Page 17

How was I going to extract myself from his limbs before he woke up, without waking him up?

Oh my stars, his eyelashes were pretty. I knew he loved purple. The hair, the clothes, always purple and black, but I’d never seen him so close before, and even his black eyelashes had sparkles of purple in them. The color of storms. His lips, slightly parted, had a plump, glittery sheen, making them perfectly bitable. He really was beautiful beneath his endless act to ensure everyone looked at him. He didn’t need to be loud, or brash, or any of those things. He was even more amazing when silent.

He didn’t have to impress me. I knew his worth, and it had nothing to do with sex, or how pretty or flamboyant he was.

His eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings, and then his eyes opened and fixed on me. Dark pupils narrowed, then swelled. His eyes were multifaceted, like black diamonds surrounded by amethyst, if there were such things. I sucked in a little gasp. He was . . . breathtaking.

“Fuck, this is awkward,” he said.

It was, and it wasn’t. Half of me screamed to get away, but the other half really, really liked being wrapped in his limbs, which meant I was stuck between a rock and a very hard place.

Time ticked by. He stared into me, and I stared into him, falling into his hypnotic eyes, his heat throbbing through me in waves. Or maybe that was my heat? Did it matter?

Maybe, just this once . . . Just a little fooling around? He had to know how I wanted him—could probably taste the pheromones, or whatever he called it. And I did want him. I wanted to pull him closer, to taste those soft lips, to feel him brush against me, hear him moan my name.

“It’s killing me not to go down on you, Adam,” he said, his voice deep and rough, as though dragged over gravel. “Literally killing me.”

“Oh-nope, no.” I rolled over—or tried to—but his arm was heavy, and as I levered it off, and tried to escape the bed, his tail clung to my thigh. It was unraveling, but painfully slowly.

He let me up, then his tail vanished, and I staggered from the bed.

At least I had my pants on, and a T-shirt from the night before. I dropped my hands to cover my very obvious and eager dick.

His gaze dropped too.

Zee smiled, and stretched like a lazy cat in the sun. The sheet covering him outlined a gorgeous body made of firm muscle. His tail writhed under there, like a snake maneuvering across a forest floor, and of course, the bulge at his crotch made it clear he was hard. And big.

I tore my gaze away. Mercy, he was big. I supposed that was part of the whole porn talent.

I’d never watched his movies—didn’t want to see him like that, knowing it would be all kinds of torturous—so I wasn’t as familiar with his anatomy as his millions of fans were.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Kitten,” he purred. The bed creaked.

I peeked and caught a glimpse of his smooth back, and the wings, rising from over his shoulder blades. Powerful muscles rippled, and a startling image of me licking up his back, between those wings, dried my mouth and made my insides flutter. My morning wood came roaring back.

“I know you don’t want this,” he said, “despite your dick saying otherwise.”

He stood, and I briefly caught a glimpse of his gorgeous ass before he flicked a hand in the air, manifesting a fluffy white dressing gown. He tugged it on, covering up the x-rated display, cinched the belt tight and headed for the door, tail trailing out behind him.

But as he’d thrown on that gown, I’d seen the friction marks around his wrists and the bruises at his neck. I hadn’t seen them last night, with the lights off, but they were apparent now. Somebody had held him down. Somebody had hurt him.

“Uh . . . don’t go.” I didn’t want him thinking he had to leave. That wasn’t my intention at all. “I mean, you don’t have to go. Stay. I’ll just . . . I’ll get dressed.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“If anyone sees you leaving my room wearing just that gown, rumors will fly.”

I hurried to the bathroom, hoping he waited, and flicked on the shower. A few minutes’ blast of cold water cooled me off, and by the time I emerged, Zee was dressed in a leather and lace combination, with a trailing tailcoat and frilly cuffs. He sat sideways in my desk chair, boots kicked up on the table top, crossed at the ankle, as though he’d been poured in place.

No fluffy white gown. No naked ass. We were back to being business partners. As it should be.

“Sorry,” he said, eyes downcast. “I haven’t done that in a while.” He peered up through his lashes like a scolded dog. “I sleepwalk sometimes. Wasn’t intentional.”

“It’s fine. Nothing happened.” I parked my ass against the opposite edge of my desk and glanced at the marks on his neck. “Are you alright?”

“What? Oh this?” With a soft, hollow chuckle, he flicked his purple-painted nails, scattered a basic glamor over himself, and the bruises vanished. How many times had he covered the bruises in his past? When I’d found him six months ago, everything had been on display. Every cut, every bruise. He’d been a mess.

His eyes flashed a warning for me not to ask.