by Stacia Kane
“Megan . . . what happened?”
Shit. She didn’t want to do this. “You’d have to ask him.”
“I did.”
“So you know what happened.”
“I know his side of it.”
“What did—no. Never mind. I don’t want to know. Tell me something else. Tell me what exactly it is you do in Miami. You never would tell me before.”
“I’m a male stripper.”
Her mouth fell open. “Really?”
“No. But it sure would be interesting if I was, wouldn’t it?”
It wasn’t that funny, but Megan found herself laughing anyway, laughing way too hard. The room blurred around the edges and tilted gently like a rowboat on a breezy lake, not enough to make her sick but enough to remind her that she was sitting on a hell of a lot of alcohol.
“How come you don’t have a girlfriend, Nick, when you’re so funny?” It came out “sho funny.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed.
“Do they have anything to do with each other?”
“They do to me. And to any woman with a brain.”
“Maybe I just haven’t met any women with brains, then. Or maybe they don’t think I’m funny. Or they just don’t like me.”
“How can they not like you?” Shit, that came out a little loud. “I like you.”
“I think you’re drunk.”
She giggled again. “I think so too. Are you drunk?”
He considered it. “I think so, yeah.”
“Good. I don’t want you to be sober when I’m drunk.”
“Right. That would be rude. Of me. I would be rude, if I were sober.”
“Yes, you would.”
This struck them both as funny, and they laughed until Megan started to feel a little sick from it and shook her head slowly. “But seriously. Why no, no girlfriend? The whole time I’ve known you, you never dated anyone, did you?”
“No. Don’t date much. I just—”
“But you’re . . . you’re an incubus. How does that work? Don’t you need—oops. I shouldn’t ask that, should I?”
She wanted to know, though. And she was drunk enough to ask. Drunk enough to sit up and face him, with her palm on his chest. Beneath it his heart pumped steadily, vibrations rising into her hand.
“I don’t mind,” he said. He patted her hand, paused, patted again, with great solemnity. “Yes, I do need, as you put it. But long-term . . . I couldn’t date a human, could I, and keep everything secret? And demon women don’t really want much to do with me. They think—let’s just say I have a reputation.”
“What kind of reputation?”
His raised his eyebrows. “Not a good one. That whole thing with my father? Passes down to me, remember?”
“Ohhh, right. So you date humans, then. For a short period of time.”
“You could say that. One night is a short period of time, isn’t it?”
“So you sleep with a lot of women,” she said, and saying it shocked her. What was she doing? Her hand was still on his chest; her legs were bare, her long skirt pushed up almost to her hips. She was alone in a hotel room, drunk, nursing one hell of a broken heart, with a very sexy man. Whom she genuinely liked. Genuinely cared about.
Which was why she shouldn’t even be considering what she was pretending not to be considering.
Greyson had left with Leora. What were they doing now? Talking? Laughing? Other things? Was he looking at her the way he’d always looked at Megan?
Nick either hadn’t caught on to her drunken calculations or was ignoring the way the air had just stilled around them. Or he was too drunk; her voice wasn’t the only one beginning to slur a little.
“I do, yeah. I’m not really proud of it.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
He burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, maybe I am. Some. But seriously, Megan. I’m too old for that shit now. It’s kinda pitiful. Pitiful and . . .” Their eyes met. “Lonely. It’s lonely.”
“You shouldn’t be lonely. You’re so great, why should you be lonely?”
“Nobody else thinks so. Thinks I’m great, I mean.” He blinked, as if he was having trouble focusing. “They think I’m scum. And maybe they’re right.”
“No. No, they’re not.”
He shook his head slowly, more of a sway than a shake. “I think they are. Otherwise, why’d I still be alone? Must be something wrong with me, you know? Makes me nervous when I really like somebody, and then I just feel all weird about ’em. And they all seem so silly, the ones I meet. They’re not like you, all smart and stuff. They—”
“You think I’m smart?”
He blinked. So did she. It was a little hard to keep him in focus. “Well, yeah, ’course. Grey said so all the time, and how intre—inster—inneresting you are, and he wanted me to meet you—”
Even with the random and shameful thoughts she’d been having before, she wasn’t sure why she did it. It might have been the thought of his lonely life and an attempt to make him feel better. It might have been that he was complimenting her and she desperately needed those compliments, when she felt lower than plankton on the intelligence-and-happiness food chain.
It might have been that in that deep dark place in her mind, the one that was all her own—she’d never had a personal demon, until Roc, and had still done things she shouldn’t have done, things that other people did because their demons persuaded them to—she was still thinking of Greyson leaving dinner with Leora and wondering what they were doing. Wondering if he had any idea how much it had hurt her to see them walk out together. And that deep dark place wanted revenge.
Or it could have simply been that the alcohol wasn’t erasing that pain as effectively as she’d hoped, and she thought she’d try something else.
Whatever the reason, she leaned over and kissed him. Hard, right on the mouth, with her hand still on his chest trapped between his ribs and her own.
His surprise jumped through her; her shields were down, and apparently so were his. She hadn’t expected to be able to read him so easily; well, she couldn’t really read him, but she definitely felt his shock. Felt his short, sharp burst of desire shoot straight to her ego and stay there.
“Megan,” he started, but she didn’t let him continue. She rested her hand on the back of his neck, where his short black hair tickled her fingers, and kissed him a little harder.
Her heart pounded. This was wrong, this wasn’t right, she should pull away now. Now, before things went any farther. A kiss could be forgotten, shrugged off, and never visited again, leaving not a trace of awkwardness in its wake; it was no big deal, especially not between very drunk friends. She should stop, apologize, and start thinking of passing out.
But she didn’t. After a second his hesitation turned into something else; his hand found her cheek, his lips moved against hers, and—holy shit—she found out what kissing a sex demon really meant.
It meant a blast of pure sexual energy, sharp and strong enough to make her entire body go stiff. It meant feeling herself melt over him; when his tongue found hers, she cried out, overstimulated already. It meant feeling herself go liquid, filled with a hot wave of desire that made her want to yank up her dress and shove down her panties and let him have her, however he wanted.
She’d experienced something like it when they’d met at Mitchell’s restaurant the year before, when he hadn’t known who she was. That had just been through his eyes, through the touch of their hands. This . . . this was that pulsing need times ten.
Still not the way it felt with Greyson. Nothing could touch that. But this was awfully damn good, she had to admit.
“We can’t,” he mumbled. “Shit, we can’t do this.”
“Yes, we can.” She slid her hand over his chest, curled herself down to kiss his throat. So odd, so different from Greyson. Nick’s skin was musky and spicy, cooler to the touch. His chin moved, giving her better access even as his hands rested on her upper arms, as if he was going to push her away.
Bu
t he didn’t. She pulled his earlobe between her teeth, sucked on it, felt another sharp burst of desire, stronger this time. “We can’t, Grey’s my best friend, I can’t—”
“Shut up.” She closed his mouth for him, took the energy he’d given her and sent some of it back; he gasped. He was right about how wrong this was, she knew he was right, but she couldn’t seem to remember it. Couldn’t seem to stop herself.
Couldn’t seem to stop wondering if Greyson and Leora were doing the exact same thing seven floors above them. If they’d already finished and were sleeping, snuggled together in that big four-poster bed. If he’d put a ring on her finger—
Nick pushed more power into her, thick with lust, red-tinged with anger the way his energy always was, and she stopped thinking. Instead she let him drive his fingers into her hair and shift her so she lay beside him. Let him take charge, deepening the kiss, her lips parted beneath his. Power flowed into her, so strong it made her shake.
“We can’t,” he whispered. His hand slid up her ribcage, stopped just beneath her breast, radiating warmth. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I don’t care.” Her hand found the hem of his shirt and snaked up beneath it, across his smooth bare skin. No sgaegas there; this was a different back. A different man.
And she knew it. Knew she wasn’t kissing Greyson. Knew the power coursing through her wasn’t Greyson’s. It was warm, and it made her entire body tingle, but it wasn’t his.
Which was just what she wanted, despite the twinge of pain, the feeling in the back of her mind that this was even more wrong than she’d thought at first.
But Jesus, he was a good kisser. Without her mind’s consent, her body ached and throbbed; her right leg wrapped itself around him and pulled him closer, close enough that she could feel him hard against her, so close he made a small sound in the back of his throat, and his hand finished its journey. She arched her back into it. He touched her so lightly, rubbing his palm in slow circles over her hard nipple through her dress. She felt it through her entire body, gave him a gasp of her own, and captured his mouth with hers, let her teeth close gently over his tongue. More power, more lust, surged into her.
She took that feeling and sent it back to him. In a second it came back to her again, a tidal wave of passion she couldn’t escape. Couldn’t do anything with but let it wash through her and chase away the last vestiges of her sanity. The last vestiges of doubt.
She let her hands play, slid them around to feel his chest, his heart pounding beneath. Ran them down his sides, then around again to his front, finding him through his jeans and rubbing hard enough to make his breath catch. “Shit, Megan.”
Her dress bunched at her waist, pushed by his impatient hands as his mouth traveled down her throat into her open neckline. Her heart pounded. Her body went loose and liquid everywhere, dark lust pumping through her veins, her fingers scrabbling at his zipper. He caressed the top of her thigh, his fingers just brushing the edge of her panties and dancing away, brushing the edge, then dancing away, until she realized she was shifting her hips, trying to get those fingers where she wanted them, frustrated that they weren’t there—
At first she thought the knock at the door was just her imagination, the voice calling her name even more so. Until it came again, more insistent. So loud she couldn’t ignore it.
Greyson was outside her door.
Chapter 22
Nick realized it only a second after she did. They sprang apart as if they’d just found a dead cat in the bed between them.
“Megan, please open the door. I need to talk to you.”
The mirror above the dresser showed her a wild woman, hair bunched up in the back and falling in tendrils down the side of her face, the straps of her gown falling off her shoulders. Her lips looked bruised, her mascara smeared. She looked as if she’d just been doing exactly what she’d been doing.
Nick turned shame-filled eyes toward her. “Shit, I knew he’d do this, fuck, I—”
“Just calm down, okay?” She tucked her hair back behind her ears, yanked out the pins holding it up, and tried to fluff it out. “We didn’t do anything.”
Greyson’s voice through the door again. “Meg, please. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me but . . . shit, please.”
“We didn’t not do anything.” Nick seemed to be fighting some sort of minor war with his shirt; he tucked it in, then apparently decided that didn’t look right and tugged it back out, then repeated the process. “I mean—shit, I’m drunk—we did do something. We did.”
“No, actually, we didn’t. A little kissing is nothing.”
“It won’t be nothing to him,” Nick muttered.
Megan was inclined to agree and furious about it. Why the hell was she worried he might find out? They’d broken up, hadn’t they? What fucking business was it of his whom she kissed? Or let feel her up, a little bit. She refused to feel that guilty about it; they hadn’t gone any farther than a couple of high school kids might have while their parents went out to pick up pizza. What was it, first base? Possibly second? She had no idea, but she was pretty sure third was bare skin, so—oh, whatever. It hadn’t gone very far, was the point.
“Bryaela, I know you’re awake, I can see the lights on. Please don’t make me say this through the door.”
One more glance in the mirror, a quick swipe under her eyes and over her mouth in an effort to normalize. The doorknob pressed cold into her hand while butterflies jumped in her stomach. It was not really the most comfortable sensation, on top of the nerves, fear, and misery. Not to mention the sex energy still simmering in her blood.
“I’m begging you, please—”
He was leaning against the door frame, looking every bit as drunk as he had earlier but considerably less elegant. Dark circles edged his eyes; his shirt hung open, and a splotch of what she was pretty sure was spilled scotch decorated his chest. The smell of scotch and cigarette smoke blew through the doorway in waves. Not unpleasant but worrisome; fire demons, especially, smoked sometimes. It gave them energy. But he didn’t do it often, and never in such quantities as to reek of it.
Seeing him was like hitting herself in the chest with a hammer.
They stood there, staring at each other, for what might have been a minute or maybe an hour. She didn’t know. Her head still spun; she didn’t know if she should yank him into the room and hold him or tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. He’d lied, yes, and she was still pissed off about it. Still incredibly hurt by everything else.
But she loved him so much. And he looked so sad, and she missed him, God how she missed him.
“Thank you,” he said. “May I come in? Please?”
She nodded; given half a chance, she was pretty sure her voice would squeak or croak or something else both embarrassing and unflattering. Voices had a way of being sneaky like that. So she just nodded and stepped back, closing the door behind him.
“Meg.” He started to reach for her, then stopped. His gaze stayed fixed on her face. “Meg, I’m so . . . fuck. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, I fucked up. I fucked everything up, and I’m so fucking sorry.”
Her mouth fell open.
He’d never said that before. Never. Not to her, not to anyone; she’d never heard the word “sorry” cross his lips about anything. Her eyes stung. Of all the things he could have said, he probably couldn’t have picked one that would have meant more to her.
Maybe he knew that. Maybe he didn’t. Ordinarily she would have thought for sure he did, but he didn’t indicate it, didn’t pause to see if his words had any effect. “But I know we can . . . I’ve been thinking about this. About us. We can work this out, can’t we? Figure something out. I can’t . . .”
His fingers touched her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut. Now she was crying, damn it. “I know I never said—oh. Hey, Nick.”
Megan turned her head to see Nick standing just outside the bathroom door with his hands deep in his pockets and his ga
ze cast down. “Hey.”
“Listen, would you mind giving Megan and me a minute? I just need to talk—”
He stopped so short Megan didn’t realize at first what was happening; for one wild second she thought he’d finished his sentence and she’d simply misunderstood the words.
Then she realized he was glancing around the room, an expression of pure horror spreading across his face. His fingers pressed tighter against her cheek, dropped to her hand and squeezed. His energy breezed over her hand, up her arm, a weak imitation of what it would be had they been closer but still enough that she felt it slip over her, felt it recede. “No.”
What? No what? What had he—
She looked again. Saw Nick, his hair mussed. Saw the faint smear of lipstick on his throat, the rumpled cover on the bed, the two glasses cuddled together on one of the small bedside tables. Oh fuck, oh no, oh shit—
Greyson shook his head. “No. No, tell me—I’m, shit, I must be crazy, right? Drunker than I thought?” His forced laugh echoed in the dead air. “Please, please tell me—”
Megan opened her mouth, ready to say something—she wasn’t sure exactly what. Probably something along the lines of “What are you talking about?”
She never got the chance. She didn’t know what did it—the look on Nick’s face, maybe, shameful and distraught. Or possibly it was that when he touched her—when he slid his power over her—he felt Nick’s energy, felt the last vestiges of that screaming, desperate lust that had engulfed her before. It could have been either, or any combination of the two, or anything else. He wasn’t a stupid man; he hadn’t gotten where he was without being quick on the uptake, without noticing things.
And it didn’t matter what tipped him off. What mattered was that one second he was looking around the room as if the bodies of his nearest and dearest hung on the walls dripping blood, and the next he was gone. Halfway across the room before she realized what was happening.
His fist slammed into Nick’s face with a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard before. Nick fell against the wall, his hands up. Not fighting back.