Patricia Briggs - Bone Crossed

Adam was awake, too.

"So," I said… half-embarrassed, half-aroused, and, just to round things out, half-scared, too. "Are you up for a trial run?"

"A trial run?" he asked, his voice all rumbly with sleep. The sound of it helped a lot with the halves I was feeling—virtually eliminating embarrassed, reducing scared, and pushing aroused up a few notches.

"Well, yes." I couldn't see his face, but I didn't need to. I could feel his willingness to participate in my trial pressed against my backside. "Thing is, I've had different things happen with these stupid panic attacks. If I stop breathing, you could just ignore it. Eventually I start breathing again, or I pass out. But if I throw up…" I let him draw his own conclusions.

"Quite a mood breaker," he observed, his face on the back of my neck as he wrapped an arm more fully around me on top of the covers.

I tapped his arm with my finger, and warned, only half in jest, "Don't laugh at me."

"I wouldn't dream of it. I've heard stories about what happens to people who laugh at you. I like my coffee without salt, please. Tell you what," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "Why don't we just

play for a bit—and see how far it gets? I promise not to be" — amusement fought with other things in his voice—"dismayed if you throw up."

And then he slid down in the bed.

When I flinched, he stopped and asked me about it. I found I couldn't say anything. There are things you don't tell someone you're still trying to impress. There are other things you don't want to remember either. Panic tightened my throat.

"Shh," he said. "Shh." And he kissed me there, where he'd caused me to shy. It was a gentle, caring touch—almost passionless, and moved on to somewhere less… tainted.

But he was a good hunter. Adam isn't patient by nature, but his training was very thorough. He worked his way back to the first bad spot and tried again.

I still flinched… but I told him a little. And like the wolf he was, he laved the wound in my soul, bandaging it with his care—and moved on to the next. He explored thoroughly, found each mental wound—and a few I didn't know I had—and replaced them with other… better things. And when passion began to grow too wild, too fast…

"So," he murmured, "are you ticklish here?"

Yep. Who'd have known it? I looked at my inner elbow as if I'd never seen it before.

He laughed, bounced over a little, and made a raspberry noise with his mouth on my belly. My knees jerked up in reflex, and I bopped him on the head with my elbow.

"Are you all right?" I pulled away from him and sat up—all desire to laugh gone. Trust me to clobber Adam while we're making out. Stupid, clumsy idiot, me.

He took one look at my face, put both arms over his head, and rolled on his back, moaning in agony.

"Hey," I said. And when he didn't stop, I poked him in the side—I knew some of his ticklish spots, too.

"Stop that. I didn't hit you that hard." He'd been taking lessons from Samuel.

He opened one eye. "How would you know?"

"You have a hard head," I informed him. "If I didn't damage my elbow, I didn't hurt your head."

"Come here," he said opening his arms wide, eyes glittering with laughter… and heat.

I crawled over on top of him. We both closed our eyes for a bit while I made myself comfortable. He ran his hands over my back.

"I love this," he told me, a little breathless and yellow-eyed.

"Love what?" I turned my head and put my ear on his chest so I could hear the pounding of his heart.

"Touching you…" He deliberately ran a hand over my bare butt. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?"

He dug in with his fingers. Tension from the night before had left me tight, and it felt good. I went limp, and if I could have purred, I would have.

"Someone looking at us might think we're asleep," I told him.

"You think so? Only if they don't notice my pulse rate… or yours."

He hit just the right spot, and I moaned.

"Just like Medea," he murmured. "All I have to do is put my hands on you. You can be spitting mad… and then you lean against me and go all soft and still." He put his mouth against my ear. "That's how I know you want me as much as I want you." His arms were tight around me, and I knew that I wasn't the only one with wounds.

"I don't purr as well as Medea," I told him.

"Are you sure about that?"

And he proceeded to show me what he meant. If I didn't ever reach Medea's volume, I came close. By the time he got down to business, there was no room in the inferno he'd made of me for fear or memory.

There was only Adam.

THE NEXT TIME I WOKE UP I WAS SMILING I WAS ALONE in the bed, but that didn't matter because I could hear Adam downstairs—he was talking to Jesse. Either they were making lunch—I checked the window shades—dinner, or someone was getting chopped into small bits.

Soon I'd start worrying. But for now… the vampires weren't going to kill everyone I knew. They weren't even going to kill me. The sun was up. And matters between Adam and me were right and tight. Mostly. We had a lot of things to talk about. For instance, did he want me to move in? For a night, it was wonderful. But his house wasn't exactly private; any of his pack could be here on any given day.

I liked my home, scruffy as it was. I liked having my own territory. And… what about Samuel? I frowned. He was still… not whole, and for some reason bunking at my house was helping. With me he could have a pack, but not be Alpha and responsible for everyone. I wasn't sure it would work out so well for him if I moved in with Adam—and I knew it wouldn't work out if he moved over here, too.

See, worrying already.

I took a deep breath and let it go. Tomorrow I would worry about Samuel, about Stefan, and about Amber, whose ghost was the least of her problems. I was just going to enjoy today. For the whole day I was going to be happy and carefree.

I slid out of bed and realized I was stark naked. Which was only to be expected. But there was no sign of underwear on the floor or in the bedding. I was head and shoulders under the bed when Adam said, from the doorway, "I spy with my little eye something that begins with the letter A."

"I'll spy your little eye and squish it," I threatened, but, since the bed hid me, there was a grin on my face. I'm not body shy—not growing up among werewolves. I can fake it so people don't get the wrong idea… but with Adam it would be the right one. I wiggled the something in question, and he patted it. "I've been smelling whatever you've been cooking" — something with lemon and chicken—"it's making me hungry. But I can't find my underwear."

"You could go without," he suggested, sitting on the bed just to the right of me.

"Hah," I said. "Not on your life, buster. Jesse and who knows who else are down there. I'm not running around without underwear."

"Who would know?" he asked. "I would know," I told him, pulling my head out from under the bed only to see that he had my bright blue panties dangling from a finger.

"They were under the pillow," he said with an innocent smile.

I snatched them and put them on. Then I hopped up and went to the bathroom, where the rest of my clothes were. I dressed, took a step toward the bathroom, and had a flashback.

I'd been here, unworthy, soiled… stained. I couldn't face them, couldn't look into their faces because they all knew…

"Shh, shh," Adam crooned in my ear. "That's over. It's over and done with."

He held me, sitting on the bathroom floor with me on his lap, while I shook and the flashback faded. When I could breathe normally again, I sat up with an attempt at dignity. "Sorry," I said.

I'd thought that last night would have taken care of the flashbacks, the panic attacks—I was cured, right? I reached up and grabbed a hand towel and wiped my wet face—and found that it just kept getting wet.