Shards of Hope

Chapter 25

“DON’T DO IT,” she warned, feeling the rage inside her claw to the surface.

He did it.

The bite was on her lower lip this time, almost exactly on the spot where she’d bitten him earlier. He didn’t hurt her, but the rage crashed outward, only it didn’t want to harm him. It just wanted to keep him, possess him. Twisting her legs in a move she knew he’d never expect from her, given her lighter weight and body mass, she unbalanced him and suddenly had him on his front, while she knelt with one knee on his back, her hand on his nape.

“I win,” she said.

She half expected him to rise up and throw her off. Since she wasn’t actually going to break his neck or hurt his spine, the countermaneuver would’ve worked. But he spread his hand and patted the bed twice in a silent signal that acknowledged her win.

Smiling—and conscious deep inside that this was bad, very bad, the two sides of her nature now existing in one moment—she came down over him, her entire body lying along his. He brought in his arms so that his head was resting on his hands, but didn’t ask her to move. “You smell good,” she said, wishing she was bigger so she could touch all of him at once.

“It must be the soap and other toiletries.”

Playing her fingers through the heavy silk of his hair as she lay on him, the uncivilized rage creature a living pulse in her every cell, she took a deep breath. “Yes, but it’s also you.” Beneath the faint scents of the toiletries was the scent of the boy she’d first met, but it had matured, become deeper, more richly masculine.

He lay still as she ran her hand along his arm and over the taut curve of his biceps, the sleeve of the T-shirt bunching under her touch. It made her feel drunk to touch him like this, made her feel as if she was spinning out into a darkness that had no end. But, like an addict, she couldn’t stop. When she rose up enough to push up his T-shirt, he tugged it off over his head.

She rubbed her cheek against the warm, smooth skin of his shoulder, sliding her hand over the muscles of his back at the same time. Under her, his breathing altered, became more erratic. Lying against him, she stroked her hand over his biceps again. “You like this,” she murmured. “You like being touched by me.”

“Yes.” Lifting up a little to warn her of his intent, he began to turn.

She shifted enough to allow it but straddled him as soon as he was on his back, her hands on the smooth skin of his chest. His pectorals were defined, as were the ridges of his abdomen right down to where his muscles created a vee low on his body. She’d never really spent any time thinking about the differences between males and females, except in the context of how male physical strength gave her opponents an advantage she’d have to learn to counter, but now she found herself fascinated by the ridges and valleys of his body, her hands eager to explore every inch.

When he raised his own hands to her thighs, she decided it was acceptable: he could touch her. Leaning down, her forearms braced on either side of his head, she ran her lips along his jawline and down his throat, to the hollow there that made her want to lick. The raw depth of that desire nudged awake the part of her that had kept her alive and sane all these years.

“I . . . can’t be like this,” she said, the words coming out in a halting pattern as she fought the twisted, dangerous half of herself. “It could be deadly.” Inside her was a violence so horrific it had caused the first responders to flinch—all of whom had been fully conditioned adults. “I did so much damage to my parents’ faces they weren’t even recognizable as male or female from the neck up.”

The deep memories were locked up behind a psychic wall she’d built as part of her Silence training. She could still remember what she’d done, but she didn’t relive it, didn’t experience what it had felt like to bring that pipe down over and over. Or she hadn’t. “My shields are breaking down. I’m remembering, Aden. I can’t remember and function.”

Tugging up her head with a gentle grip in her hair, Aden said, “Isn’t this worth fighting for?”

She thought of how she’d felt touching him before she remembered the risk, how she’d given him pleasure. Never had she given anyone pleasure. “The risk,” she began, but Aden interrupted.

“We’re in a unique situation,” he said. “No one will ever know what happens here unless we tell them. I promise you I will not let you cross any violent lines.”

Zaira flexed her fingers against his shoulder, the temptation extreme. With their minds numb, if she made a mistake, it wouldn’t ripple out into the PsyNet, wouldn’t betray her instability to those who might take advantage of the weakness.

And Aden would never tell.

Dipping her head, she licked that spot that had tempted her and his hand clenched on her thigh, his heart thunder under her palm. The rage that wasn’t rage around Aden taking her over again, she began to kiss her way down and across his chest. His nipples were flat disks but he tensed when she touched them, bit at them lightly, then licked.

She filed away the response in her private folder of all things Aden and continued on her journey down his body. When his hand closed around her nape, it didn’t break the moment. This was Aden, who had never hurt her and would never hurt her. He could touch her there.

He tugged.

Frowning, she looked up. “I’m busy.” Underneath her, his body was hard, hot, a strange and wonderful new landscape for her to explore.

His eyes darker than she’d ever seen them, he said, “Take off your top.”

Deciding the request was fair enough since he was half-naked, she rose and stripped it off, her breasts still covered by the bandeau. Aden’s hands on her waist felt bigger, hotter without that thin barrier. A shiver rippled over her and when he tilted her toward him, she went.

Sprawled out over his body, she met his lips with her own, instinctively seeking the intimacy. One hand returning to the back of her neck, he gave it to her, the two of them exploring the contact slowly and deeply. When they broke the kiss to suck in a breath, Aden nudged her onto her back.

Zaira didn’t fight it.

Neither did she fight when he came over her and traced the path she’d taken on his body on her own, his hand sliding over her ribs to spread on her back as the cool strands of his hair ran over her skin. His lips were warm, his kisses wet, and at some point, Zaira stopped trying to think and gave in to the raw insanity of the sensations.

This night was secret. Was theirs.

No one would ever know.