Embrace The Night (22 page)

In the bluish light of the moon, she looked more ethereal and beautiful than ever. And she was so damned close. Simon felt the rush of his breath threaten to take over his consciousness, and he struggled to contain it. For God’s sake, he’d been in tighter situations than this, more dangerous, more threatening…and he’d kept himself under control.

But now…

She reached up, pulling out her arm that had been crushed between them, and touched his cheek. Lightly, but it had the same effect as if she’d shoved her hand down his pants.

“How did you do that?” she breathed. So softly that even Simon couldn’t fault her. The men’s voices were distant, on the floor above them.
Damn
.

He shrugged, feeling the heavy…yet light…touch of her palm, warm, on his cheek. Was this the first time someone had touched him since…since coming out of those caves? “I just did.”

“You did it before,” she added now, her eyes wider. “Didn’t you?”

He nodded and she withdrew her hand. Thank God. But then it settled between them, and her fingers sort of curled up amid her chest and his. Could she feel the stampede of his heart? He knew she couldn’t feel the rush of heat that swarmed him, and the faint sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin. At least, he hoped not.

“Simon.”

He drew back a bit. “Hush.” He did not want to hear what she was going to say, did not want to look into those eyes anymore. It would only take one little hint, one breath, and it would be all over.

Fuck Theo.

No, no, no.

But,
pinche
, she was looking up at him, and she was so damned close, and what woman wouldn’t be starry-eyed around a guy who could turn her invisible?

“Can you do it again?” she asked.

Okay. Sure. This he could do. Then he wouldn’t have to look at her, at least.

Simon drew in his breath, concentrated, and felt that now-familiar feeling sprinkle over him. Sage’s face wavered, close…so close…then gently disappeared.

Just as it happened, she moved…in his arms, surged into him…and planted her lips against his.

Simon’s concentration shattered. He lost it all—his mind, his place, his breath—and felt the whoosh of solidity return as the pleasure, something electric, jolted him. Soft, gentle, tentative, the brush of mouth to mouth…and then a soft groan from the back of his throat as he could no longer restrain himself.

His arms tightened around her, drawing her up and into his chest, and he found her lips again. They were ready, lifted and parted, and when he fitted his mouth to hers, she opened, pressing closer as if she too were as eager to taste him. And taste he did. Oh, indeed, and he was well and truly fucked.

Simon became lost in the wave of pleasure trammeling through him, the sleek, warm slide of tongue and busy mouths, moving, shaping and nibbling. Of Sage and her thick, heavy hair, of delicate shoulders under his palms, the soft little sounds she made, the smooth skin beneath his fingers.

But even in the back of his mind, he dared not move…dared not take it any further. Despite the searing need, he kept it easy, froze his hands in place, and tried to keep from devouring her, from sliding beneath that shirt and touching more of that warm, soft skin.

And when she tugged back a bit, her breath soft and fast against him, he instantly released her, his own lungs working overtime, his heart slamming and his jeans
way
uncomfortably tight.
Focus on that instead of dragging her back for more.

“My God. Simon,” she whispered. Her eyes were still circles of shock and awe, but now her lips were full and puffy and glistening and he had to draw himself back to keep from lunging back toward her again. Her body moved against him, her breasts rising and falling as she caught her breath. And she smiled. Up into his eyes.

Holy God in Heaven.

Simon felt the world tip and tilt and he realized his fingers had curled into what was left of an area rug beneath them. He pushed them deeper to stabilize himself. To fucking hold on.

And then, praise God, he heard the voices again, closer, and brought a finger to his lips. But Sage had heard them too and she closed her mouth, looking apprehensively toward the door.

Hard to believe it had only been a few moments since the searchers had been there, shining their lights around in the room…because to Simon, it had been a whole world of change. Eons. His own personal apocalyptic event.

And this time, when the light came back and the men clomped down onto their floor, out and around in the hallway, persistent, and Simon had to pull Sage closer, and focus his energy…it was all that much more difficult. She fairly cuddled into him, like a kitten—no longer skittish—and he felt her relax, trusting, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

Just a moment. Just…

The men arrived, pushing at the door again, and once more, Simon gathered his power and strength. Like holding his breath, he settled, concentrated, and, just as the light blasted into the room, he and Sage faded into nothing.

Only this time, Sage had her face buried in his neck, the press of her lips gentle against his warm, damp skin, the brush of her eyelashes under his ear.

Quent couldn’t get her clothes off fast enough. Inside the door of his room, they stumbled into each other, half falling against the wall as he jammed his hands down inside Zoë’s pants, down over her smooth, lean hips, tearing at denim and panties as she, just as ferociously, yanked at his. A slice of moon cut through the open curtains, bathing the room in bluish-white, showcasing the neatly made bed and mounds of pillows.

Zoë gave a little laugh against his mouth as she caught herself against a dresser, then pulled him with her as they staggered toward the bed. They fell on it with a hard jolt and it slammed into the wall from the force. Mouths, hands, legs twined, clothes flew, skin slid against skin, damp and hot and frantic.

Oh God, oh yes, Zoë…

He flipped on his back and brought her with him, and as if reading his mind, she rose up over him, long and slender and dusky, straddling his hips as he settled his hands at her waist. “Zoë,” he said urgently when she ground herself into his belly, but made no move to shift to where he bloody needed her.

She smiled then, fast and wicked, her white teeth flashing and her exotic eyes narrowing in delight. A stripe of moon angled across her torso, like the sash of a beauty queen. But Zoë looked more like some erotic dancer as she stripped off her little tank top and flung it to the floor. She wore no bra—she didn’t need to, for her breasts were tight and high and the perfect size for his hands. Lifting her arms, she tousled her hair, raising her upthrusting breasts even higher, tormenting him as she circled herself into his belly.

Quent met her eyes. “Now, dammit,” he muttered, and lifted her hips. She helped, her eyes dark and avid, and when he settled her down on top of him in a deep, perfect slide, he nearly went through the roof.

Everything disintegrated after that—his thoughts, his concentration, his sense of place and time—and funneled into a whirl of pleasure and need, hard and hot and slick. Cinnamon and musk and silky, warm skin. Zoë.

As he moved inside her, feeling his body coil with readiness, watching her face settle and stretch with desire as she shuddered in the slam of a release, he almost let it go. Almost gave in, almost ignored what he knew…but at the last minute, the very last possible second, as the build became almost too intense to think, his conscience won. Quent rolled from beneath her, twisting them into an awkward heap as his world exploded.

When at last they lay, panting, sprawled, toes curled and bodies sticky, he reached over and touched her. Closed his fingers around her wrist, gently. Intimately.

Their fingers curled into each other, hers, slender and rough, his large and enveloping. And they slept in a slice of moonlight.

“Why the hell do you always do that?”

The low, annoyed voice dragged Quent from the first real rest he’d had in weeks.

“Huh?” he muttered, scrambling to clear his mind of dead sleep laced with afterglow. But when Zoë moved, pulling away, his brain sharpened enough to send the signal for him to
hold on
. He tightened his fingers around her wrist.

She stopped. Then, with a quick movement, jerked her arm away.

That caught Quent’s full attention and he rose quickly. She was not going to sneak out on him again.

Zoë sat there, naked and seemingly unconcerned about that fact, if the position of her body was any indication. Completely bloody distracting, the way she was sitting, with one leg bent so her knee was straight up and her other leg bent with her ankle tucked near her inner thigh. The room had begun to take on a lighter glow with dawn easing the distance, and Quent could hardly keep his breath steady, looking at her.

“What were you saying?” he asked.

“Why the hell do you always fucking do that? It sort of blows the moment, doesn’t it?”

Always? Do what? They’d been together…twice. They’d met, what, four times—the first time she’d saved him from the
gangas
with her arrows, then there was the wild and crazy session in this very room…then at the festival where they did nothing but eye each other…and then this. What
always
was she talking about?

“Pull away. At the last freaking minute.”

Right then. Pull
out
, she meant. Yeah. That sucked.

And since birth control was practically illegal—or it would be if there were lawyers anymore—and certainly nonexistent in this post-Change world anyway, Quent supposed she was probably not aware of it. “I don’t want to get you pregnant.”

“Pregnant. Oh.” She eased back a little, as if the thought hadn’t really occurred to her. It probably hadn’t. After all, in some ways this world was more than a little backward. Women were sort of expected to be pregnant as much as possible—not regimented like they were in Falling Creek, but it was a good thing to procreate. To add to the human race. And pregnant women were well cared for, pampered, and lauded by everyone.

Plus, there were no such thing as STDs anymore. According to Lou and Theo, anyway.

“I never pay any attention the other times,” she said with a shrug.

The other times.

For some reason, those blasé words stopped him cold. Not a good image, Zoë and her “other times.” Not at all.

Quent steadied himself. He didn’t know anything about this woman, other than her Robin Hood-like skill with a bow and arrow. Nothing but the way she made him feel. The way she touched him. From the first, it had been the way she touched him. And the way that, when their eyes met, he felt as if bloody rockets were shooting off all over his body.

For all he knew…she could be married. She could have a partner. She could have other guys with rooms that she sneaked into, stole back arrows from, visually undressed in bars and made promises to with those sloe eyes, whatever…all over Envy, all over this buggered up world.

He opened his mouth to say something. To ask. To demand. Then closed it. He closed his eyes. This wasn’t him. Quent Fielding didn’t care beyond the moment.

“Yo.”

He opened them and found her watching him, even more clearly illuminated now as the half moon aligned itself better to the window. “You okay?”

“Zoë. This…is really good.” He spread his hand around to encompass the bed, the room, her and him.

She gave another wicked flash of smile that sent a streak of heat down to his belly. “Damn straight it is.”

“Why don’t you…stay. Awhile.”
Bollocks, Fielding. Could you sound more like a knobhead?

She drew back, stiffened. Even adjusted her position, sliding both legs so that her feet were on the floor. Ready for takeoff. “No fucking way. And don’t even try to make me.”

Quent eased back, settling into a reclining arrangement, hoping to alleviate her skittishness. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

She seemed to relax, and he breathed easier.

“The other night, when we saw each other in the Pub…why did you leave?”

She smirked at him…but he saw a glint of bravado in her eyes. Arrogance, almost. Or…maybe…some sort of shield. “You looked like you had your hands full.”

“Uh.” The truth was…and he’d never admit it…he’d completely lost interest in Nadine the minute he saw Zoë. And hadn’t thought about following up on that moment on the dance floor since then.

“Kind of ballsy of you, eye-fucking me while you got your hands all over some other woman’s ass,” she said with an unmistakable edge to her voice. “Besides, I saw someone I needed to talk to.”

“Who?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Someone.”

“A man?” As if he’d know the guy. But, he’d gotten the impression that Zoë didn’t come to Envy often. He knew she didn’t live here. So how would she know anyone? Unless she had another booty call besides him lined up.

“Yeah.” She lifted her chin as if to challenge anything he might say.

And what the hell could he say? After all, the last time she’d seen him, he’d—as she’d put it—had his hands all over another woman’s ass. Aside of the fact that they were nothing to each other but a quick, easy lay.

Right?

Right.

Right
.

“Someone who lives here?” Christ, why couldn’t he shut the fuck up? Or, better yet, grab her and slam her back onto the mattress and put all thoughts of everything out of her mind but him and what he could do to her sleek, cinnamony body.

Zoë was eyeing him speculatively. “No. Someone who might be able to help me. I’ve been looking for someone for a long time.”

Quent stilled and the prick of annoyance eased. Just a bit. “Remington Truth?” he breathed. Just…just as a wild guess.

Her eyes widened in shock. “No. I’m not looking for that. But…how did you know about it?”

“That? You mean Remington Truth?”

She nodded. “The
gangas
have been searching for Remington’s Truth for years, for the Strangers. As long as anyone can remember. The Strangers are terrified that someone else might get it first. Do you know what it is?”

“It? Remington Truth is a man,” Quent told her. “A man who lived before the Change, and, most likely helped to cause it. As far as we can tell.”