His fingers twitched on the softness. He didn’t need anyone to tell him he was cradling a breast. All straight men loved breasts, but Alexlovedbreasts. God, this was a gorgeous one. He could tell without even seeing it. Large, pillowy, with a long tight nipple jutting against the cotton fabric that sadly covered the mound. D, maybe even DD, he guessed.
If there was a breast in bed with him, Alex figured there was probably a woman to go along with it. The lure of being able to see her popped his eyes open.
He slammed them shut again when light stung his pupils. Very slowly, he inched them back open, trying to adjust them a little at a time.
Weak sunlight lit the room, creeping in from the curtained-off windows. Alex turned his head and caught his breath, the pain in his body receding. An angel indeed.
She had a face that he’d only seen in the Botticelli paintings an ex-girlfriend had dragged him to see at the Met once. Soft and round, the chin a sweet curve. Her lips were full and naturally pink, her skin a blemish-free expanse of ivory and roses. Her eyes were a startling shade of violet, tipped with long black lashes.
Wait, her eyes? Yes, they were open, staring back at him. They held that silent gaze for a while, neither of them speaking.
When the tension became too high for him, he swallowed his mouthful of cotton. “Dead?” he croaked.
“No. But if you don’t move your hand, you may be.”
His ears were too busy soaking in the rich cadence of her voice to comprehend her. She had a slight drawl that softened and dragged out her syllables and made him think of hot summer nights and cold sweet tea. When he did finally allow the words to sink in, he wanted to jump for joy and whimper with despair. No, he wasn’t dead. Why did he have to move his hand? His hand liked where it was. His hand was very happy.
However, he hadn’t been brought up to molest strange women, and since this wasn’t a very sexually permissive Heaven, he had to abide by the rules of polite society. With a great deal of effort, he released the piece of happiness in his grip and shifted his body.
Agony promptly pierced through his right side. Christ, he hadn’t felt like this since that time last year he’d been…shot. He’d been shot. His brow furrowed, but that caused even more streaks of pain to radiate through his body.
A soft hand slid under his neck, propping up his head. Something cold touched his lips, liquid trickling down his chin. It felt so good he opened his mouth automatically. After a second, he began to gulp, the icy water a relief to his dry and parched throat.
He must have drained the glass because the water stopped coming out, and he was gently lowered back to the pillow. The cool hand passed over his forehead and he turned his head toward it, despite the nagging pain it caused his head. The woman withdrew her hand and he almost cried out for her to return, as if he were a little boy in need of his mommy.
Unconsciousness tugged at his brain, but he fought it long enough to watch her walk away. Her long hair was as black as his own, but it swung in a braid all the way down to her hips, strands sneaking out as if they were too wild to be contained. The sun had risen; more light pierced the room. It surrounded her body in a glowing nimbus, and when she turned in profile, it slipped right through the cotton of her loose gown, highlighting her body.
Like a complete pussy, his breath caught in his throat. Christ, this was awoman. The palm that had been cradling her breast tingled. He wanted her back, only skin to skin so he could feel her nipple and the texture of her flesh. Her hips were wide, the thighs plump. He could see the curve of her belly and he wanted to nuzzle it, lick it, nip at it. Her ass would overflow his hands. He was so affected that despite his lack of general well-being, his cock twitched where it lay soft against his thigh. The slight response thrilled his woozy brain—it proved, more than anything, that he was alive.
“You’re so beautiful.” His words were a croak, but she must have heard because she looked over her shoulder, violet eyes wide and startled. Something clicked into his brain.
You are hers. Take care of her.
Yes, mine.
As he fell asleep, he couldn’t help but thank God he was alive, plus a little extra fervent gratitude.Lord, I’ll take another gunshot. Just don’t let this woman get away before I’m well.
3
Genevieve layher knitting on her lap, right over the barrel of her gun, and stretched. She relaxed back into the softness of her late mother’s favorite armchair and picked up the two needles again, though she had no real desire to work on the sweater. She just figured it was easier to keep her hands busy and occupied.
Thinking of her hands led to thinking of his hands. Or more specifically, where his hands had been yesterday.
She felt more than a little shame at how long she’d lain motionless as his hand had roved over her body before oh-so-spectacularly squeezing her breast. Logic dictated she should have moved away from the guy as soon as she was conscious. She blamed her punch-drunk state. It wasn’t like she’d instigated it or enjoyed it. After all, what did she know about him? That underneath all of his injuries, he was a devastatingly handsome man?
Genevieve snorted. Yup, that’s all she knew about him.
Certain her powers had returned, she’d given herself a headache yesterday staring at his sleeping body. A person’s aura wasn’t really as woo-woo as so-called psychics made it out to be. Everybody had them, a slight electromagnetic field surrounding the body. Calling it science made her feel less weird.
When Genevieve had been a child, she’d stared at every person she’d come into contact with, mesmerized by the shifting colors. By the time she’d reached ten or so, she’d managed to adjust her brain to where she could choose when and where she was able to view it.
It wasn’t like reading a person’s mind, but over the years with the help of her similarly afflicted mother, she’d learned to comprehend the layers of colors. Genevieve had always figured it was a kind of trade-off for making the women of her family so bizarre. Worried who to trust? Concerned about that neighbor with a pitchfork and stake? Here’s this handy-dandy color chart for the good guys!
The method had a scary accuracy at pinpointing basic personality and emotions. Also, since her particular skill lay in healing, she could tweak certain aspects of the aura to speed good health along. As she’d learned, tragically, she could also do the opposite.
Genevieve shook her head. Maybe that’s why she’d been given only part of her powers back. Perhaps she was deemed too dangerous by whatever cosmos or deity dealt with freaks like her.
In any case, not only did she not have any way of ascertaining Alex’s personality or intentions—except waiting for him to wake up and then trusting whatever he told her, which seemed like such a dangerous thing for someone who had issues to begin with—but she couldn’t even help his healing further along.
