J. Geissinger - Shadow’s Edge

She had refused to get into the elevator with the three of them.

She couldn’t take her eyes off them as they moved, seeing the animal in each one. The way their feet stepped without noise over marble and concrete and grass, the way their limbs moved, supple and elegant, powerful and lissome, every turn and bend revealing their true nature, every motion a symphony of natural, dangerous, perfect grace.

Jenna couldn’t help but picture them moving through a darkened forest, on the prowl.

Hunting.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Leander opened the door to his suite and gestured for her to come inside.

“Here we are,” he said, his voice neutral, his body relaxed as he leaned a strong shoulder against the door to hold it open.

But those eyes, so piercing green and fierce. They sent a shiver down her spine.

“Morgan, Christian, I’ll speak to you later.” He made a small motion with his chin to indicate they should continue on down the corridor.

“Of course, Leander,” Morgan said, sounding happy to oblige. “We’ll see you later. And Jenna,” she turned her head and spoke as she moved gracefully away, her long black hair rippling down her back like waves of dark water over a bed of smooth stones. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I do hope we’ll get to see each other again very soon.”

“No—wait, where are you going! You need to stay— ”

But she only smiled and turned away, leading Christian by the arm, her cutout dress revealing a tanned expanse of back and a hint of the top swell of firm derrière.

Christian looked back at Jenna over his shoulder, but his face was layered in shadow under light thrown from the sconces on the wall. She could not read his expression. They both kept walking and went out of sight around the corner.

Without speaking, Leander raised his hand in invitation to enter the suite.

Jenna huffed, ignored his heated gaze, and moved past him, carefully avoiding any physical contact. She walked through the marble foyer into the sumptuous main room, admiring the exquisite furnishings, the broad expanse of marbled veranda visible through sheer curtains, the king-size bed.

Her gaze flew away from the bed before it could linger there.

Damn. She wasn’t in control. She needed to be in control.

She was flushed and trembling. She somehow felt both exhausted and exhilarated, strung out and calm. Every fiber in her body was attuned to the room around her, to the warm air and the slanting light, and the beautiful, obviously dangerous man standing at the door, watching her, silent and so still she might have thought he’d disappeared.

Except for the beating of his heart. She still heard it and struggled to smother the staccato, pulsing beat from her mind.

“It will get easier in time,” Leander said softly from behind her, his voice surprisingly tender. “You just need to practice.”

Startled, Jenna turned so quickly she nearly lost her footing. She reached out a hand to steady herself against the back of a silk-covered chair, its polished wooden arms strangely cracked and splintered. Control , she admonished herself.

“What will?”

“The sensations. You could quite easily overdose on the glut of information your senses will be able to pick up, but it can be managed. After a while,” he said, moving away from the door to let it swing shut with a soft click behind him, “you’ll be able to control it. You’ll hardly notice it at all, unless you want to.”

He took a few steps toward her with great deliberation, his eyes focused on her face.

“No,” Jenna said, taking one step back, forgetting for a moment that he had known she could hear his heart. “The door stays open. That was our agreement.”

“No, that was your demand. However,” he said, still advancing with that suggestion of coiled power in every movement, a look of slowly simmering sensuality darkening his features. “I think it would be wiser to keep the door shut for the moment. Especially with what I’d like to show you.”

Jenna’s heart began to pound with such ferocity she thought she might faint.

Instead she jerked away until her behind hit the desk against the wall. She kept backing up as he continued to advance, stepping around the desk, moving farther into the room, until finally her shoulders came to rest against the smooth silk paneling of the far wall.

“Stop!” Her voice cracked in panic. He smiled, awfully, and kept on. Her gaze flew around the room for something to leap at, to stab him with—was that a knife on the desk—no, a letter opener—

But then he was standing right in front of her, a razor-thin slice of electrified air vibrating between their bodies.

Jenna froze. She felt burned by the heat and muscled tension of him, the aching strain of awareness between their bodies. She struggled to control her breathing, to control the butterflies in her stomach, to stand without fear and look up into his eyes.

What she saw there made the butterflies dance.

“I believe you wanted answers,” he murmured, raising his forearms to rest against the wall on either side of her head. She turned her face away and tried to flatten herself even farther against the wall to escape what was between them, that glowing dark burn.

“I don’t see how this—” she broke off as he lowered his head and trailed the tip of his nose slowly down from a spot just under her earlobe to where the pulse beat at the base of her throat.

He inhaled deeply and made a low, masculine sound in his throat.

“—is any kind of answer.” She said it on an exhalation of breath, fighting back the ripple of pleasure the touch of his skin had sent flooding through her body.

He chuckled, low and amused, and spoke without lifting his head, his breath warm on her skin. “It’s not,” he agreed. “I’m just indulging myself.”

“Well, you can stop it, please. Now ,” she added severely, trying very hard to sound convincing.

He tipped his head back, looked down at her through half-lidded eyes, and smiled. A line of light from the veranda windows caught the shadows in his hair, turning it shades of mink and chocolate brown under the thick, shining layers of ebony.

“Do you really want me to?” he murmured, that lazy smile deepening. His eyes glowed green, and the line of slanted light cast rippled shadows across the arch of his cheekbone, showing the detail of his skin: perfect, poreless, and burnished gold.

“Beautiful girl,” he whispered, looking deep into her eyes. “Tell me the truth.”

Jenna preferred the truth; she’d spent her entire life trying to discern it. But now, for the second time today, she very much appreciated the value of a good lie.

“Yes, I do,” she said coldly, with as much blunt force as she could muster.

“I see,” he said, unaffected, his smile growing even deeper, a hint of whimsy there. “So you would not like it if I, for instance, did this.”

He lowered his face and brushed his lips against hers with a bare, languid lightness, back and forth, touching but not touching, sliding and slow.

Jenna gasped and tried to turn her head away, but he caught her by the jaw, his strong hand firm against her face, and turned it back.

Her mind was instantly filled with images not her own, her skin burned with the stinging hot pulse of him, his desire, his memory, his essence . “Stop!” she cried.

“You can learn to control it, Jenna,” he said roughly, moving his lips against hers. He pressed his body hard against her so she felt the heat of him scorch straight through her clothing, burning her chest and abdomen and thighs. Her body arched against the wall, flexed hard against him, aching and wanting and full of need. Her hands made fists and she wasn’t sure if she meant to hit him or if it was to keep from pulling him harder against her.