Page 17 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
“That cold still bothering you, Corbin?” His voice was stern, his gaze full of warning. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, and Corbin acknowledged the warning with a small, curt nod of his head.
“These things sneak up on you when you’re least expecting them, sir,” he replied. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, though. Thank you for asking.” Then he started the car and concentrated on steering them out into traffic. He didn’t look in the mirror again.
“So…do you always eat so late? It’s past midnight,” Ember said softly from beside him, pulling his thoughts back from a precipice. He turned to look at her, admiring the way light from the passing streetlamps wove strands of bright color into her dark hair, gold and bronze and mahogany glints that flared and faded as the car picked up speed. They were seated close together but not too close; the sedan had a spacious interior and the back seat would easily fit three adults. He noticed she’d chosen to sit as close to her door as possible, while he’d taken a spot almost in the middle. He hadn’t done it consciously, but as he looked at her, he was glad he had.
He smelled the clean, warm scent of her skin, the citrusy shampoo she’d used earlier to wash her hair, the chemical smell of her latex costume, the liner she’d used to draw on her whiskers, and the paint she’d used to blacken the tip of her nose. Still she wore no other cosmetics, no lipstick or mascara, and he was glad she didn’t. It made her seem more real to him.
More…bare.
“Usually, yes. I’m a bit of a night person.”
He willed Corbin not to cough. It must have worked, because the man didn’t even flin
ch.
“Really? I’m a morning person myself. When I first came to live here I couldn’t believe how different it was from home. Breakfast at ten in the morning, lunch at two in the afternoon, a two hour siesta then back to work until eight, dinner practically in the middle of the night.” She shook her head. “I still can’t sleep past six.”
A personal revelation. Her first. Intrigued, he said, “You’re originally from New Mexico, you said. What brought you to Spain?”
She looked down at the tail she still held in one hand and her fingers tightened around it. She swallowed, said in a lowered voice, “Life.” She sat quietly a moment, then glanced up at him. “You? You’re originally from England, correct?’ He inclined his head. “So what brought you to Spain?”
“Life.” Their gazes held. Outside, the night sped by in a blur of color. He watched her face, watched her eyes, large and dark. “It seems to have a way of derailing even the most carefully laid plans, doesn’t it?”
Her face grew somber, a little furrow appeared between her brows. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and turned to look out the window, as if she couldn’t meet his eyes. Her hand rose to touch the gold rings that hung on the delicate chain around her neck, and she twisted them between her fingers, round and round. Staring out into the passing night, she said quietly, “Life is cruel in the same way people are. Casually. Randomly. Indifferently. Sometimes I wonder how anyone survives it at all.”
“Ultimately, we don’t.”
She turned back to look at him just as the car went over a bump in the road, an unseen pothole or crumbled, unrepaired piece of curb that had Corbin cursing and swerving to correct. They were jolted, kicked out of their seats, a nanosecond of weightlessness and then settled again, but they’d both put their hands on the seat between them to steady themselves and realized at exactly the same moment that they were, just barely, touching. Pinky to wrist, their hands met against the leather, and neither one moved away.
They pretended they weren’t touching. They both looked forward, silent, gazing out the windshield, but neither one withdrew. As the blocks passed by it became an almost unbearable agony, the slightest pressure from her hand, the warmth of her skin grazing his, the urge to lean into her, or say something, or do anything, anything at all. But Christian held himself still and felt thankful for the darkness, because he was sure if she looked at him now she would see what was written plainly on his face, and she’d open the door and run.
Hunger. Hunger unfurled inside him, dark, savage, and selfish. And all from a touch of her hand.
Bloody hell. This had epic disaster written all over it in blinking neon letters.
“Just a few blocks more.”
Ember’s voice sounded a little breathless. He tried to block out the sound of her blood rushing through her veins, of her heart pounding in her chest. Her breathing had increased, too, and all the little signs of her reaction to him made the animal inside him hiss in pleasure. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, breathing steadily through his nose.
Then someone darted out into the street directly in front of them, a man in a blue parrot costume waving a neon glow stick and cackling drunkenly. Corbin slammed on the brakes to avoid him. Neither he nor Ember wore seat belts, and he saw her begin to fly forward as if in slow motion, her eyes wide, lips parted in horror.
His reaction was instantaneous. Unthinking. He reached out, grabbed her with both hands, and flung her back against the seat. He landed half on and half off her body, blocking her with his own, one leg braced against the back of the driver’s seat and one thrown over hers, his hands gripping her shoulders, his face inches from hers.
It was awful. It was amazing. It was terribly intimate and awkward and inappropriate, their bodies pressed hard against one another, their legs entangled, but they stayed like that for long, breathless moments, staring at each other with pounding hearts and unblinking eyes, frozen, until the line of cars behind them began to honk, their drivers leaning out the windows to curse in Spanish.
“Sorry, sir,” Corbin huffed, fingers white around the steering wheel. The drunken parrot doddered off, leaving a trail of listing blue feathers in the street behind him. “Everyone all right?”
“Yes,” he whispered, staring into Ember’s eyes, his voice hoarse. He said it again and for some reason it didn’t feel like he was answering Corbin’s question this time. It felt more like an invitation. The answer to a question his body screamed for him to ask.
Yes, say yes, please say yes to me.
The car began to pull forward and Christian was jerked out of his reverie. Suddenly aware of the indecorum of his position and what an ass she must think him for throwing himself on top of her in the most crude, blundering way, he abruptly sat up, released her arms, and retreated to his side of the car.
She let out her breath in a soft expulsion, lifted a shaking hand to her chest.
“Forgive me. I hope I didn’t hurt—”
“No,” she interrupted, still shaking, refusing to look at him. “Please. I’m not hurt. I might have been though, if you hadn’t stopped me. You have…amazing…reflexes.” A tiny little laugh escaped her throat, tinged with what sounded like impending hysteria. He looked over at her sharply. If he didn’t know better, he’d have guessed her in shock. The hand on her chest—her left hand—shook so badly now she curled it to a fist, placed her right hand over it and pressed it against her stomach.
