Black and Blue oa-2

by Gena Showalter

  Her grin was devoid of humor. “Give me a few minutes. You’ll probably regret saying that.”

  * * *

  Time ceased to exist for Blue. He lived only in moments.

  There were moments he was utterly alone, lost to pain and darkness. There were moments he was trapped in a nightmare, when the meeting with Michael finished and he stood with John and Solo and they walked to the door, unaware their lives were about to be forever altered. There were moments a woman stroked him, and muttered to him, her honey-almond scent saturating him and her raspy voice delighting him.

  He loved those moments.

  “It’s been a week,” she said now, “and you’ve already grown a new layer of skin—unscarred, of course, because you’re the gold standard every man is measured against, and flaws aren’t allowed to stay. Gag. You grew a new hand, and a new head of hair.” Soft fingers shifted through the strands. “It’s sickening.”

  He wanted to lean into her touch, her warmth, but his body refused to obey the mental command.

  He hated his body.

  “You need a scar. You’re too pretty. Why won’t you wake up?”

  I will. For you. And then I’ll strip you and take you, and you’ll scream my name, again and again, and I won’t stop until I’m sated, and you’re too exhausted to beg me for more.

  “And how are you causing my furniture to levitate? Stop that!”

  His power must be seeping out. He would have to do a better job of controlling it.

  Who was she?

  He’d gone to Pagan’s . . . and his fiancée had been with her sister. Yes. He remembered that much. The two talked about him, and Pagan mentioned becoming a mother. He’d thought she’d understood kids would never be part of their arrangement.

  Humans and otherworlders could procreate, but it wasn’t easy. Still, Blue had taken measures to ensure it never happened. Plus he always wore a condom. He didn’t need protection from disease, since humans couldn’t pass anything to him; but in his early days, too many girls had come forward citing a rubber broke and pregnancy was the result. A lie on both counts, but the claims had scared him. No way did he want to raise a kid with a one-night stand. Or worse, a target. A simple little surgery negated the possibility of children.

  Need to have a talk with Pagan. He would make her understand kids were out of the question, or they would part ways.

  But the woman with him wasn’t Pagan, he thought. Her scent was richer, and her voice sexier. She was thinner, yet somehow softer. Her tone wasn’t as gentle, and he was glad. He wasn’t easily breakable.

  “Yesterday I hacked into Michael’s database and read your updated file, you know. And by ‘read’ I mean skimmed. I wasn’t that interested. Still, you’ve done some pretty impressive wet work.”

  Hells yeah, he had. He’d taken down his first target at the age of thirteen.

  A male never forgot his first.

  Blue had actually butchered the job, an up-close-and-personal grab-and-stab, getting himself grabbed and stabbed in the process. Somehow, even with his injuries, he’d found the strength to pull through and finish. It hadn’t been pretty, but the victory had tasted, oh, so sweet.

  He’d learned a lot since then. Now his victims never saw him coming.

  And maybe he’d been born for this type of work, because he wasn’t like Solo and John. He’d never felt a moment’s regret for doing what he considered a public service. The equivalent of a human taking out the trash.

  “So my question is, why have you allowed Michael to leave you in the hobaggery department?” the female continued. “You rock with guns, blades, and even swords. You’re amazing in hand-to-hand. Compared to anyone but me, of course. And I was particularly impressed with your undercover stint as a cage fighter. Taking down six Bree Lians at the same time? Delish.”

  He wanted to pound his chest with his fists. She was impressed by him. For some reason, that mattered.

  “Ugh. Why am I complimenting you? You’ve already got an overinflated ego. And I bet that’s because no one has ever told you how much of a pain in the arse you are. No female wants to offend the man responsible for her orgasms. Or are you a selfish lover? Do you forget all about your partner’s pleasure?”

  I’ll never forget yours. He wanted to tell her. Tried to tell her. Failed.

  “No response? No witty comeback? Come on, Blue! Talk to me.” The mattress tilted on one side. The covers rustled. The scent of honey and almonds intensified, and his mouth actually watered. Heat wafted from her with furnace-like intensity, enveloping him. It was exquisite, better than exquisite, and he was suddenly as hard as a steel pipe.

  “I hate yammering to comatose Arcadians, I really do. I’m giving you a few more days to wake up, and then I’m dumping you right out the window, just see if I don’t. Because you, Mr. He-slut, are a freaking cover hog, and I’m tired of it.”

  He-slut . . .

  The word reverberated in his head, irritating him. Who would call him—

  In a split second, he remembered sneaking into a fancy two-story belonging to . . . Evangeline. Yes. Evangeline Black. Evie.

  His caretaker’s identity stunned him. Angered him a little, too. Here he was, pussing up over the Black Plague and actually feeling affection for her. He’d even considered pleasuring her. Was still freaking hard for her! What kind of madness was that?

  Maybe the explosion had fried the wires in his brain.

  “When this is over,” she muttered, “I’m probably going to need a tetanus shot. The proverbial they say that inviting a man into your bed is the same as inviting all of his previous lovers. That would explain why I feel so freaking crowded right now.”

  The anger sharpened and clawed at his chest. He was desperate to strike back at her. But though his muscles twitched—finally, movement!—he remained in place.

  He wasn’t worried about his inability to act. His body was in the process of re-creating itself, and was now in the final stages of the healing. Sometime soon, an electrical current would rush through him, bringing new nerves and cells to vibrant life. He would be back to his . . . old self and . . . he would make Evie . . .

  Her insistent warmth drugged him, lulling him deeper and deeper into darkness. . . .

  * * *

  Evie sighed into her pillow. The past week had passed in a blur of activity. She worked at the hospital. She took care of Blue. One night, she finally scouted the military compound where she suspected her father was being kept, but didn’t break in. They’d beefed up security, and she was out of practice. She couldn’t risk getting caught while she had a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound manimal to feed.

  What would happen when he woke up? How would he react? He couldn’t—

  A massive burst of energy swept through the room, electrifying the air. Goose bumps broke out over her skin, and her adrenaline spiked, every cell in her body waking up to say hello. She gasped, startled.

  “Smell good,” Blue muttered.

  They were the first words he’d spoken since the night she’d found him, and his voice snapped her out of her shock. Excitement slithered through her. Was he finally coming around? Would she soon be rid of him and the annoying sense of awareness his mere presence elicited? Never had she been more conscious of her breasts, or the quiver in her stomach, or the ache between her legs than she had these past few days. And she didn’t like it!

  Before she could turn over and check on him, he threw a heavy arm over her middle and tugged her into the hard curve of his body, spooning her. Warm breath tickled the back of her neck . . . and, blimey, she melted against him. So good.

  “Uh, Blue,” she said, embarrassed by the tremor in her voice.

  “Mmm, you feel even better.” As he rubbed his erection into the cleft of her bottom—no way was that thing as big as it seemed to be—his fingers reached around to slide under her T-shirt. Suddenly she was skin to heated skin with her greatest enemy. He cupped one of her breasts, purring, “Sweet little teacup. Can’t wait to put my mo
uth on it.”

  Her nipple beaded, craving exactly what he promised. Mouth, with tongue and teeth.

  More.

  “Blue,” she gasped. “Stop.” Don’t you dare stop. “I’m not one of your women, and I’m not here to service your every whim. You’re engaged to another woman.” That’s right. Oi. Shame beat through her. “And while I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, it does to me.”

  “My woman.” He tweaked her nipple and kissed her nape, his tongue flicking out to taste her. It was ecstasy. It was agony.

  It was wrong.

  Reaching back, Evie grabbed Blue by the hair and yanked. “I said stop.”

  “Ow,” he yelped, his hold on her at last loosening.

  Though it nearly killed her, she rolled from his heat, moving on top of him and pinning his shoulders to the mattress with her knees. “I think it’s time for us to chat, yeah?”

  Four

  B LUE SNAPPED OUT OF the most spectacular sensual daze of his life. Used to having to think and act fast, he took stock of the situation in an instant. Moonlight filled a spacious, femininely decorated bedroom.

  Evie Black’s bedroom.

  Every piece of furniture hovered over the floor, even the bed.

  With a sharp mental command, every piece crashed into place. The bed shook, and Evie almost tumbled over the side. He grabbed her by the waist to steady her—such a slender, perfect waist. His palms flamed at the contact.

  He’d noticed their fit before. Somehow, it was better now.

  She slapped at his wrists with enough force to let him know she meant business, just not enough to actually break his hold. He released her of his own volition. But rather than reward him for good behavior, she glared at him.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded. He’d been living with her, he recalled, and she’d been taking care of him. “Why are you on top of me?” Why was his body already aroused to a fever pitch?

  “You made a pass at me,” she spat at him. “Put your hands right on my wee breasts.”

  Horror filled him. Horror . . . and a more intense arousal. “No way.”

  “Yes way. Want me to write up a review of your performance? Done. First line: Mr. Blue’s rendition of Grabby Hands did not earn a standing O.”

  “O as in orgasm?” Annoying baggage. “You’re lying.”

  “Are you suggesting you did give me an orgasm?”

  “Filthy-minded girl. No.” But I’d like to. “I’m saying I didn’t grab you.”

  “Let’s look at the evidence. You have a python between your legs, and it’s poking at me right this very second.”

  He bit the side of his tongue. To keep from cursing or laughing, he wasn’t sure. A python? Thank you. “That’s not evidence I touched you. That’s evidence I’m a man. What disproves your grabby hands theory? You aren’t my type, and my fingers aren’t suffering from frostbite.”

  For a moment he felt the sting of rejection and frowned. She hadn’t rejected him, so—

  Her sting of rejection, he realized. He tried to turn off his empathic ability, but still the sense of rejection remained, hurting him. But . . . she was an emotionless harpy, concerned only with the destruction of all mankind. Nothing he said should bother her.

  “Well,” she announced, her tone now flat. “I can honestly say that’s the first time I’ve ever been rejected for being too awesome. Because your type sucks. Blondes with breasts so big they can be used as flotation devices, and heads so filled with air they’re comparable to balloons. Cliché!”

  Yes, he did prefer that type of woman. Even though one had never turned him on the way Evie did. And why the hell did he want to beg for her forgiveness? She’d dished worse to him.

  And damn it, why was he now focusing on her perfect teacups, practically salivating, definitely desperate to draw her hard little nipples into his mouth? As if her “wee breasts” were the sweetest treats he’d ever had the privilege of touching.

  They were. He knew it soul deep.

  All right. So there was no denying he’d touched them . . . or that he wanted to touch them again.

  Danger. He gripped her by the knees and shoved her to the side of the bed, away from his mouth, and, worse, his throbbing erection.

  “Lights,” she said, and golden light cascaded from the overhead lamp.

  He sat up and looked himself over. He was completely healed and dressed in a pair of large sweatpants. Men’s sweatpants.

  To whom did they belong?

  His gaze arrowed to Evie, and his chest constricted. She wore a pink tank top and a pair of men’s boxer shorts.

  Did the boxers belong to the owner of the sweatpants? A . . . boyfriend?

  For some reason Blue suddenly wanted to punch a wall.

  Odd reaction. One he didn’t fully understand.

  She tucked her long, slender, and so lusciously pale legs around her, sitting in that crisscross way only a female could manage. Hair of the deepest jet hung wildly around a face he used to tell himself wasn’t really pretty, as he’d first assumed. But he couldn’t tell himself that anymore.

  Maybe, after their first interaction, he’d never let himself look past her attitude; but now, in this moment, that prickly layer had been peeled away and he could see her, really see her. Large velvety brown eyes drew him in and refused to let go. Lush porcelain skin flushed to the most erotic shade of pink. Heart-shaped lips red and deceptively kiss-swollen, practically begging for more.

  He had to fist his hands to keep from reaching for her.

  Arousal he could comprehend. But straight-up attraction? To her?

  Really, Blue? Really?

  The very idea appalled him.

  Michael was more than a boss. Even more than a mentor. Blue considered the man a surrogate father. Michael had found him at his lowest, picked him up, given him friends, a purpose. A reason to go on. And he’d never forgotten Michael’s warning to leave Evie alone.

  What father would want his daughter to be with a man like Blue? Not a good one, and Michael was better than most.

  It stung to be considered completely unworthy, but that’s just the way things were. The way they would always be. He got it.

  Blue wouldn’t destroy his relationship with the man just because his treacherous body wanted to spend a bit of quality time inside the Black Plague.

  More than that, Blue hadn’t suddenly started liking her.

  And more than that, he was engaged, and Evie wasn’t a job.

  “Update,” he demanded.

  She gaped at him. “Seriously? After everything I’ve done for you, you can’t start with ‘Thank you’? Instead, you have to bark a one-word order as if I’m a robo-dog that’s just supposed to obey?”

  Could she never just let things roll? Did she have to make everything a freaking challenge?

  “Thank you,” he gritted.

  “You aren’t welcome,” she reported—and, strangely enough, it doused his irritation.

  Despite everything, she sometimes amused him. The little spitfire was as unpredictable as a storm.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’d like an update, too, you know.”

  “I’ll tell you everything,” he said with a nod. “But me first. Please.” He had to know.

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she said, “I have a feeling you say ‘me first’ to a lot of girls. And in this case, I doubt you know anything, anyway. But, fine. I haven’t heard from my father, but I do know a man was found at the explosion site and taken to the nearest hospital. That same man was soon moved out without any civilians knowing how, why, or where.”

  “You think that man is Michael?”

  “Yes. I also think he’s at a government-owned medical facility—”

  “I know the one,” Blue interjected. “If he was taken there, he wouldn’t have stayed long, because he wouldn’t have known who to trust. The moment he was stabilized, he would have found a way out.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, a wave of desp
air drifting from her. “I haven’t let myself worry about him—much—because I know he’s wily and strong and unbelievably determined, but it’s not like him to leave me in the dark.”

  Yeah. That didn’t bode well. “Have you heard anything about John and Solo?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  She sounded sincere.

  He nodded to let her know he’d heard her. Then he told her everything he remembered about the explosion. As he spoke, she turned her face away from him, as if she couldn’t bear for him to see whatever emotion shined there. He didn’t tell her that he could feel her sadness.

  Was she thinking about her father in pain?

  “So how’s the security here?” he asked, changing topics as an act of mercy.

  She drew in a deep breath, and when she next met his gaze, he thought he saw a hint of gratitude. “It’s amazing. Of course. You haven’t been ambushed once, have you? You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Don’t respond. You’ll only encourage her. “What do you use?”

  Her shoulders squared with pride. “A system of my own creation.”

  So . . . she was a skilled killer and a surgeon as well as a wire tech? Why was that so sexy? “Honey Badger, you’re clearly not as good as you think you are. I managed to get through your window without any problems.”

  “ ‘Honey Badger’? Did you just call me ‘honey badger’?” She waved her fist at him. “Do it again and I’ll cut out your tongue to wear as a charm on my necklace. And I’ve already fixed the flaw that allowed you to break in.”

  “So there was a flaw. Meaning . . . what? Say it with me. You’re not as good as you think you are.”

  Her gaze threw daggers at him. “Anyone on Michael’s payroll was flagged in the system as permissible, just in case someone ever needed to come in and hide while I was away.”

  A bona fide act of kindness. He didn’t want to think of her as the caring type, but did so anyway and responded accordingly, expression and voice softening. “That’s an excellent excuse for a subpar system,” he teased.

  She hissed as if he’d stabbed her. “How dare you sink so low and insult my software! You take that back.”