Sins of the Soul

Catching hold of her wrist, he broke the kiss and drew back.

A little sound of frustration escaped her. “What are you, the prince of mixed messages?”

The faint creak of the couch carried from downstairs. He shook his head. “No mix intended. I want you. But a sixty-second bang doesn’t appeal. When I have you, I want to take my time. And right now, we have little of that.”

“But…” She made a vague gesture toward his straining erection, then dropped her hand and scraped her nails along the length of him, through his pants, sending lust crashing through him like a breaker, nearly shredding his control.

“We have company, pet—” he dipped his head toward the door “—and I don’t like an audience.”

He sank his teeth into the fleshy part at the base of her thumb. She inhaled sharply, and just the sound of that fanned his interest. Bloody hell, she was so damned hot.

“I want you to think about the way I touched you.” He let his fingertips drift along her underwear. She gasped, but didn’t pull away. “The way I kissed you.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. Her tongue darted out to taste, then her pretty white teeth nipped his flesh.

He felt it like a jolt of electricity, straight to his cock. His reaper hearing let him pick up the sounds of the girl stirring downstairs. They didn’t have the luxury of time. So he locked down the urge to push Naphré back on the bed and push himself deep inside her.

“I want you to think about me,” he finished. “Anticipation is half the fun.”

“Do you always get what you want?”

He rose to loom over her.

“Yes.” His mouth curved, and he let the word hang for a moment before he asked, “Mind if I use your toothbrush, pet?”

“And if I do?”

“I’ll use it anyway.” Without waiting for a reply, he crossed to the door of the ensuite bath.

But apparently he wasn’t the only one used to getting his way. In a flash she ducked in front of him, flicked on the light, and opened the mirrored door of the medicine chest.

“No, you won’t.” She took out a new, wrapped toothbrush, slapped it against his chest, and ducked out the door.

He leaned back and watched her pull on the rest of her clothes, then she left the bedroom without a backward glance and headed down the stairs.

When he was done in the bathroom, he followed and found Naphré in the open archway of the living room, arms crossed over her chest.

The girl was awake, up on all fours, her back arched like a cat, every muscle in her body tense. Her brown eyes were wild and unfocused.

“You’re okay,” Naphré said, her voice low and calm.

“Stay away from me.”

“We’re away.” Alastor gestured at the space that separated them. “There’s at least six feet between us and you.”

“Don’t freak out,” Naphré said, and when the girl swallowed convulsively, she finished, “and do not throw up on my rug.”

Alastor gave her a second, then asked, “Name?”

The girl just moaned, sank down onto her haunches and lowered her head to her hands.

“Name?” Naphré muttered, and shot him a look. “Not much into foreplay, are you?”

“Sometimes quick and rough works best.”

She met and held his gaze. “Or slow and rough,” she said, very low.

Her words made him think about all sorts of things that were completely inappropriate at the moment. With a start, he realized that had been her exact intent. Shift the balance. Shift control. Naphré wasn’t one to let someone else call the shots.

The girl on the couch raised her head. They both turned toward her. Her eyes widened. What little color remained drained completely from her face. With a scream, she looked beyond them and skittered back as far as she could go, her back pressing into the corner.

Alastor whirled, searching for the threat. Beside him, Naphré did the same.

“Centipede. Skateboard-sized centipede,” the girl said in a high, panicked voice. She was breathing fast as she pointed at the wall.

Alastor followed the direction of her finger, but there was nothing there. Still, he didn’t relax. Perhaps Naphré needed an exterminator, or perhaps the centipedes had nothing to do with an infestation.

“Oh, God. It went under the rug.”

He toed the edge of the rug back. Nothing there either.

“Well, it’s gone for now,” Naphré said, obviously trying for placating, though the words came out with an edge. She shrugged. “It must be centipede season. I saw two in the shower. Tried to get them with the shampoo bottle but they were fast. Made it down the drain in a blink—” She broke off at the horrified look on the girl’s face.

“I hate bugs.”

Naphré lifted something from the bookshelf and held it out toward the girl. “Hand sanitizer? It’s the bugs you can’t see that you have to worry about.”

At that sage advice, the girl hugged herself and started to cry.

Blimey.