“I’m not tired.”
“Well, I’m not safe company.”
Her lips twitched into the smallest smile. “Never said I needed safe.”
That hit harder than I wanted it to. I shifted, leaning back against the couch, trying to put space between us, but she followed, stubborn as hell, just like her old man.
Her hand brushed against my shoulder as she sat down next to me and I froze. Heat crept under my skin, mixing with something darker, that whisper of temptation Bael left behind.
For a second, I saw it again, her body tangled in shadows, his laughter echoing in my head. My breathing hitched, and I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms.
“Hellsing,” she said softly. “You’re shaking.”
I turned away, jaw clenched tight. “You should go to bed.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t.” My voice cracked, raw and low. “I won’t.”
“Then I’ll just sit here,” she said, and damn if she didn’t do exactly that.
Silence stretched out between us again. The clock ticked somewhere in the background. Her leg brushed against mine, and it was the smallest contact, but it hit like a spark.
I wanted to move. I wanted to tell her to stop, to go, to stay…hell, I didn’t even know.
Instead, I stood up abruptly. “I need to make a call. Go to bed.”
She didn’t argue this time. Just nodded and stood, brushing past me on her way down the hall. The scent of her followed, sweet and warm and too damn good for a man like me.
When the bedroom door closed, I let out a shaky breath and sat back down on the couch. My heart was still pounding, my body tight and uncooperative.
I stared at the dark window across from me, watching the reflection of the faint light under her door.
There were two wars goin’ on inside me now. One I could fight, and one I couldn’t.
And somehow, I already knew which one was gonna win.
GRACE
The events of the day weigh on me, and sleep doesn’t come easy. I lay on Hellsing’s bed, and breathe in. His sheets smell of cedar and his cologne, and I tell myself I’m fine, I’m safe, and I’m strong. My eyes stung with unshed tears and my body hummed. I listened for him in the apartment. The sounds of his footsteps, the couch creaking, the hiss of running water from the kitchen, and somewhere in the soft dark, my mind loosens and the ache in my chest stretches into something more peaceful and I slowly begin to drift.
I feel him before I see him. The air shifts and it feels warmer in the room, the scent of leather and rain falls around me. A shadow leans against the door frame, his wide shoulders taking over the space. My pulse begins to beat harder. I know that stance, the tilt of his head, the shoulder length curls, the way his presence.
“Hellsing,” I breathe, though my lips barely part.
“Grace,” he says with a low hum, each syllable rolling out of him was dark and filled with emotion.
I’m lying on the bed, thighs parted, the covers tangled at my knees, my shirt hitched high because some part of me wanted this, wanted him, long before I wanted to admit it. My handis between my thighs. My fingers playing at my core, a slow, measured rhythm, trying to soothe the pulse he put there hours ago just by looking at me in that way that spoke of trouble and something more forbidden.
Hellsing stepped through the shadows, the brim of his hat ghosting the top of his curls, a line of muscle rolling under the black tee that stretches across his chest. The lamplight from the hall throws a low gold edge on his jaw. He shuts the door with a nudge of his boot, sets the hat on the dresser, and locks me in with him.
Boot steps cross the floor. They’re slow and predatory as he takes his time coming closer. His fingers brush against the bedpost and his belt buckle glints as he watches my hand move. I feel the heat of his gaze through the shirt. His eyes on my breasts, and I reached for them over the shirt, teasing him as I squeezed them, biting down on my lip, trying to keep my whimpering to a minimum. I can feel the heat climb higher, the room getting smaller, closer, tighter.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, his voice low, like rough velvet.
“Wasn’t trying,” I whisper, and my palm stills because he’s here and because I want to be good for him, and also because I want to be bad for him, bad enough to break this tension between us.
He kneels at the edge of the mattress and slips his hands between my thighs, replacing my own. His touch is warm and rough, making me gasp and forcing me to writhe my hips. He doesn’t rush as he removes his fingers and his warm hands skim up my sides, tracing the faint lines of ink etched into my ribs, up to the knot of tension under my breastbone. The shirt slides higher, inch by inch, until the night air kisses my stomach and the underside of my breasts, and I arch without thinking, offering him everything he hasn’t asked for…yet.
