“Have you ever dated anyone?”
He worked his jaw in irritation. “I have never dated anyone, nor have I ever wanted to date anyone.”
Her eyes widened. “But that would mean…”
“That Jamila’s kiss was my first, yes.”
No way. No way that had been this beautiful man’s first kiss. Despite his standoffishness, someone would have tried to seduce him before now. “Did you like it?” Oh, no, no, no. She had not just asked him that.
“Clearly not.” He moved around her, fingered the silk of the sheets draped over the bed. Very casually, he asked, “Have you ever been kissed?”
She sighed as memories assailed her. The good, the bad and the wretchedly ugly. Before the institution, the kisses she’d experienced had been with a boy of her choosing. Some had been sweet, some had been passionate, but all had been welcome. After the institution… She shuddered with revulsion. “Yes.” Would Zacharel think less of her now?
“Did you like it?”
There’d been no condemnation in his voice, which was the only reason she responded with, “Depends on which kiss we’re talking about.”
He released the fabric and faced her, flattening one of his hands on the bedpost. “More than one person has kissed you?”
Still no judgment, and yet, there was something in his tone. Something hot. So hot, in fact, the snow stopped falling from his wings, the cold somehow suddenly sucked away.
Well, crap. She changed her mind a third time. He couldn’t be emotionless. Raw fury blended with sensuality, radiating from those heavy eyelids to his lush lips, already plump and glistening, to the pulse hammering in his neck, to the slow curl of his fingers. “Yes,” she said. “But only one actually counts. Before my confinement, I had a boyfriend. We were together for over a year and did things together. Those kisses I liked.” Or thought she had at the time. “After my parents’ murder, he broke up with me and never came to visit.” She shrugged, as if she hadn’t cared.
Truth was, she’d more than cared. She’d needed someone who knew her to believe her, to believe in her, to show her a measure of support or understanding. Heath’s defection had cut deeper than her brother’s, leaving her hollowed out and disheartened. She’d trusted him, and yet he’d so easily walked away from her. Now she had to live with the fact that he’d seen her naked.
“Who else?” Zacharel asked.
“A few times, while in lockup, a patient or a doctor…” Another shrug, this one stiff, jerky.
As she spoke, he lost that hint of sensuality, the coldness returning to him. She took comfort in that. Like her, he hated the thought of others being forced.
“What made the kisses with your boyfriend so nice?”
“We loved each other. Well, I loved him. Turns out he was just using me for what I’d give him. I wonder if that’s a teenage boy thing, or just a Heath thing.” She chewed on her bottom lip, her mind still caught on Zacharel’s confession of total and complete abstinence. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Older than you can possibly imagine.”
Please. “One hundred? Two hundred?”
He shook his head.
Her jaw dropped. “Five hundred? A…thousand.” When he gave another shake, she said, “No way. Just no way. You can’t be older than a thousand.”
He arched a brow.
“You are,” she gasped out. “You really are.”
“I am thousands of years old.”
Thousands, as in more than one. She flattened her hands over her twisting stomach. “And you’ve really never kissed anyone? Of your own free will, I mean.”