Jilssen put on a jaunty smile. Was it Rowan's imagination, or was he sweating? She stared at him, feeling her forehead wrinkle. “Well, maybe next time, Rowan. Remember, I've got my eye on you!"
The transport doors closed. There was a slight whoosh.
He was gone.
Rowan let out a shaky breath. Justin used two fingers to tip her chin up so he could examine her face. His mouth was a straight line, his cheeks dark with afternoon stubble. The tingling from his touch washed through her, almost but not quite dispelling the sick sense of fear and dread. “Christ,” he said. “He really upsets you, doesn't he?"
"I don't know why,” she answered, leaning into his touch. “It's probably nothing. I just..."
"Just what?” he looked interested, of course, but his eyes had fastened on her mouth.
"I get that sort of storm feeling, I guess, and my head aches. And my stomach. It's...” She hesitated, plunged on. “It's how I felt when that man tried to kidnap me."
Justin's eyes met hers. Rowan's breath left her in one swift gasp.
His eyes had gone even more flat, cold and dark, and his jaw set. But it was as if a switch had flipped, turning him from Justin into Delgado, the cool machine of a man the rest of them saw. There was something else, too. Something she'd only seen once or twice, a kind of thoughtlessness in his face that seemed to be the scary, static-laden last breath before an explosion of violence.
His fingertips were still under her chin. He trailed a soft touch along her jaw, then up her cheek. Rowan's entire body flushed.
"Listen to me,” he said quietly, as if taking it for granted she would. And she did—she froze, her complete attention focused on him. “Don't ever doubt that feeling, angel. Ever. It will keep you alive. From now on, don't go anywhere without me, all right? I'll make some more inquiries."
"What do you think is going on?” she whispered. Is he saying it's not safe here? The bottom dropped out of her stomach as if she was on a roller coaster; not a fun amusement ride but a scary, rickety, dangerous plunging toward the ground.
"I don't know yet.” He caressed her cheek. It was vaguely jarring, the contrast between that empty emotionless face and the gentleness of his touch. And the fierce emotion pouring out of him, wrapping around her, not drowning her like other people's feelings, but ... cradling her. “But I'll find out. Until I do, don't go anywhere without me. All right?"
She wanted to nod, but that might dislodge his fingers. “All right,” she whispered, and his gaze dropped down and fastened on her mouth again.
"You going to Central?” he asked.
"Um-hmmm,” she managed. If he leans down just a little ... The memory of that other kiss burned through her. “Did Henderson want one of these back?"
He kissed her cheek, just a gentle press of lips. Rowan's breath became shallow, and her pulse raced. It was a sweet fear, better than the clinging, painful panic of facing Jilssen.
"No. I lied. You all right?” he asked.
"I guess.” She sounded whispery, couldn't quite make her voice work. He lied? Why? Because I looked upset, or ... Oh, God, could Jilssen tell what I was feeling? No, he's normal. A deadhead, Brew would say.
"Let's go to Central. Then I'm free for the rest of the evening. Have dinner with me?"
It sounded unexpectedly intimate, though they usually both stole the same meal and coffee breaks during the day. “Of course,” she said, and smiled. She'd spent more time with him than anyone except her father, and it felt just as natural.
He smiled back. For a fleeting moment, his eyes weren't flat—they were warm and deep. Then his face closed with an almost audible snap. “I'll find out what's going on, Rowan. I promise.” His fingers trailed down her cheek, and he slowly, reluctantly, peeled his fingertips away.
"I know you will,” she said, struggling for a normal voice. “I just ... I wonder if I'm jumping at shadows. A person can only handle so much trauma before they start to unwind."
"Don't worry, you're perfectly rational.” He punched the button for the transport, moving with that quick, eerie grace. “And you're stronger than you think."
It took a few moments for his words to sink in, and Rowan didn't answer him. That's what I'm afraid of, she thought, and then tried to shove the idea away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The sound of her moving around in the bathroom was familiar by now, so familiar Justin dismissed it. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his spine straight and his attention centered and focused. He needed it badly.
What exactly are you thinking?
He didn't know. He only knew Rowan didn't like Jilssen.
Had exactly the same reaction to Jilssen as she did to Sigs. She'd been paper-pale, her eyes huge; the same look she'd worn during that distant time he brought her in. Vibrating with terror, hanging on by a thread.
The urge to hold her had been overwhelming. And the thought that perhaps the Society had been infiltrated was chilling.
Nothing like that is possible, he told himself. She's just high-strung, that's all. Time for you to quit screwing around, Delgado.
He sought stillness, the calm center of himself that had never been broken. It was there, all right. It was always there.
The trouble was, Rowan was there too, even in the spaces of his meditation. The room was dark, he hadn't bothered to turn the light on and dusk had already crept through the corners.
Use your logic, Del. Rowan doesn't like Jilssen, associates him with the same feeling as the Sigs. That doesn't mean he's anything other than a nasty old man who wants to shove her in a telem rig and take samples so he can figure her out.
But if that was the case, why on earth would Rowan feel so terrified? And terrified was the only word that applied. She'd even been unusually quiet during dinner, but that could have been because Cath and Zeke had descended on them, and Cath's chattering damn near filled the air. Then Yoshi had shown up, and Del had been absorbed in turning over the problem of Jilssen and the sequences Yoshi had brought him. A nice leisurely dinner with Rowan shot all to hell.
He heard her humming, tried to place the tune and couldn't. The sound was too muffled.
He would start prowling around and making little inquiries. He'd have to be careful—if anyone suspected he was researching Jilssen, word might get to the doctor and spook him. Besides, it wouldn't look good if Henderson's right hand started nosing around the doctor that had been with the Society almost from the beginning. It would make trouble for the General, and trouble for Rowan as well. If Del got called onto the carpet for it, Rowan might be left unprotected.
She opened the bathroom door, flicking the light out. He sighed, opening his eyes. There was nothing but a bunch of suppositions. But those suppositions were based on Rowan's talent and instinct—something he had a healthy respect for.
"You sound happy,” he said, surprising himself.
She paused, the hand with the hairbrush poised over a long fall of pale hair. Oddly enough, she didn't bother to turn the overhead light on, just stood there in the gathering darkness. The pose literally robbed him of breath. “I didn't guess you were trying to concentrate,” she said.
He unfolded himself from the floor, wincing a little as a bruise on his left quad reminded him of his last sparring session with Henderson. The old man didn't pull any strikes, that was for sure. “I like hearing you,” he told her, and watched her flush visibly even in the dimness.
Quit fucking around, the deep, cold voice told him. She's in danger. You know she is. That feeling's never let you down.
And that was the crux of it right there. He was uneasy too. Something wasn't right—some deep premonition of danger was beating like a drum inside his head. He should have moved to the next stage with her a long time ago.
He wondered if she would forgive him, if she'd ever guess what he was up to.
He crossed the room, intent on her, stalking noiselessly. Her eyes fixed on him, extraordinary almost-glowing green depths. Eyes he could drown in.
An unfamiliar smile tugged at his face. How long would it take for a smile to feel normal again? “I'll brush your hair, angel. Want to turn the light on?"
She studied him for a long moment, thoughts moving behind her eyes, and the tingling wash of her talent spilling down his back. The others felt her like a pressure against their minds, but he felt her all along his skin—and all the way down to his bones. Whether it was because of his own ability to push or simply because he was emotionally involved with her, he didn't know.
Didn't care either.
"I don't think so,” she said finally, dropping the brush. It clattered against the hardwood floor.
He didn't have any time to react. Rowan stepped close, that prickling feeling running over his skin, the smell of her hair closing around him. He froze.
She ran her hand up his arm, her palm sliding over his sweater, past his shoulder. She had to reach up to cup her hand around the back of his neck. “We have to talk,” she breathed. “Right?"
Oh, my God, he thought through a sudden haze, she's seducing me.
His throat was desert-dry. “Um,” he managed, staring at her eyes. She doesn't have any idea. Of course not. She can't be serious.
"You know what your problem is, Justin? You're too serious. You think too goddamn much."
"Must be genetic.” Don't joke with her, you idiot. She might decide not to touch you.
Her smile widened briefly. Then she pulled his head down.
He hadn't expected this. Hoped, wished, prayed—but not expected.
Her mouth met his. Liquid fire slid down his spine. She kissed him thoroughly, taking her time. His hands moved around her waist, spread against her back, and he did his best to pull her into him.
It seemed to last forever. Her slenderness against him, the cleanness of her mind swallowing his. He disappeared into her, her mouth warm and forgiving.
She finally took pity on him and broke free, but only halfway. Delgado kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple under the mat of silken hair, buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply, shuddering.
"We definitely have to talk,” she said, breathlessly.
"Talk later.” His hands found their way under her sweater. Her skin was cool and smooth under his fingers. “Much later."
She pushed him toward the bed. He was only too happy to comply, pulling at the sweater. Her hands were fiddling with his jeans, he was surprised into a bitter laugh. “I suppose you're not thinking about—” she began.
"Later,” he muttered into her hair, finally getting the damn sweater up over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, and he had to suppress a groan. The bed hit his calves, and they went down in a tangle of arms and legs, her elbow smacking a fresh bruise. He inhaled sharply and she gasped a helpless apology that he trapped with his mouth, kissing her as if he was dying. In a way he was.
"No.” She sounded frightened. “Justin—no."
He froze, tangled with her, her hair webbed over his face. Her breathing shuddered under his hand, ribs heaving, the delicate architecture of bones rising and falling. “All right,” he whispered harshly. “All right.” I can stop. Sure I can.
Right.
"No, you idiot,” she said, her fingers still working at the button of his jeans. “Not later. Now."
"Oh.” But he lay there for a moment, sliding his fingers over her ribs, the swell of one breast brushing his knuckles. She shivered, biting her lip and arching into his touch. Christ, I think she's responding. How did I get this goddamn lucky? “Rowan..."
"Hmm?” She propped herself up on her elbow, the button finally popping free. He sucked in a breath. Had he forgotten to breathe? Maybe. “There it is. Look, I'm not a virgin."
What? “Christ,” he said against her cheek, “do you think that matters?"
"I just—” Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps, she was actually blushing; he could see her cheeks turning delicately red in the dim light. Her perfume had taken on a darker, fleshy musk tone.
"No,” he told her, having better luck with the zipper on her slacks. I feel like a goddamn caveman, all I want to do is drag her off by the hair. “Later. Talk later. Right now, kiss me."
She did, and it was all he could do to restrain himself, to slow down. He had never in his life wanted to get inside a woman so badly, she laughed as she wriggled free of her panties and he caught her mouth, swallowing her laughter, breathing her in as his skin slid against hers. He wanted to find out what would make her scream, wanted to pursue a particularly delicious line of inquiry about what it would be like to kiss in a straight line between the soft slopes of her breasts and the shallow curve of her belly, wanted to slide his fingers in and watch her face as she went over the edge. But there was no time for foreplay, because he was going to embarrass himself if he tried to slow down. She was on her back, silk scarves sliding underneath bare skin—God, I can't even get her under the covers, can I?
That thought was lost when he managed to sink down into her, tangling his fingers in her hair and finding the entrance to her body, sliding in. At least she was wet and ready. She gasped, probably not expecting this so soon, and Del muttered an apology into the curve of her throat, tasting the sudden salt of sweat and the spice of her. Her fingers slid through his hair, pulled his mouth down on hers again, he was drowning in her, greedy with the taste of her as he was finally, finally home.
She was hot and impossibly tight, velvet closing around him, her back arched as she inhaled sharply. He couldn't help himself. Sorry. I'm sorry. Christ, I should slow down. I can't. I can't. A helpless thrust, he was too rough, a half-swallowed cry caught in her throat and guilt flooded him. Too fast. I'm sorry, Rowan, sorry. But as sorry as he was, his body wasn't sorry at all. His hips jerked forward again, and he was buried inside her, impossibly deep.
And he wanted more.
Then her mind opened under his, the shock of her pleasure exploding against his nerves in a feedback loop, drowning him further. He forgot everything but the taste of her, anticipating her next move. Her fingernails drove sharp diamond points of pain into his back. He gave another deep thrust, and then another. Her mouth broke free and she whispered his name.
"Sorry,” he gasped against her throat.
"Sorry? What the hell for?” And she actually giggled, her amusement sliding through him, wine-red, wine-dark, a curious comfort. Her fingers softened, and she made a slight beckoning movement with her hips that set off a most interesting chain reaction in the velvet grip of her muscles around him.
"I can't—"
"And they think you're so controlled.” Another husky laugh, another beckoning little movement, and he lost himself, slipping below the surface of her mind, pouring into her. He thrust again, a nice long stroke that cut her laughter off in mid-gasp. That was satisfying, and he did it again.
"I am controlled,” he managed through clenched teeth. I should have done this months ago. You have no idea how long I've waited for you.
Her breathing quickened, and he caught the rhythm, her pleasure spilling through him, turning his body into an instrument, something to be used for her. He was too close to the edge, straining to hold on. It wasn't fair to go too fast. He wanted her to enjoy it, goddammit.
But she moved again, writhing suppleness under him, and he tipped over into the crisis of exploding novas. His release triggered hers, their minds dissolving together into white heat. For a single heated moment he merged completely with her, leaving his body behind and simply drowning in the dark silken depths of her talent and her body at the same time.
Time came back, invaded the world again. He collapsed against her, sweat mingling between their bodies. He buried his face against her throat, breathing in the musk of her arousal, and choked back tears.
"Shhh.” Her fingers trailed up his back, a touch that sparked fresh fire in the base of his belly.
Again, he thoug
ht, dazed, propping himself on shaking elbows. As soon as I can, I want to do this again. And slower. Much slower.
"Amen to that,” she murmured, catching the thought. She smoothed his hair. “Relax. We've got time."
No, he didn't have time. He was a dying man, and he wanted her, just as soon as his body would cooperate with him.
"I'm sorry,” he whispered. “It should have been better. I should have taken more time."
"Don't worry. Here, move over. Talk to me a little bit."
"Christ, you want to talk?" He hadn't even managed to get her under the covers. Where was the control he had such a reputation for? If this ever gets out I'm going to be a laughingstock. Then again, as long as she's here, I don't fucking care.
"For a little while.” She sounded amused. Don't worry, you have a chance to redeem yourself. Her voice whispered in the middle of his head, a connection solidifying. He could feel her thinking, the deep satisfied glow threading through her veins. “Then I've got other plans."
"I'm yours,” he whispered. And he meant it. Just because one part of him was a little exhausted didn't mean he was without hope. He was, after all, used to thinking on his feet, and there was an extremely interesting set of ideas having to do with his mouth and a few delectable corners of her body. “Just tell me what to do."
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sleeping with a very warm male pressed against her back was proving to be impossible. Sweating, Rowan pushed the covers down and tried to wriggle away from him.
Justin made a low sleepy sound and pulled her back against him, wrapped his arm around her waist, and throwing a leg over hers for good measure. He buried his face in her hair and sighed. She hadn't slept in a bed with anyone else for ... oh, it had to be nigh on six years.
The memory of her last relationship made her wince slightly. Now that she knew she wasn't crazy, that the painful chaos of normal people's thoughts was what had made her withdraw, she felt a little more charitable about all those blind dates. It hadn't been fair to them that she could read their minds.
She was too warm, and she needed to use the bathroom. She pushed at his muscled arm, getting exactly nowhere.
The Society Page 19