J. Geissinger - Edge of Oblivion

Xander pushed the door open farther. When he saw what was inside he froze.

The room was in shambles. Broken things lay scattered across the floor: a lamp, a yellow vase, a flat-screen television that had hung above the narrow credenza. A framed oil had been shredded to pieces, tossed to a corner. The bedsheets were in disarray, the satin comforter lay in a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed...the bed itself was empty. Frantic, his gaze darted over the darkened room. Morgan wasn’t on the floor, in the chair, anywhere he could see—

From the adjoining bathroom there came the sound of running water, followed very quickly thereafter by a loud crash.

He bolted across the room, threw open the bathroom door, and came to a skidding halt beside the sink. She was crouched on the tiled floor of the shower—naked, shivering, knees drawn up to her chin—as water poured all over her, poured all over the shards of frosted glass that lay scattered around her.

The shower door was demolished. Ragged bits of glass stuck out from the metal frame like shark’s teeth. A few of them fell tinkling to the tile.

“Morgan!” He frantically searched for blood, for signs she’d been hurt. “What happened? Did you fall? Are you—” She glanced up at him through dark lashes, and her agonized look punched an aching hole into the very center of his chest.

“It h-hurts less if I b-break something,” she said, teeth chattering.

The relief that washed over him was so strong he had to close his eyes for a moment to manage it. “You did this on purpose.”

He opened his eyes to find her nodding into her knees, her dark hair fanned over her shoulders and back, dripping wet. “S-stupid d- door .”

Steam curled up in feathered wisps from her shoulders, and as he reached in to turn off the faucet he was shocked to realize the water pouring over her was ice-cold. The steam came from her skin .

She was burning up.

“You need the morphine,” he growled, reaching for one of the towels that hung on a rod beside the sink. He knelt beside her and carefully draped it over her shoulders.

She pushed it away. “Water,” she said, her voice cracking. “I need cold water.”

Reaching an arm up to the faucet, she made a move to stand but staggered. Before she could fall Xander had her in his arms, had her—shivering, wet, and burning—pressed against his chest. He kept his eyes on the ruined door as he maneuvered them past it, avoiding jagged glass and the view of her naked breasts, both inches away. He snatched the other towel from the rack and awkwardly tried to pull it over her while she squirmed in his arms.

God, the fragrance of her—the heat —

“Stop fighting me,” he said through clenched teeth.

“ You stop fighting me !”

“Jesus, woman. You’ll be the death of me!”

He carried her, writhing, to the bed, where he gently laid her down atop the sheets. The towels were still covering her—mostly covering her—but he quickly shook out the comforter and laid it over her wet body. She kicked it off.

“Too hot ,” she moaned, writhing.

He stood there above her with his hands laced behind his neck—as if that could keep them from reaching for her—while she tossed and thrashed and begged him to put her back in the shower to cool her off.

It wasn’t cold water she needed. Xander knew what she needed. It was the same thing every female in her Fever needed in order to ease the pain.

A male. She needed to mate.

She refused the drugs...

...for not finishing what you started...

Don’t do it, Alexander. Don’t do it. You’ll hate yourself afterward —she’ll hate you afterward.

You know it’s stupid, it’s dangerous, it’s —

She looked up at him—her eyes incandescent, bright as stars—and spoke his name. He’d never seen such raw need, such hunger. It made his legs go numb.

Slowly, feeling like he was outside himself, he knelt beside the bed. He reached for her arm, and it didn’t surprise him at all that his hand shook. His fingers brushed her skin—hot, so hot—and she shuddered, made a little animal mewl in the back of her throat.

It’s just the Fever, she’s not in her right mind —

“I didn’t take the drugs,” she panted. “I didn’t want them.”

“I know,” he whispered, fighting against every impulse in his body to hold her, kiss her, love her—

She rolled to her side and the towels fell away, exposing her breasts and belly, her lovely rounded hips. He squeezed his eyes shut. Her hand, hot and shaking, touched the side of her face.

Very throaty, Morgan said, “You know what I want. And I know you want it, too. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Xander moaned, low, a tortured sound. She inched nearer. Her hand slid down to his chest, her fingers curled around the front of his shirt. She tugged at it.

“I can’t—can’t take advantage of you when you’re like this,” he said, his voice hoarse, his nose filled with her heady scent as she pulled him closer, closer—

“I know,” she murmured, coaxing, “you’re the gentleman assassin. You’d kill me before you’d take advantage of me. But I...” Her hands cradled his face. Her soft lips touched his cheek, his chin, his mouth, and his will began to crack. “...I can take advantage of you . We can hate each other later, Xander, but for one night, just for tonight, let’s be the best of friends.”

She slid her tongue between his lips, and then he shattered.

He crushed her to him. She was velvet and fire and soft curves, shaking in his arms, pulling his head down hard with both hands wrapped around his neck and her body arched against him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even think. All he could do was feel , so he let the fury in his heart and body take over.

As another boom of thunder shook the windows in the house above, Xander pushed her back against the mattress, stared down, panting, at her. She stared back with that same hungry look, expectant now, her lips parted, cherry red against her white teeth. Her hair spread dark and curling wet over the pillow; her hands reached up to touch the hem of his shirt, to tug it free from the waist of his pants.

He tore it off. He couldn’t get everything off fast enough. She helped him, shaking, both of them shaking and panting and kissing all the while, touching and exploring while his clothes fell to the floor. He rolled on top of her, and she ran her hands over his back, stroking the scars there with something like reverence.

“My beautiful assassin,” she said against his mouth, her voice so tender it hurt.

“No,” he said, hoarse, his palm cupped around her face. “Tonight I’m not an assassin. Tonight it’s only Alexander and Morgan. Tonight it’s only me and you.” He kissed her, hard and delicious, and her legs lifted to wrap around his waist.

She writhed against him, ready, but he wasn’t ready. He wanted to taste and explore and take his sweet time, because he knew this was only a one-time pass; tomorrow it would be over. Tomorrow she would be back to hating him as she had from the beginning.

But tonight...

He tangled his hands in her hair, pulled her head back to expose her throat. He kissed from the soft spot below her ear all the way to her collarbone, skipping over the cold links of the damned collar, wanting to rip it from her neck, free her from it. He stroked his tongue over the hollow in her throat, over the pulse that pounded there, her skin hot silk against his lips. She made a little noise of impatience and rocked her hips against his, the heat and wetness of her sex pressed against his erection, but he ignored her demands, focused instead on the beautiful curve of her breast in his palm, the weight of it, the satin texture and color, caramel tipped in raspberry.