Vowed in Shadows (30 page)

“I don't think I can. Not anymore.”

His words, low and distant, rattled her. “A good screaming match can really clear the air. Maybe a slap or two, to make up for me almost killing everybody in the league.” When he didn't respond, she put the lemonade down and touched his leg. “I want to make it up to you, Jonah.”

“If you're about to offer a blow job next, don't.”

She withdrew her hand, wondering if she was actually on fire from her cheeks all the way down past the sheet around her breasts, or if it only felt that way.

“Your concept of this bond between us is fucked-up,” he said bluntly.

For the first time, a curse from him didn't make her want to laugh. That she had pushed him so far beyond his boundaries didn't seem funny anymore. “Jonah—”

But he didn't let her continue. “And so was mine,” he admitted. “I wanted you for all the wrong reasons.”

“Saving the city from hell is a wrong reason?”

He shook his head. “I wanted you the same way the men at the Shimmy Shack did. For myself.”

She stared at him. Was it just another symptom of her fucked-up view of the bond that her heart stuttered in hope when he said that?

“I don't know how,” he said, “but if there's a way out of this, I'll let you go.”

Her heart lurched to a standstill.

“Let me go?” The words fell from her lips, as cold as a malice sting.

“I'm not going to be another one of those men to you.”

“But you're not. You're—”

He waited, but nothing else would come from her mouth. “You wouldn't dance without a bouncer.” His hand, trussed against his belly, tightened into a fist. “Without the anklet, I am not enough to be the anchor, the control you need.”

Hot denials tried to bubble up past her frozen throat. How could he be so wrong? She surged out of the bed, cracked her head on the low ceiling again, and spun to face him. She had to wait a minute for the spinning room to catch up with her spinning head. “I make one little—okay, one fairly substantial—mistake, but for a good cause—you know, saving the city—and I'm outcast.”

He frowned at her—probably because she was naked—and pushed himself upright, grimacing when he jostled his arm. “It's not you—”

“Sure, that's what they said when they caught me with the neighbor man—‘It wasn't your fault, Elaine.' And meanwhile, the horror and disgust is all over their faces when they turn away. Or when I took off my clothes for money that first time. ‘Oh, she's damaged goods; it's not her fault dollar bills are falling out of her panties.' Hey, at least the lust was an improvement.”

“Nim—”

“What else is immortality good for? I get to make mistakes. I don't have to be perfect, I don't even have to be
good
, and I still get to try again. If I'm broken, I get another chance to fix myself.” She stopped, aghast at the way her chest was heaving with sobs.
She'd
decide when her chest heaved, thanks anyway, not her stupid hang-up on some holier-than-her jerk. “If you don't want to take that chance, that's your choice. But you can't drag me down with you.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter, but not in amusement. “That's what I did, though, didn't I? Dragged you out of the sky. I almost killed you. Your soul would have been lost at my hand.”

She stared at him. Her soul? He was worried about her soul? “That is
so
what I get for falling for a missionary man!” She whirled on her heel and stomped into the tiny bathroom. If only the door was heavier, she could have slammed it.

Splashing water on her face rinsed away any evidence of the sobbing. She stared down at her hands gripping the sink. While she was knocked out, someone—not someone; Jonah—had wiped away the grime. Even her fingernails were clean.

The thought of his handling her unconscious body . . . She wanted to slam
him
for that. But her hands were too clean to get dirty now. Plus, she was returning the favor for him not killing her while he had the chance.

Up on deck, under the high sun, the city was a hazy miniature on the horizon, with no other boats in view. The heat sank into her skin as she settled onto the cushions near the prow. The white vinyl burned the backs of her thighs, but she ignored it. Let the demon earn its keep.

Jonah's steps thudded behind her. “The teshuva's strength won't last all the way to shore, if you were thinking of swimming. And in case you forgot, it can't help you breathe underwater.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” she said testily. “I'll add that to the list of things I can't do.”

Stubbornly, she lounged on the deck cushions, letting the sun soak her skin.

Jonah stomped around somewhere in the middle of the boat, but she refused to look back. He'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her, but he'd stranded her out here. Let him deal with her buck-naked ass.

She startled when a long-sleeved oxford sailed over her head and landed in her lap. “I can't get skin cancer anymore,” she snapped.

“You can still get arrested for indecent exposure.”

“By whom? You nixed the blow job, so what do you care?”

Between one blink and the next, he was looming over her, blocking the sun, his face dark as any cloud. “You are not going to provoke me.”

“Looks like I already have.” Her gaze drifted deliberately down to where his worn-thin cargo shorts gave him away.

He didn't try to shield himself. “You've already demonstrated your power. And how it can destroy.”

Hurt flared like a struck match, still in the book and threatening to inflame the rest. “You still have all your parts after our night together. All the parts you had before it, anyway.” Then she winced and rubbed her fingertips over her lips. “You wanted to cast me off. At least I'm giving you good reasons now.”

He sank to his knees in front of her. “It's not about what I want, Nim. It's about what's the right thing to do.”

When he was this close, the heat of him rivaled the August sun, and the scent of aroused male was spiked with the cool water and sharp diesel. Her wayward emotions tipped overboard, leaving only her desire for him. She trailed her fingers across her thighs where the
reven
curled. “We're possessed by demons. Maybe it's too late to worry about the right thing to do.”

His gaze traced the path her hands had led. “I thought you said we had a chance to make up for our mistakes.”

“Not till after we make them,” she whispered. “I used to do the wrong thing for the wrong reasons. Now I'm doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. That's progress, don't you think?”

He leaned forward. Because she was a lure, after all. Made for sin. Made for him.

She met him halfway, maybe a little more than halfway, and tilted her head to take his kiss. Sun warmed, sweat tinged. A hint of anguish that gave her hope. Maybe he didn't want to cast her off. Not that he wouldn't still do it, of course. The downside of the moral man. But in the meantime . . .

The kiss went on and on until she gasped. She might not have made it to shore on that breath, but she would've been close. Not that she wanted to get away now.

She curled her fingers against his chest where vicious red slashes were smoothing into white scars. “They really got you good.”

“That was me. After I made you comfortable below, I didn't want to lie beside you with the ferales' stink still on me. So I cut my shirt off beneath the bandages to wash. Not easy without two hands.”

“And I was passed out, useless.” She pressed her lips gently to the wounds, as if her touch could speed the demon's healing. As if the wounds hadn't been her fault.

“You're here now.” His voice roughened. “The demon removes the scar, but not the pain. Only you do that.”

Her fingers tripped up his abs, and his muscles tightened. “Mostly I seem to have made it worse.” She pulled herself onto her knees to wrap her hands behind his neck and kiss his throat. “But now's my chance to atone.”

She worked her way down his chest again, skimming her fingers over the still, black lines of the
reven
on his back, until she reached his shorts. The snap sprang open under pressure from within. She smiled up at him as his ready erection surged into her hand.

“We should go down,” he said huskily.

“I already am.” She took him in her mouth.

He jerked so hard, she thought he might come right then. But he steadied himself, his bound hand centered on her skull.

“You don't have to—” He broke off with a groan when she cupped his sack and gave a tug. His fingers tightened in her hair.

The gentlest suction brought him a step closer. A swirl of tongue, and he kicked out of his shorts and put his foot up on the cushion next to her thigh. The conquering-hero pose. She worked the length of him, the fingers of her free hand splayed through the line of hair low on his belly, and when she hummed, he shuddered, not just conquering, but conquered. She snaked her arm up around his leg, dancing her fingers along his inner thigh.

His cock surged in her mouth, and then he was kneeling on the cushion, nudging her back. He spread her thighs with his knee. The August sun heated her—as if she needed it—but not as much as his mouth.
That
she needed, his lips and tongue exploring every nerve, wayward locks of his hair tickling her waxed pubis. Who needed hands?

Which didn't stop her from clutching his head, holding him fast, making sure he touched her there, and there—
ah
—and there.

He whispered something against her flesh, unheard words, hot and wet, that her body knew and tightened around, as if holding them. Another slow rasp of his tongue and another, and then she was coming undone, shivering apart under his touch.

Melted into the cushion, she struggled to help as he tugged her to the edge of the seat and positioned himself between her thighs. His erection slipped into her.

She watched as he tipped his head back and stroked himself in her passage. She drew her legs up so the only point of contact was that wicked thrust, the wet burn of friction. The tremors built again, and she panted his name.

He straightened to look down at her, his eyes as hot blue as the summer sky behind him.

With the merest flex of muscle, he snapped the bandage around his chest. The gauze unraveled in a loose spiral around his hips before he tore it away.

“Your arm—” she started.

“While I can hold you, I will.” He raised her legs to his flanks, and she locked her heels behind him, drawing him deep. “Ah, Nim.”

He reached down between them to stroke the throbbing flesh of her swollen clitoris.

“Again,” she moaned.

With each teasing flick of his fingers, she wound tighter around him, hoping she wasn't hurting him, knowing he wouldn't stop her. Until one more touch tossed her over, and she went ecstatically, in a violent contraction that jackknifed her upward into his arms, just as his own release caught him.

He pumped his body against her a last time, one arm holding her shoulders, his fingers tight on her ass. His heaving breath rocked her against him for a long moment before he lowered her to the cushion and collapsed beside her.

She fitted herself between the hard curve of the hull and his even harder bulk. “Thank God we're immortal.”

His breathing broke on what she thought was a laugh.

Her thundering pulse slowed and matched itself to his. Pillowed on his shoulder, she traced a fingertip over the all-but-invisible scars on his chest while he stroked her hair. “Am I forgiven?”

His hand stilled on her head, and abruptly she wished she hadn't asked.

“Because I can do it again,” she said quickly.

He wrapped one of her dreads around his finger and gave it a tug. “What? Get into trouble again?” She huffed into his chest, and he resumed his petting. “I think I'm done passing judgment.”

She wished he'd waited until after he'd forgiven her. “If not you, then who?”

“Someone who makes fewer mistakes.”

“I thought you'd say God.”

“We're here, aren't we? Possessed by demons. Somebody didn't get that right.”

“Ooh, heresy.” She thought for a moment. “I like it.”

“You would.” His hand stilled again. “I judged you more harshly than any heathen I'd hoped to convert in Africa.”

“It's probably the hair. Maybe I'm more heathen than them.”

“Quite likely. But I like your hair.”

She laughed, but had to close her eyes against the ridiculous surge of pleasure.

“More to the point,” he said, “I think, back then, the concept of converting sinners to save my own soul was somewhat academic. But my fear was no excuse for the way I've treated you. I was braver in the jungle.” He sighed. “Carine would have had my head.”

“For sleeping with me, definitely.”

He didn't laugh. “Last winter, when Sera came to Archer, I realized Carine had been dead for as many years as we'd been together.”

Tentatively, Nim offered, “Maybe she'd think it was time for you to move on.”

“She said that the first time someone mistook me for her son. And then her grandson. And then, before her death, when she began to slip—or maybe she was just tired of the lie—and called me her husband again, she said I should move on.”

“But you didn't. That would have been the sacrilege to you.”

He propped himself up on his elbow to look down at her. “And now I find myself reveling in sacrilege. Hungry?”