Her Alien Savior (9 page)

Marissa shifted in his arms. “What?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

“Dad? Daddy?”

He froze. Her father had died about two years ago. Her file said so, and he doubted it wouldn’t be accurate. So, why? Why was she calling out to her dad? “Shhh. Just rest.” He pressed her face closer to his chest. Just a couple minutes longer and he could put her in her own bed and—

And what? What after that, genius? Wait until morning? Wait until she wakes up, crusty from her own vomit and—

And then she’ll never want to talk to him again. She’d be mortified, ashamed, embarrassed. He knew this already. He knew her. He couldn’t have her waking up and finding herself a mess, then finding out he brought her here, he saw her at her lowest.

Curses, he’d have to do something. Make it seem like she came home, changed, something, anything but he couldn’t let it look like he saw her in this condition.

No problem, you’re a soldier. Surely you can handle a little girl.
Her chest rose in a sleep-sigh. Breasts pushing tight against fabric. No. Not a little girl. A woman.

He shouldered a couple of doors open, finally finding her master bedroom. Placing her on the bed, he secured a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom, moistened it with some warm water, and using the light cast by the bathroom, he unbuttoned her wet, messy top. Between the vomit, the chunks, and what looked like a red-sauce-food-fight during lunch, the shirt deserved a fiery funeral. Not his call. He balled it up and tossed it in a corner. In the dim lighting, her flesh glowed, tan with white lines from a swimsuit. A lacy contraption—a bra, that much he remembered—covered half her breasts, leaving little to the imagination of the nipples that pressed against the filmy fabric. He sucked a breath in as quietly as he could. Her breasts rose, fell, rose, fell with every intake and exhale. He found his own breathing matching hers while he stared at her, transfixed by the creamy glowing skin. His shoulders ached, and he knew why. Damned wings. Damned humans.

The bra was wet. Leave her in it or . . .

He rummaged through a few drawers, finding an oversized T-shirt. Rolling her to her side, he unhooked the contraption holding her breasts hostage then tugged it off. It felt like a bayonet was driven through his gut. Her curves invited him, he raised his hand, lowered it. He couldn’t. No. This couldn’t happen.

Taking the washcloth, he ran its warmth moistness over her neck, her chest and just over the curve of her breast. As he passed over her nipple, it turned stiff. He let his thumb touch it. Damnation, he couldn’t help himself. No, couldn’t. He swallowed the thickness that accumulated in his throat, and adjusted the discomfort growing in his pants. Her nipple pressed back against his thumb. He wanted to taste it. Vomit, sweat, all of that be damned.

He leaned in, imagining the texture in his mouth. Imagining it’s response to his sucking.

She gasped, took a deep breath and rolled over onto her side.

Saved. To think he was going to—

He shook his head. As if that would clear it. As if that would make a difference. Fool. Foolish human blood in his body. Foolishness. He stood and paced. Now what? Now?

It’s fine,
he reassured himself.
She doesn’t know. She knows nothing. She
—

All he had to do was put her shirt on her, cover her, go to her couch, and go to sleep. She’d wake up in the morning and be none the wiser. She’d assume she’d dressed herself and that he was the perfect chaperone.

He slipped the T-shirt over her body, covered her and slipped out, leaving the door cracked open. He leaned against the wall, just outside the door, and stared out the window at the moonless, clouldless sky.

What am I doing? What have I done? What was I going to do?

Chapter 19

Marissa

Her head felt like it was going to explode. She knew that feeling. Knew it well, though it had been forever since she felt it. Marissa groaned and pulled the pillow over her face. The sun. Brutal! The night before was a dim fog of a memory, but she knew she’d gone to
Hush
last night. She’d—

Marissa bolted upright.

Finn.

Oh. That guy. Finn. He showed up. She scanned her bed. Definitely didn’t have signs of a wild passionate night. Or a hot guy.

What was she thinking? She wasn’t the type. She didn’t do stuff like that. No
, not normally
, the voice reminded her.
But he was hot. And you were drunk.
Still, she didn’t—

No, she hadn’t. The room was unoccupied. She was in her night T-shirt. The other half of the bed was untouched. And she was pretty sure no parts of the bed would have been untouched if he’d been here.

What the hell is wrong with me?
She was acting like a wacked out, hormonal, horny . . .

She buried her face into the pillow and laughed at herself.

A knock interrupted her.

God. That sounded close. The door creeped open. “Marissa?”

Him. Oh. Him. Finn. OhOhOh. Oooooh.

She jerked the sheets up to her neck. “Yes?” Back to the pretty-much-a-croak-while-he-was-around sound. Shit.

“Just checking on you.”

“Oh. I’m—” What the hell was he doing here? “I’m okay. I don’t remember much of last night.”

“No problem. We shared a cab. I stayed to make sure you were okay.” He pushed the door all the way open. “You were under the weather.”

Marissa fought back the laugh at the understatement and at the same time prayed that she didn’t act stupid, that she didn’t do anything embarrassing. And, in the same breath, she fought the urge to stare at him. His hair was tousled. His face had that just right amount of scruff that would leave red marks on her thighs while he—

God. Stop this train of thought. Right now, Marissa Sanchez. Right this moment!

And his eyes, a dark black color, the iris and pupils merging into one mysterious black hole that threatened to suck her in.

He was shirtless and had a huge tattoo of a winged—what was that?—on his even more huge bicep.

Stop. Immediately.

But she didn’t want to stop. She looked out the window, looked at anything else she could to keep from looking at this man in rumpled clothes and bedroom eyes that she wanted to dive into.

“What? What were you saying?” She’d completely lost track of what he’d said.

A glimmer of amusement crinkled his eyes. “I was saying I hope you feel better. I’ll get you breakfast if you like. I presume a lady who owns a restaurant would have a stocked pantry.”

He would lose that bet for the most part, but the part that got her was
how did he know she owned a restaurant?
Quit being paranoid, Marissa. You probably told him last night, while you were too busy drowning your problems away instead of handling them. Or Belle could have.

“Belle! Shit.” Marissa jumped up. “
Two West Two
. Oh God. I’m such an idiot.” She’d left and . . . who ran the shift? Who managed the restaurant? God, she was pathetic. Then she noticed her breasts bouncing in her tee. Her bra? What happened to it? She didn’t usually take it off. Where? Ah, there it was, at the foot of the bed. She looked away so Finn wouldn’t catch her looking, she crossed her arms so he wouldn’t notice the bouncing her breasts were doing when she hurled herself up out of the bed.

Then it hit her,
Two West Two
was going to close in ten days anyway. What did one shift matter? It’s not like it was a legacy that she was leaving behind. It was nothing. It would soon be nothing, less than a memory. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

“Hey.”

“Yeah.” She tried to keep from sounding like she was crying.

His arms were on her shoulders, pulling her close, swiveling her to face him. “Belle called. I answered your phone. Hope that was okay. She said she ran the shift that everything went smoothly. She said you’re closed today? Every Sunday and Monday? That correct?”

“Yeah. And pathetically irresponsible for me to do what I did last night. Uncalled for. Undue.”

“Based on what I heard from Belle—I’d say, very called for. Very due. You’re human, after all.” His tone had an oddness to it when he said that. “Do you have a plan?”

“I guess I’ll put the restaurant supplies and equipment in an auction to see if I can’t raise some money. It won’t be enough to open up another one, but it will give me some living money until I secure another job.”

“Why don’t you get back in bed? I’ll get breakfast and coffee. How do you take it?”

“Cream, lots of it. No sugar. But you don’t have to.” She made to pull away from his hold, but his grasp was firm, not overly so, not forcing her, but like he was a rock she could hold on to.

Then he was gone, and she was alone in her bedroom, and suddenly it felt like the loneliest place in the world. Since when did this guy matter? Since when did his leaving a room leave her empty? What happened last night? Surely nothing.

She looked at her bra. She usually slept with it on. It was more comfortable that way. She picked it up. Still damp. She didn’t need to put it under her nose to smell the reek of bar and vomit.

Must have taken it off because it was wet and filthy. Had to be.

But still a part of her wondered, even wished.
Wow you do sound like a girl that needs to get laid.
Now she wanted to tell the voice to fuck off. But what was the point of that?

She brushed her teeth and warmed the water in the shower. That would hit the spot. And make things smell better. Tossing her filthy shirt, bra, night tee, jeans and panties into the hamper, she jumped into the hot water. She closed her eyes and let the water run down her body. The scent of her body gel filled the steamy air as she ran her hands over her breasts. Her nipples hardened under her fingertips. For a brief moment she thought of Finn, his hands, his mouth. Damn it. What was wrong with her? That was the last thing she needed to be doing right now, thinking of him. She rushed through her shower.

Chapter 20

Finn

He paced the kitchen, pausing to take in the black, silver, and red décor. The whole house had furniture in bold, stark, crisp lines, including the kitchen. The Asazi part of his mind relished the order and unchaotic nature of the house.

Why the hell did he do that? Why did he tell her he’d make breakfast? And coffee? Since when have you ever used a human appliance? By the Asazi Sacred Writings, he was becoming more and more stupid every moment. It would be a miracle if they didn’t capture and kill or examine him with a scalpel and microscope. Damned fool. Damned, damned fool. Yes he would be damned. Damned and sentenced to die in this chaotic, frantic world, while at home everyone wondered what happened to him. He might as well slink away and find somewhere to take his life and remove his body so as not to be evidence.

But there was one problem. He wasn’t a quitter. Not a chance. He stopped and took stock. Mr. Coffee. Well, that would be where one made coffee, wouldn’t it? He would worry about the cooking part later. Cooking? Asazi men didn’t cook. Not the ones that became soldiers anyway. And most of them did. They had to have more soldiers than anything else. Soldiers, medics, and morticians. Soldiers to fight off the intermittent invaders, medics to heal the soldiers, and morticians for the rest.

He took a step closer to Mr. Coffee and grabbed the handle of a glass jar on top of a metal plate. He understood that part. The metal would be a conductor for heat, but . . . what about the coffee? Where did that come from?

Lifting the black lid on the top, he wondered if that was where one put coffee. Wait, he needed to find coffee. From the other room, the sound of water streaming bought him some time. Hopefully she was the type who liked to spend a lot of time in the washing and grooming stages. That might give him enough time to figure out where the coffee was and how to make it. He opened cupboard drawers and doors with as much stealth as he could. Somewhere—there!—the label said coffee. Yes! Coffee Mate? What did that mean? A brand of coffee? He pried the lid open. White powdery coffee? Who was he to questions advances in Earth’s science? He poured a healthy amount of the powder into the top of the coffee-maker, stepping back as a tiny white mushroom cloud formed.

Then he heard it. The water cut off. Time to hurry. Now what? Now? He filled the remainder of the container with water. A red button with an I and an 0 on it . . . of course. He pressed the button and took a step back, fairly proud of himself. His mind went to his grandmother again, and how she used to smile when he did things that humans did. This should do it. And what about the glass container? Did that go on the Mr. Coffee machine? Or . . . he thought of the girl at the coffee shop last night, she put a cup under the spout that made the coffee concoctions. That should do it. He fumbled around the cabinets, finding a mug and setting it on the metal plate. Within seconds a stream of hot, white liquid made its way out of the tiniest spouts on the underside of Mr. Coffee’s tank.

And now for breakfast. Breakfast. She would be screwed if he was making it. How did he get out of that? Couldn’t. So he rummaged through the refrigerator. Hoping whatever he was going to make didn’t have to be prepared on the stove. Surely there were foods that would be ready. Like the way it was in the Asazi world. One button, and a meal was being pushed through the chute for the recipient.

The refrigerator was nearly empty. How could that be? How could someone who had a restaurant not have a kitchen full of food?

Maybe offering to take her to breakfast would be a better idea. Maybe. But then would she want to go their separate ways? Perhaps cooking something for her here could make her hate him less? Though this morning she didn’t seem to hate him as much. In fact, for a brief second, maybe not quite so brief, he would have sworn he saw hunger in her eyes. Of course that was chased away by embarrassment when she noticed that her breasts were bouncing. What she probably didn’t notice was the way the peaks, rosy and poking against the fabric were tempting him to—