Edge of Hunger (10 page)

You were right, there's some bloodthirsty monster living inside of me and another one tried to chew my head off.

Help me before I bleed out.

Why did my mother have to send you?

The words turned themselves around and around within the chaotic frenzy of pain and fury grinding him down, but in the end, he didn't say a goddamn thing.

Instead, the instant she opened the door, her golden hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, pale face pinched with worry, he was on her, against her. His mouth took full, aggressive possession of her own. His much larger body covering her front, hands gripping her arms, lifting her off the floor. All it'd taken was seeing her...scenting her, and his injuries and fatigue were forgotten, his body coming alive, revving into overdrive. There was no other word for it. Heart pumping. Adrenaline surging. Chest heaving.

She made a startled murmur of surprise in the back of her throat, the soft, sexy sound vibrating against his tongue, driving him wild. Ian answered it with a primitive growl, at the same time he pushed her into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He broke away only long enough to throw the lock, and then he was on her again, pushing her against the nearest wall and covering her with every part of him that he could. His cold hands lifted to cup the tender heat of her jaw, thumbs tilting up the dainty point of her chin as he captured her mouth in another long, breathtaking, eating kiss, tasting...feasting on every part of her, from the pansy-soft inner swell of that lush lower lip, to the sleek surface of her teeth, the kittenish stroke of her tongue.

Spearing his fingers into the silken warmth of her hair, he pulled it free of the elastic band, thinking she was too good to be true, to be real. She tasted like sunshine, like something that he needed to live, to counter the seething darkness inside of him, softening that bloodthirsty rage with warm, gentle pulses of light. Ian kissed her harder...deeper. Wanting to just crawl inside of her. His desperation--this gnashing, maddening need--knew no bounds, no logic, no restraint, his body suddenly searing with fever, skin burning so violently, he half expected to see steam rising from the cold chill of his rain-soaked clothes.

He'd gotten the hazy impression of a long, sleep-rumpled shirt before he'd shot the bolt, her legs slim and bare beneath the frayed hem. With biting urgency, Ian slipped his hands down her sides, over the gentle outer swells of her breasts, her rib cage, over the feminine flare of her hips, until he was grazing the trembling, baby-soft length of her thighs. Slipping beneath the hem of the shirt, he worked his way back up, taking the threadbare cotton with him, his mouth keeping hers too busy to protest, not that she would have. No, she was kissing him back now, her small, sweet mouth moving under his, trembling and delicious, like something warm and wild and decadent, meant to be devoured with the first taste, then savored for hours on end. Delicate, slender fingers bit into his shoulders, her body vibrating against his with a high, sexual frequency of need that damn near matched his own.

With another feral growl rumbling deep in his chest, Ian shifted his right hand, stroking her stomach with the backs of his fingers, and his breath caught at what he found there. Her soft, supple skin was slightly sticky to the touch, and he knew the cause. The source. Cursing under his breath, he broke away from the kiss, reality slowly intruding through the crazed fog of lust as he wondered what other souvenirs she carried from their dream. With his fingers on her chin, he tilted her head to the side, staring at two fading puncture wounds--as well as two fresh ones, lower on her throat, near her shoulder.

Taking a step back, Ian ran his gaze over her body, twisting the now-damp shirt around his fist and wrenching it to the side, exposing her hips, lower belly and thighs, as well as a minuscule pair of pink cotton panties. Faint smudges marked one hip, and he knew they had formed there when he'd gripped her too tightly. He stroked the developing bruises with his fingertip, making her breath draw in on a sharp gasp. "Did I do this?" he rasped, his voice thick with lust and a surprising thread of regret.

She blinked up at him, looking as if she might cry, the shadows under her eyes only accentuating the impact of that softly glowing gaze. "It's okay, Ian. They don't hurt." She gave a dainty sniff, swiping her fingers under her eyes, long lashes glistening with tears.

"When I woke up, I was so terrified that something had happened to you. I wanted to go to your apartment again, but after the dream, I didn't know if that thing was out there."

"It's okay," he rasped, the words coming out shivery and raw as he skimmed his fingertips across the gentle, feminine swell of her belly, unable to believe how soft her skin was, how smooth. Hardening his jaw, he stroked one fingertip along the top edge of the panties, and she stopped breathing, knees shaking, barely holding her up. Unable to stop himself, Ian slipped his fingers just under the elastic. "I'm here, Molls. I'm not going anywhere."

She moaned, tilting back her head, her eyes hazy and soft and heavy in the ethereal glow of light spilling from a bedside lamp on the other side of the small room, the slashing of the rain against the window providing a steady backdrop of sound to the harsh, provocative rhythm of their breath. She looked like some kind of wood-nymph stolen from the forest, curls wild around her fey face; mouth red, swollen, impossibly beautiful; cheeks flushed with a wild, vivid bloom of color. He wanted her so badly it was a physical ache, more painful than the stinging wounds striping his flesh.

"If you want me to stop, you'd better tell me now." The words scraped past his lips, graveled and rough with hunger.

Her lashes lowered, and Ian held his breath, his lungs burning, waiting for her answer.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispered, rolling her lips together. "But I...I can't do this, Ian."

He forced himself to step back, putting distance between them, until the backs of his knees hit one of the beds and forced him to sit down. As if she didn't realize the danger--the temptation she posed--she followed after him, drawing closer until she stood between his legs, her fingers in the damp strands of his hair. Ian placed his hands low on her hips, grasping handfuls of the shirt, and pressed his forehead against the cushion of her breasts. He loved how soft she was. Slender, but not bony. Just endlessly female and tender. Her mouthwatering scent filled his head, making him clench his teeth against the visceral urge to lift the threadbare T-shirt and put his nose to her pale curls, breathing in headier gulps of that warm, womanly fragrance that did crazy things to him.

Looking up at her face, capturing that burnished gaze and claiming it, he couldn't help but ask, "Are you sure about that?"

Her mouth twisted with regret, at the same time her skin flushed brighter with desire. "I have a rule about...That is, I don't get involved with men who I meet this way."

There was a story there--one he didn't want to hear. Not now, when he was too on edge. He knew he could bend her to his will, use her desire against her, and change her mind. But she'd hate him for manipulating her when it was over--and he was already working with a big enough deficit when it came to the personality department. God only knew he didn't need to dig himself any deeper.

Still, he wasn't giving in without an argument. "You didn't have a problem with me touching you before," he rasped, holding her with his stare.

Her cheeks burned brighter, lashes shielding her gaze. "That was a dream," she whispered. "It wasn't real."

Ian eyed her throat with a meaningful glance and lifted his brows. But he didn't argue.

Reason, though slow, was finally returning, and with it an uneasiness, a mounting fear, that he couldn't ignore.

Face it, Buchanan. You pose as much of a threat to her safety as that murdering-asshole-monster, his conscience snarled, pissing him off.

His sudden anger must have bled into his expression, because she shivered, her gaze sliding away, shifting lower, and she gasped. One slender hand moved to his arm, hovering over the claw marks slashing his left bicep, the angry slices mottled with drying blood. "Those need to be cleaned," she whispered.

Ian rolled his shoulder, trying to dispel the sexual hunger still riding him hard. He cleared his throat, and there was a gruff, frustrated edge to his voice as he said, "They're not serious.

Bled a lot at first, but they're about done."

Her gaze lifted back to his. "You need to tell me what happened, but right now it's more important that we get you cleaned up. The hot water doesn't last long in this place, but there should be enough for you to take a shower. Then I'll get something on these cuts."

"I'd argue about you managing me," he replied in a low rumble, the corner of his mouth twitching with a reluctant grin, his hands still clutching her hips, "but I'm too tired."

Her slender brows lifted in challenge. "Good, because I'd win."

Ian studied her for a moment, recognizing an inner core of steely, stubborn strength that he wouldn't have expected from her, though he supposed he should have, considering she'd stood up to him from the moment they'd met--even faced him down after that first dream.

And she was still here--proof that he hadn't been able to intimidate her into leaving town.

Shaking his head, his grin slowly shifted into a wry smile. "Yeah, I have a feeling you would.

So I'll be a good boy and do as I'm told."

Reaching for the hem of his tattered shirt, he winced when the cuts on his side pulled with the movement. "Here," she said, brushing his hands aside and taking over the task, "let me help you get this off."

"Thanks," he groaned, his voice muffled beneath the wet shirt that covered his face.

The moment it cleared his head, he saw that her eyes had darkened with concern, that lambent gaze focused on the claw marks cutting across his ribs. "God, it really got you."

Ian snorted, looking forward to that hot shower, needing it to relieve the stiffness in his muscles that he suspected came more from the fight he'd put up against the darkness...against the beast inside of him, than the one he'd had with the Casus. "I was lucky it didn't take my head off."

Concern sharpened her gaze. "That bad?"

"Yeah," he muttered, the exhaustion crowding in on him again, weighing heavily around his shoulders like a yoke. "And it's still out there somewhere, so I don't suppose I have to tell you not to go near the window or door without me."

"I know. And if I hear anything, I'll knock on the bathroom door and let you know." Stepping back, she gestured toward the small kitchenette attached through a narrow archway. "I have a first-aid kit that I always carry when I travel. I'll set it up in there while you shower."

"Thanks." He reached out to grab her wrist when she started to move away, and before he could stop himself, Ian heard himself saying, "Which one did you like better?"

She shook her head, silken curls grazing her shoulder. "What do you mean? Which one what?"

"The dreams?" he pressed in a low, husky voice. "Which one was better?"

MOLLY TOOK A QUICK, inaudible breath, and his gaze slipped from her eyes, to the base of her throat, where her pulse fluttered to a wild, chaotic beat. "What kind of question is that?" she whispered.

"Do you always answer questions with a question?" he asked, arching one ink-black brow.

She tore her gaze away from his, focusing on a distant point against the faded, pale green walls. "Neither one was particularly likable."

"Ouch." With a gruff chuckle, Ian rubbed at his chest with his free hand, acting as if he'd been wounded. "This night's proving hell on my ego."

Her gaze shot back to his, her tone sharp with frustration as she said, "You know I don't mean it like that. It has nothing to do with you. With what happened between us. I was just too frightened in both to--"

"Bullshit," he suddenly grated, narrowing his eyes, and for the first time since she'd opened the door to him, she saw that dark vein of bitterness that was so much a part of him rise to the surface. "Maybe in the second one, yeah, after we ended up in the woods. But you weren't afraid in the beginning, when you were under me, in that room. And you weren't afraid in the first dream, either."

"How do you know?" she demanded, the heat in her face so intense, she knew she probably looked sunburned.

Molly didn't think he was going to answer, until he hardened his jaw and gave her two simple, husky words. "The smiles."

Her voice was stuck in her throat as he let go of her wrist and rolled to his feet. "You smiled at me. Both times." A gritty edge roughened his words--one that sounded suspiciously like...she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Not embarrassment. She doubted anything could ever embarrass a man like Ian Buchanan. No, it was more vulnerable than that...almost breakable.

She watched him shake it off, his cocky arrogance rising back to the fore. His mouth curled with a boyish grin, a devilish dimple flashing in his shadowed cheek that made him look younger. Less harsh. "At least that second dream answered one question."

There was a soft catch to her voice as she said, "I'm almost afraid to ask."

He reached out, tweaking the end of her nose in a playful gesture completely at odds with the hard-edged hunger still lingering in those raging blue eyes. "I definitely didn't imagine how good you felt the first time, Molls. Because this time, you felt even better."

Molly swallowed, unsure of how to respond. Thank you? My pleasure? How can you be the same man who ordered me to stay the hell away from you not twenty-four hours ago? Her indecision didn't matter, because in the end, all she could manage was a breathless, red-faced silence.

Cupping her jaw, he stroked his thumb against the corner of her mouth once...twice, his gaze focused with sharp intensity on her trembling lips, their surface extra sensitive after that incendiary kiss. "I'll go grab that shower now."

Swallowing the shaky feeling in her throat, Molly watched his backside as he walked away, thinking it was entirely unfair for a guy to look that gorgeous from the front and back. It was the first time she'd ever seen him from behind when he wasn't shrouded in shadows, and she couldn't help but admire the view. The wet jeans were streaked with dirt, but they still hugged his muscled backside to perfection, as well as his powerful thighs.