sight and out of reach.
And yet I’ve seen how fast he can move—know exactly how quickly the tables can turn if I let my guard down.
Still, there’s no reasonable explanation for why I feel like the vulnerable one, sitting here with my legs around him and my hands whispering across the closely shaved base of his skull.
I don’t know if I want to stroke his skin or strangle him.
It’s taking an exorbitant amount of control not to let my touch linger even as my fingers grow more stained.
Stained with the Bloodrot, stained with dye. The two bleed into each other.
“What is it?” Slade asks, the question edged with bemusement. I hadn’t even realized I’d frozen.
“I—nothing.” I refocus my attention, casting about for the reason I came here. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“That’s not a question.”
“I didn’t say it would be.” I scowl where he can’t see. “You’re not denying it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“We’re supposed to be working together. You can’t just pretend I don’t exist because you’re in a mood.”
Slade shifts against my hand, causing me to leave a smear of black on his neck. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I’m not in a mood.”
“You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Not even remotely.”
Something about the way he says that sends my pulse spiking again. I jerk away, drawing my knees up to my chest. “You’re done.”
“You’re sure?”
“I said you’re done,” I snap. It’s clear he has no intention of explaining himself. “Go shower. You have dye on you.”
He’s on his feet with impossible grace, a smirk lingering around his mouth. “And whose fault is that?” He twists to peer down at his shoulders, which are indeed smattered with partial fingerprints—evidence of my hands on his skin.
My face is hot. I mentally order my body to relax. I only succeed when he leaves the room, the sound of running water turning to white noise in the back of my mind.
I need to get out of here.
I slip out the door and to the bathroom across the hall.
I scrub my hands until they’re stiff, as if I can somehow wash away the dregs of ill-advised desire that haunts me.
I stare at my face in the mirror the entire time.
The harsh line of my mouth and the furrow between my brows. I look disgusted with myself.
Only when my breathing slows do I shut the tap off and yank the bathroom door open.
And walk directly into Slade.
He steadies me as I take a step back, cursing under my breath.
It’s dark in the hall, but I can tell he’s donned a simple T-shirt—soft black, or maybe navy.
His hair is damp, falling in streaks of ebony against his pale brow, and I have the most absurd sensation that I’m finally seeing him the way he’s meant to look.
If he was attractive before, then the way he looks now is devastating.
“Move,” I snap, taking care to keep my voice down.
“Talin.” He says my name like an accusation, the sound of it sending a jolt through me. He doesn’t move an inch. I’m trapped—always trapped. Heat flares through me, unwanted and intractable.
“Stop that,” I hiss.
The cut of his gaze to my face is immediate and deadly. “Stop what?”
“You know what.”
“I assure you, I don’t.”
My frustration spikes, sending me barreling toward my breaking point. I’m done with the games. This confusing entanglement of hatred and lust. “Stop making me want you.”
Slade stills. “I’m not making you want anything.”
“Really? Because—”
“Do you know why I’ve been avoiding you?
” He cuts me off, his voice abruptly harsh.
“It’s because I haven’t taken confession in days, little sinner, and you are almost unbearably tempting.
If I let my guard down, if I’m around you for any length of time, I won’t be able to help myself.
I will make you want me, and then we’re both fucked.
I promised I wouldn’t feed from you again.
Despite what you might think of me, I intend to keep that promise. ”
“Oh,” is all I manage to say. It’s not the response I was expecting. Not even close.
When I don’t move, he slowly extends a hand to trail it up the side of my neck, cool fingers hooking just beneath my ear.
I’m motionless, my breaths shallow. His thumb brushes my cheek, and the world narrows, orbiting the place where our skin makes contact.
My blood thrums in my veins. His eyes scan my face—gauging, hungry.
I see his pulse flutter at the base of his throat.
The nearness of his body feels like something electric as the air between us shifts.
“I can see you trying to convince yourself to leave,” he murmurs. “You’d be smart to do just that.”
“I know.”
My voice sounds far away. Too hoarse. When he makes to pull his hand back, I grab his wrist, digging my nails in. He’s breaking down my resolve, whether he means to or not, and I’ll make him hurt for his trouble.
Get out of here, I scream at myself, but my mind and body aren’t in accord. I lift my chin and look Slade directly in the eye. It’s a dare, and he knows it.
He hisses a breath through his teeth, a feral sound.
Then his mouth slams into mine.
I know at once that we’ve fucked up. The moment our lips touch, the need that’s been simmering inside me reaches a fever pitch and spills over, contorting into something brutal and unrestrained.
His body is firm and hot as his tongue flicks against mine.
He tastes like sweet mint and the barest hint of tobacco.
I drag my hands up his back, feeling the ridges along his spine, pressing myself into him.
He lets out a barely restrained groan, and then he’s forcing me toward the wall with savage impatience, holding me upright as I scramble to keep my feet under me.
I gasp as I slam into the wood paneling.
Slade kisses me in a way that feels like a challenge.
He kisses me like a warning, like he’s trying to force me to yield.
His touch is no longer gentle, but furious, demanding, and I arch into it.
My desire is heedless of any logic. I suddenly want Slade Markovich in a way that’s vicious, perilous, unhealthy.
I want him the way a beast yearns to sink teeth into flesh.
He exhales into my mouth, then lifts me up, forcing me to wrap my legs around his torso.
I take his lower lip between my teeth, rewarded by the low rumble in the back of his throat.
I can feel just how heavily he’s breathing.
Can feel the hardness of him against me, igniting a pulsing heat deep in my core.
Although we’re both fully clothed, I can sense him coming undone, and his loss of control only drives me wilder.
I kiss him in a way that borders on desperation, not remotely worried about hurting or unnerving him.
He matches my level of furor kiss for kiss, breath for ragged breath.
I untangle one hand from where I’d intertwined my fingers behind his neck and rake them through his hair.
His grip on my ass is nearly painful, and I revel in the ache.
I want it to hurt. Pain is the only thing that can even begin to sate my newfound addiction.
Because that’s what this is. An immediate fucking addiction.
I can’t get enough of him, and I hate it, and the hate only makes me want him more.
I have no idea whether Ceri or Emeric can hear us, and I don’t care a single bit.
Every one of my senses is homed in on Slade.
The firm lines of him, the heat of his breath, the taste of him, and how all three form a dizzying, unrelenting distraction from the spiral of my thoughts.
His tongue in my mouth isn’t enough. His body through his clothes isn’t nearly enough.
I can tell it’s not enough for him either. His lips demand everything I have, and still it’s clear he wants more. I know neither of us will be satisfied until he has space to exert the kind of control he wants to. The kind I want him to.
I’m not making you want anything.