Abandon the Night

by Joss Ware

  Hot, wet mouths, tongues dancing and tangling—there was nothing of the coy here, nothing of the restrained. They starved, they wanted and took from each other, hands battling to have the right of way, hers tearing at the buttons of his shirt then sliding under it, over his chest…his filling with her breasts, her ass, her hips and the low, sweet curve of her back, all so hot and sleek against him.

  Zoë felt the cool tile against her skin, the strength of Quent as he pushed her up against it, his mouth taking…and taking…from hers. She settled her hands over the smooth, muscular plains of his chest, her fingers dipping into the spread of hair that grew there, golden and brown, and tight, and she tipped her head back against the wall as he moved to maul sensuously the strong cord of her neck, the sensitive skin beneath her ear and along her throat.

  She shivered beneath his hands and mouth, and felt her body gather up tighter, her nipples hard and ready, the warm rush of pleasure superseding the blast of water in her face and over her shoulders. He groaned something into her neck, and the low, guttural sound almost like desperation sent a sharp pleasure-pain shooting down low, deep and hard and promising.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered against his hair, thick and dripping and warm against her face.

  “Zoë,” he muttered. “I…”

  “Don’t talk,” she ordered, busy at his waist, pulling at the soaking denim taut around the top button.

  He laughed against her shoulder, husky and warm, then surged forward to capture her mouth with a long, deep, probing kiss that had her hands dropping away and clutching his shoulders to keep herself upright. Oh God. She couldn’t breathe, she didn’t want to breathe…she wanted this to never stop. Never end.

  His broad, square shoulders, strong and solid, moved fluidly under her fingers as he fumbled with the fly of his jeans down between them. Muscles shifted, flexing beneath her fingers, and at last Zoë had to pull her mouth away to gasp in a breath. Then she went back to taste him, his jaw and cheek, wet and lightly stubbled, then his full, hungry lips again.

  He shifted against her, and suddenly he was there, hands on her hips, lifting her, mouth crushed to hers, breaths mingling with the steady beat of rain…he settled her against the tile wall, spine flat and stable, and then…oh.

  Zoë cried out against his mouth just as he groaned. Yes, yes, oh, Quent. He filled her, perfectly, fully, and then, hands on her hips, her legs around his shower-slicked body, he moved. He didn’t wait, he went on. Hard, fast, desperately.

  One hand curled into his thick hair, her head tipped back again so she could breathe, could cry out and pant with the coming, Zoë closed her eyes for the gathering of pleasure. Her body tightened around him, she felt his heart pounding beneath her other palm, she levered her body, shifting crazily against him, with him, battling in that timeless rhythm…reaching for what she needed. She felt him readying, tensing…and her own peak just…there. Just…there.

  She might have screamed his name as she caught it, she might have cried out, but she didn’t care because the world burst, hot and strong, and she was with him, against that warm, solid body, shuddering and groaning against hers. Sagging with her, bracing them both up with one powerful hand and the opposite knee against the slick wall.

  After a moment of pounding satiation deep within, and water over and around, she dragged open her eyes to find his staring down at her. The first time she’d really seen them, in full light. Blue-flecked brown, glazed with heat, laced with what could only be called chagrin. His lashes spiked together from the water, and his jaw shifted as if he struggled with speech.

  “Ah, Quent,” she managed to breathe. Oh God. Oh my God. They were still joined, and she looked up and gave him the smile…the smile that told him how she felt, how deep and lovely and finished she felt.

  “Zoë,” he whispered, the water pounding down over the back of his shoulders and neck. “My God…I’m…sorry.” He looked stricken.

  “Sorry?” she repeated, although she suspected she knew what he meant. “How could you be sorry for that?”

  His lips moved in what might have become a smile—a very satisfied one, she suspected—if he hadn’t caught himself first. “Zoë, I lost it. I—”

  “You lost what? Your mind? That’s a fucking compliment, in case you didn’t know,” she said tartly, but she tried a slanted look along with it as he helped her disengage and her feet slide to the floor. “Don’t apologize, or you’re going to piss me off.”

  “Zoë,” he said, his voice stronger. “We can’t just igno—”

  She stood away from him, her hand once again flat against his chest, but this time, the heat had ebbed. “Just forget about it, all right? Now you’re just damned ruining the moment.”

  His face tightened. “Right, then, you think I’m just going to blow this off? The chance that you might get pregnant? Are you out of your bloody fucking mind?”

  Zoë drew in a deep breath, fear trammeling through her. How had such a lush, lovely feeling changed into panic so quickly? She gathered her composure, stepping back, fighting to appear cool and removed instead of terrified that she was going to…lose…this.

  This too.

  Hot tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. She hoped like hell he thought it was remnants of the shower. For a moment, they were at a stalemate. The water blasted around them, and she reached over to whip the knob off, her movement sharp and jerky.

  He did the same with the other valve, and suddenly, there was silence in the steamy space except for the last bit of water dripping off. The rasp of their breaths as they dragged in hot, watery air. Zoë stepped out of the shower, reaching for a towel as her heartbeat filled her ears.

  Wrapping the terrycloth around her, she turned to look at Quent. He still stood, braced against the wall with one arm flexed, head bent, face turned sidewise to look at her.

  “I know you don’t like to talk,” he said, his words clipped and precise. Very accented. Then, they got sharper. “You don’t like to do much of anything but f—” He snapped off the words before he completed the sentence, but she knew where it was going.

  A wave of hot anger rushed over her…then subsided. Sure. What the hell else was he going to think?

  If nothing else, Zoë was brutally honest with herself. She knew nothing about being with people. Interacting with them. And it didn’t matter, because she had a mission. A lifelong mission, and she wasn’t about to abandon it for anything. Or anyone. Even…this.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You nailed it. Or should I say, me?” Her laugh was rustier than she would have liked, and she lifted her chin to make sure she looked him in the eye. So he could see that she thought it was rude and funny. “And you’re right. I don’t like to talk. So can’t we just roll around in the sheets a bit, then get back to whatever else we need to do? It seems to work out just fine.”

  He moved then, pushing himself away from the tile and coming toward her. Tall, graceful, tawny-skinned and sleek…more than a little pissed off. His large hands settled on her shoulders, and though she was a tall woman, she felt small and delicate beneath them.

  “Right, Zoë. I’m all for the rolling in the sheets, or the quick bang in the shower,” he said. His words slapped. “But if something else comes of this, I’m not going to be so bloody blasé about it. I don’t know about your fucking ‘other times’ or your other lovers, but this isn’t a bloody joke to me.”

  “All right,” she said more calmly, resisting the need to bite her lip, to keep back the horrible sting at the corner of her eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? “That’s…fair, I guess.”

  “And if you’re fucking around with Ian Marck, or anyone else, how’re you going to know whose it is?”

  “Ian Marck?” Zoë could hardly control her shock. Is that what he thought? “I wouldn’t go near that bastard with anything but a good, sharp arrow, for fuck’s sake, Quent. His father—” She stopped, swallowing. “I don’t know where you got that ridiculous, boulderheaded idea, but there’s not a
chance in hell I’d let him come close enough to breathe on me.”

  “No?” he asked, his voice suddenly quiet. “Right. I confess, I’m relieved to hear that, at least. And how about…the others? Zoë.”

  “How the hell do you think I can sustain this and still…do the other things I need to do…and be getting busy with someone else? You have lost your fucking mind. Don’t you think you keep me busy enough?” There. That was all she was going to give him. All she dared. And even that borderline confession cut deep, left her feeling ill and pasty-mouthed.

  He looked at her for a moment, searching. “Right. There’s that, then.” His mouth, full in just the right places, not so pretty as to be feminine, relaxed a bit. Then his eyes caught at hers, bluer than brown now—or maybe it was just the light—and suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

  Zoë broke away and bent to gather up her clothes. As she turned to leave the bathroom, her knees felt weak—but she wasn’t sure if it was lingering pleasure or apprehension.

  “Zoë,” he said behind her.

  She was back in the cooler bedroom, her clothing gathered against her towel-wrapped, damp body. “Yeah?” she said without turning. Her hair dripped crazily over her shoulders, trickling down in every direction.

  “Are you…leaving?”

  She sat on the bed and the towel tucked under her arms came loose. Yes. No. I don’t want to. I need to get the hell out of here. What the fuck with all the talk? Can’t we just let things be?

  Zoë tucked the terrycloth corner back in place, noting absently that it was much thicker than the ones she had. He’d come from the bathroom, wrapped in a low-slung towel of his own. And now he stood there, his long, bare feet settling on the floor in front of her.

  She looked up slowly, along his muscular calves, covered with golden brown hair, to the towel, clean but dingy with age, over the flat belly that curved in at the sides into masculine hipbones that set her mouth to watering. She admired the broad expanse of his chest and the smooth bulk of his arms, not too ripped, but more than solid and capable.

  “Are you finished?” he asked, his voice low and rough. “Because I think I’ve sorted out the answer.”

  A glance down told her that he’d already begun to fill out under the towel again, and that familiar stab of pleasure-pain bolted down through her middle. She looked up, her heart thudding…yet emptiness curled inside her.

  Just then, a loud knock at the door broke into the tension, startling her so that she jolted.

  “Quent!” came a male voice. “You in there?”

  “Bugger,” Quent muttered, glancing at the door. He hurried over to the dresser, opening drawers rapidly. “Where the hell did I stow it?” he said under his breath.

  “Quent! What the fuck? You all right in there?”

  “Yeah,” Quent called back, still pulling drawers open, rummaging through them, occasionally pausing to shove a hand through his unruly hair.

  “Well, hell, you had us worried something had happened. What’s taking so long? We’ve been waiting. You gonna open the fucking door?” This last sounded more than a little annoyed.

  “Not a chance,” he muttered. Then, with a triumphant noise, he went to the closet and moments later retrieved a thick book. Zoë saw part of the title—something about Monte Cristo—briefly before he went to the door.

  He pulled it just wide enough to stand in, holding the door so as to block any view of Zoë or the bed. “Found it,” he said, giving the book to whoever was there.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, Wyatt. I’m fine. Just got a little distracted.”

  Zoë heard Wyatt’s snort from behind the door, and she pictured the hard-faced man rolling his eyes. She’d seen all of Quent’s friends at one time or another, although she’d never met any of them.

  “Yeah, I see that. We’re all fucking waiting for you downstairs, and you decide to take a damned shower? For all we knew, you’d fallen into the dark pit again, for chrissake.”

  “Right, sorry ’bout that,” Quent said—but even Zoë could hear that he wasn’t. “Look, I’ll be down later.” He shut the door and turned back to look at her.

  “What the hell was that all about?” she asked. “The dark pit?”

  “So now you want to bloody talk,” he muttered, readjusting his towel.

  “Well, we could find something else to do,” she said, allowing her lips to curve into a naughty smile.

  Quent came over and took the bundle of clothes from her arms, setting it on the table. Then he sat next to her, the mattress shifting with his weight. But, to her surprise, he didn’t reach for her. “What did Raul Marck do to you?”

  Whoa. Nothing like being blindsided. She moistened her lips, retucked her towel “He’s a bounty hunter.”

  Quent nodded. “I know. What did he do to you?” His eyes were so close, serious. Determined. The glaze of lust was gone, the heat and desire…replaced by something else. Compassion?

  Zoë’s throat burned. “He…they’re after a new bounty now. Someone overheard them, talking.”

  “Someone overheard them?”

  Shit. She hadn’t planned to tell him about her connection with Remy. But why? Why does it matter? They’ve been looking for Truth. You could help him.

  But she’s beautiful. So beautiful. And smart. And brave.

  She’d be able to stay. Here.

  Zoë swallowed and realized her belly felt ugly and heavy. Why do you care if she stayed? She couldn’t burn away the image of Quent, his hands all over that blond woman on the dance floor.

  “Zoë,” he persisted.

  “They were talking about another bounty. A woman, someone who left the Elite. She ran away. That’s what they called them—the Elite.”

  “The Elite?” Quent said, as if turning the word over in his mind. “Fuck. I never knew what he meant.” He looked stricken, his face suddenly drawn and serious. “The bastard.”

  Zoë frowned. “Who?”

  When Quent looked back at her again, she was struck by the loathing in his eyes. Not directed at her; she recognized that immediately. Loathing, despair…and pain.

  Something she’d seen in the mirror, once or twice.

  “My father,” he said, his voice grim. Dull and grim. “He’s one of the Strangers, or, apparently, in their nomenclature…the Elite. He’d used that word to talk about some of his friends and colleagues.” Then he seemed to shake it off, his mouth quirking in annoyance, and the expression in his eyes became determined. “Tell me what Raul Marck did to you.”

  Zoë opened her mouth to evade, but before she realized it, the words came tumbling out. “He set the gangas on my family. Everyone. Killed them all, destroyed everything.” Damn. She blinked hard, harder, the tears burning and shaming her. “It was more than ten years ago,” she added in defiance of the tears and grief. “I was almost sixteen.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “Ah, Zoë, I’m so sorry.” He moved then, gathering her, towel and all, against his warm chest. His arms curled around her, holding her so that her face, now damp with tears, buried in his shoulder.

  She closed her eyes, feeling her lashes brush briefly against his skin like the butterfly kisses her mother used to give her. But she kept her arms curled in front of her, cuddled between them. Distance was good.

  Yet…at that moment, she couldn’t keep the distance. She’d never told anyone what happened—even that simple sentence.

  There’d been no one to tell.

  “I was the only survivor,” she heard herself say. When was the last time she’d been held? Simply held?

  Simply curled up next to a living, breathing person, with no other demands. It was much nicer than curling up next to Fang, her sometimes pet. A wolflike dog that came and went as he pleased, just as she did, from the little abode she’d created. She gave a short little laugh, more damp than was polite, into his shoulder. Wipe your nose, she could hear Naanaa say.

  “Something funny?” he aske
d, gently lifting her face.

  She nodded, looking at him through eyes glassy with tears. “This is much nicer than curling up next to my dog.”

  His mouth moved, but compassion still showed in his blue-brown eyes. “I think so too. Their long noses tend to get in the way.” He thumbed away a trickle of her tears, his fingerpad gentle beneath her eye. “Will you tell me more of what happened?”

  “That evening, I’d sneaked away to meet someone. A guy. We weren’t supposed to be out at night, but we were close to home. Close enough to see the lights, and besides, no one had seen zombies around for years. There were trees to climb, if we had to escape anyway. It wasn’t like we were stupid,” she added. “There was an awful swampy bog, and I slipped and fell into it. All the mud and everything—it was mucky and it reeked like a bitch, and I didn’t just stumble, I fell all the way in.” Even now, she couldn’t laugh, couldn’t even find the humor in the image of her dripping in swamp mess.

  With the telling, she’d pulled away from Quent’s moist skin and now she rested her forehead against his shoulder, talking down into the space between their bodies. Her fingers still curled up between them like a child’s, the wiry hair on his chest brushing against the back of her hand.

  He breathed easily, regularly, and seemed in no hurry to urge her on, so she took a moment to swallow and smooth out her voice, which had become frighteningly unsteady. “Rick pulled me out, but I was such a nuked mess that I didn’t have the balls to go back looking—and smelling—like I did. Even though everyone should be asleep, I knew I couldn’t take the chance because we weren’t supposed to go by the bog. Which is of course why we did…because it was private. So Rick went back to get me something to change into, and some water to clean me up with.”

  Now her voice broke and the next few words were hardly audible. “I never saw him again. Or anyone.” She pushed on in harsher tones. “He didn’t return and he didn’t return, and I just knew the idiot’d gotten caught, so I finally sneaked back. When I got close enough, I heard them. The moans. The grunts. And the cries. The horrible cries.”