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Summer in Ergastulum never brings anything good. Tempers run short. People get bold. Violence hits its peak.
It's good business, though, so Nicolas can't complain. The work gets him out of the office and on the streets where he can actually do something.
Like punch this asshole who's harassing Granny Joel. Again.
He feels the other guy's nose give under his fist. Nicolas grins. This asshole's got a hard face. He actually felt that for once. Maybe it'll leave a bruise on his hands. Won't that be something? Not that it makes a difference either way.
The guy crumples, clutching his nose. Maybe he's groaning, maybe he's not. Nicolas doesn't care. He flicks the blood off his knuckles and slams a foot into the guy's kidneys.
Nicolas looks up at Worick, whose elbows are resting on the storefront's counter. He looks awfully comfortable there, chatting with Granny Joel. Not gonna help, is he? Well. What else is new?
As if hearing his thoughts, Worick gives him a wide smile and thumbs up.
Nicolas rolls his eyes and goes for the other guy who's been fucking with Granny Joel. He doesn't share the same bravado as his friend with the broken nose. This guy puts his hands up, begging him to stop probably, saying something but fuck if Nicolas can figure out what it is. Panic usually makes people move their lips too fast for him to read. This one's no different.
When it becomes apparent Nicolas has no intention of stopping, the guy breaks and runs. Of course he does. They always run.
He bolts after him. Catches him in only a few strides. Grabs him by the back of his shirt—
Nicolas must have grabbed too hard or maybe the guy was running just that fast—the shirt rips in his fist. The guy doesn't waste a second. He stumbles, regains his footing, and keeps going.
Nicolas tosses the torn fabric over his shoulder and tries again. He's got to give it to the guy. He's determined and persistent.
Won't make a difference, though.
The guy's shoulders are thin and bony under his grip. They speak of hunger and desperation. It's a story told by many other shoulders in Ergastulum, so Nicolas doesn't feel pity. If Worick and him can make it without wrecking people's shops, others can too.
Nicolas hurls the guy to the ground. Grabs him by the front of his shirt this time. Even better, it doesn't tear in his grasp. He punches him in the face. Once. Twice. Five times. Ten.
He loses count. Idly, he knows he should stop. He's turning the other guy's face into meat, and it's long past the point of teaching him a lesson. But the contact of his fist against this guy's face feels good. Not the punching itself. Nicolas does that all the time. It's the feel of his skin against—
A hand grabs his wrist and yanks him back. Hard.
Nicolas whirls, snarling, but it's Worick, his contract holder, who's getting in his space and shouting at him. And his partner's definitely shouting. No mistaking it, not with those angry lines marring his face or the hard glint in his eyes. "What are you doing? That's enough!"
Nicolas breathes out and drops the guy. For a second, Nicolas thinks the guy's dead but then he spies the shoulders slowly rise and fall. What's Worick so angry about then? It's not like he killed the guy, and it's not like they haven't done that before either. Not like he hasn't done that before. On Worick's orders, no less.
Then he turns and sees Granny Joel, whose face is white. Who's watching him with cautious, guarded eyes.
Nicolas frowns. What's that look for? She's seen worse. Some of it done by him. Some of it done by other people. She's lived a long time in Ergastulum. That's plenty of time to see things.
Then he looks down.
Huh. When did his dress shirt get covered in blood?
Nicolas raises his left fist. If the guy's face has been reduced to meat, his knuckles aren't much better. They might even be worse. Okay, so maybe he should have stopped hitting sooner.
Worick rolls the guy over with his foot. Unconscious but definitely still alive. His face is worse than meat, to be honest. Worick scowls and gestures at the prone form. "What is this about?" he asks Nicolas.
He shrugs.
His nonchalance makes Worick narrows his eyes. "Did you overdose?"
Nicolas shakes his head. The skepticism on his partner's face doesn't surprise him—Nicolas is well aware of his own habits—but the condition of his own knuckles does. He rubs the injury, which only smears more blood over his hands. It doesn't feel good. Pain never does. But it does remind him that he's alive.
The pain is sharper today for some reason, though. More than it should be for something so minor. The second guy's face wasn't even remotely as hard as the first's.
Doubt flickers for the first time, with uneasiness close on its heels. He looks at the unconscious guy and then back at the one with the broken nose. They hadn't even put up a real fight. Why had he liked hitting them so much? Not much thrill in fighting people who won't fight back.
Worick sighs. "I'll take care of this. Go home. Get Ally to fix you up."
Nicolas prefers otherwise. The woman gets jumpy around him and she makes him… Uncomfortable isn't the right word. Uneasy is closer. She reminds him of past mistakes, ones he'd rather not repeat again.
He glances down at the blood streaking across his knuckles. Sweat trickles down his brow. Why's he sweating so much? It's hot, sure, but the fight didn't even wind him.
He wipes the sweat away in irritation. Fine. Home it is. Maybe he'll be lucky and the woman will be busy. Maybe he can avoid her entirely and fix up his hands himself.
Right.
* * *
His hopes—small though they may be—fall to pieces when he walks through the door. The woman sits at the desk, upbeat and remarkably alert as she takes a phone call. Blue eyes thoughtful, she listens to the caller while taking notes on a nearby pad. Glad to know someone's weathering this sweltering heat well.
Her eyes drift in his direction and he spies that flicker, that brief and all-too-familiar moment of uncertainty, before it vanishes. After a second, she waves at him and offers a small smile.
Nicolas grunts in response, making a point not to look directly at her. It's pointless, though. He's aware of her. Too aware. It doesn't make sense. She's on the other side of the room and yeah, while his instincts are good, this is beyond that. It's like they're sensitized.
The floorboards shift beneath his feet, warning him of her approach. Damn. He'd lingered too long. He turns before she can get too close.
It works.
She stops a few feet from him, clearly unsure. He's got to admire that about her. She knows how to give people space. Then again, maybe she of all people understands why that can be so important. She rips the top sheet from the notepad and holds it out to him.
Nicolas takes it and reads the message. At least her handwriting's better than her signing. Another job. It'll have to wait. It requires both him and Worick, and his partner is occupied for the evening.
He tucks the message into his pocket with a nod. He'll discuss it with Worick tomorrow.
The hand grasping his sleeve catches him off-guard. So much for giving him space.
Nicolas stares at her as she lifts his hand to examine the knuckles. The space between her brow creases as she says, "Let me clean this up."
He tears his gaze away from her mouth, from the way her full lips shape those words. Shit. She's getting too comfortable with him if she can touch him like that without any hesitation. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want that at all.
Even worse, her touch feels good.
As heat surges inexplicably through his body, Nicolas yanks his arm free and spins on his heel.
He can feel her following him as he walks down the stairs. She's standing too close. What the hell. What happened to the personal space she was once so respectful of? But he can't look back to warn her away. He doesn't dare.
Doubt rears its head again. This feeling is familiar. Too familiar.
No. Nicolas clenches his fists, feeling the stretch of ruined skin over wounded knuckles. That can't be right.
But he should go to Theo's anyway.
Just in case.
* * *
Theo takes one look at him and shakes his head. Not taking his eyes off Nicolas, he says something over his shoulder to Nina. Confusion wrinkles her brow as her eyes dart between the two men. Nicolas can't say he blames her. He doesn't understand why the doctor's sending her away. Theo's never had any reason to worry about Nina's safety in his presence, and she's definitely seen him in worse shape.
Helped patch him back up together again, too.
She doesn't immediately obey, her hands moving in neat and tidy signs, "Are you okay?"
Nicolas tips his chin.
Nina frowns and points to his left hand.
Impatient with his lingering assistant, Theo intervenes and hustles her out of the clinic before he can answer. Nicolas watches the girl walk up the street, wondering briefly where the doctor had sent her. Wondering if it'll be safe. Unpredictable things can happen during Ergastulum's summers.
Theo pulls him inside. He moves around the clinic, collecting alcohol and bandages. His movements are big and jerky. What's got him so edgy? Eventually, Theo whirls to face him, his expression stony. "Great timing as usual. You come after I've given away the last of the tranquilizers."
Is that what he's so angry about? Nicolas signs, "I don't need a refill."
"Not those pills."
Nicolas stares blankly.
Theo grits his teeth. "Has it been so long since you last had one?" Abandoning the first aid supplies, he lights a cigarette. "Wonderful. Just what we need."
Nicolas shakes his head. He's used to Theo's sharp comments, but he really has no idea what the other man is going on about. Or rather, he's not ready to acknowledge what the doctor's implying. It can't be.
It can't.
Theo's eyes narrow. "Still don't know? Really?" He gestures him to follow.
Nicolas shadows the doctor to a mirror and at the other man's insistence, peers at his reflection.
Eyes dilated. Cheeks flushed. Lips chapped and dry.
Fuck, how long has he looked like that? Since taking care of the assholes bothering Granny Joel? Or even before that? No wonder Nina asked him if he was okay.
Theo blows smoke into his face. "Ready to stop playing stupid?" He rubs his nose, where the eyeglasses normally rest. "You can't fool me. Your thoughts normally speed up in this kind of situation. You're breathing fast." Without warning, Theo presses two fingers against the side of Nicolas's neck. "Your pulse is elevated too."
Theo's bare fingers on his skin send another wave of heat through his body, unexpected and unwelcome. For a second, Nicolas is alarmed at his body's reaction. It's not the burst of adrenaline that comes with the promise of a fight. It's lazier than that. Heavier—
Shit.
Heat.
Heat.
As he recoils, Theo smiles grimly. "Remember now, do you?" He sucks on his cigarette. Nicolas tries not to look at the lips curled around the joint or the hollow formed by his cheeks. He's never thought of Theo that way and he's not about to start now, his condition notwithstanding. "You're the ninth Twilight today. Five yesterday. Who knows how many tomorrow? If this trend continues, we're going to have a city-wide orgy."
Nicolas thinks back to the fight in front of Granny Joel's shop. Too much aggression. Too much energy. All the signs were there, and he'd missed them.
Or ignored them.
"It must be this heatwave. Makes Normals restless. Makes you Twilights horny."
He snarls at the doctor.
Theo adjusts his glasses with his middle finger. "Don't start with me. I wasn't expecting this, so I didn't prepare enough pills. Go to the Paulklee Guild. Gina probably—"
The thought of asking help from that woman makes Nicolas bare his teeth even more.
"—or not." Theo rolls his eyes. "Is the gigolo around? Hasn't he helped you out with this problem in the past?"
Not by choice and not because he wanted to. It was just another item to add to the list of unfortunate things binding them together. Most of them Nicolas remembers and keeps tally.
This one, though, he'd rather bury and forget.
In fact, Worick hasn't had to help with this problem since before Veronica stayed with them. And there hadn't been any need after. Nicolas has never been plagued with this problem the way other Twilights are. All things considered, the rare intermittence of his attacks are a blessing.
Guess that comes with a price, too.
"Worick's got a job this afternoon," Nicolas signs.
"One that'll last until tomorrow morning," Theo says shrewdly. "Even better timing." He rubs his brow. "If you won't get help from Gina, then the only suggestion I have is to hole up in that office and suffer through it like the masochist you are."
Nicolas narrows his eyes. The office? No. The woman is there.
Theo tilts his head at his reaction. "You don't want to go back. Why?"
Nicolas turns away from his own reflection. It doesn't save him from Theo, though. He watches the other man's lips move. "You're afraid of the woman, aren't you? That prostitute staying with you."
Nicolas grits his teeth. It's annoying how everyone still calls her the prostitute. She doesn't take customers anymore, for the most part. And even those slips are becoming rarer and rarer as the TB works its way out of her system. He signs, hand jerky and stiff. "I'm not afraid of her." She can't do anything to him. She doesn't even know how to fight.
"Fine," Theo replies. "You're afraid for her. What you'll do to her. How chivalrous." He nods at Nicolas. "Why don't you explain it to her? She should learn about Twilights, since she lives here and all."
Nicolas isn't going to explain anything to the woman. He doesn't need to. There's no reason for her to know.
None.
* * *
The plan to ignore the woman works for two entire days. Forty-eight hours of concern on her part. Forty-eight hours of irritation on his. Most of that irritation's not even her fault. It's his. The problem's mostly that he can't cool off anymore. He's in a perpetual state of sweat, like he's got a low-grade fever, and it's pissing him the fuck off.
Funny thing—his pretending the woman doesn't exist bothers Worick more than it does her. Why does his partner want him to like her so much? He's the one who wants her. Who cares if Nicolas likes her or not? What difference does it make?
He and Worick did this song and dance once before. Look how that turned out. Nicolas doesn't care to repeat the experience.
"What's the matter with you?" Worick asks him repeatedly. Nicolas waves him off each and every time. Worick's not satisfied with his lack of answers, but when is he?
Nicolas wonders when he'll figure it out. Wonders what he'll do when he does. Ask the woman to leave? Or ask him?
To make matters worse, it's getting harder to ignore the woman. It's like she's everywhere he is, except as far as Nicolas can tell, she doesn't do anything different. She takes messages. Cooks them dinner. Runs a package to the clinic one time because Nicolas doesn't want to see Theo and deal with his I told you so.
So why are his eyes drawn to her? They trace the way her hair falls over her shoulders. They linger on the curve of her spine when she looks out the window at the sky.
They focus on her fingers curling around the telephone.
Why is he so fixated on her? She's not even his type. Her body's all soft curves, nothing like the lean angles he prefers. She caters to Worick's tastes, through and through.
It must be her hands—those gentle hands with those long, graceful fingers that grasp lightly on his shirt sleeve.
On the third day, during dinner, Nicolas becomes aware of an uncomfortable silence filling the room. He snaps to attention. Shit. His mind drifted again.
Then, he realizes he'd been staring at the woman's hands. At the way one holds her fork. At the way the other tucks her hair behind her ear.
Damn. He's definitely fixated.
Worick stares at him intently. There's some concern in his eyes but it's overshadowed by wariness. Thoughtfulness. Is he finally putting the pieces together?
A flash of shame runs through Nicolas. Despite it being for the best, he doesn't really want his partner to know. He knows Worick. His contract holder will feel like it's his responsibility to help him—because who else will?—but his skin crawls at the idea of his Worick touching him.
His gaze darts to the woman.
She's frozen in mid-action, the fork raised to her mouth, her lips just touching the coiled noodles. Though wide and surprised, her eyes are filled with awareness.
Nicolas sets his jaw grimly. Unlike his partner, she doesn't need to put anything together.
She already knows.
* * *
The next afternoon, she appears next to him as he does his afternoon workout. He pauses mid-pull up and hangs there, looking at her.
"You need to rest," she tells him, eyes determined and lips set. She doesn't even try to sign. Then again, she can't. She holds a battered notebook in her hands, one that he hasn't seen in a long time.
It's the notebook Worick keeps to store information about Twilights.
Shit. Not only does she know, she did research. Nicolas didn't even realize she knew about the book. He only ever sees her with the sign language manual.
When he doesn't reply, she opens the notebook and flips toward the back. She points to notes scribbled in Worick's messy scrawl. No cut out photos or clipped articles here. All written observations instead.
She points to the words as she recites them. Nicolas doesn't look at the book or at her mouth. He already knows what they say.
Restless. Aggressive. Increased hunger and thirst.
Nicolas drops from the bar and makes to step around her. She blocks him. "That's the third time you've worked out today," she continues. "It's too much, even for you."
He signs, "We haven't had any jobs for the past couple days." The one she'd taken a message for hadn't even lasted an hour. Barely any time for him to work up a sweat.
The woman then speaks the words he'd been hoping she never would: "You're in heat."
His face tightens. Why she's talking to him about this rather than Worick, he'll never know. He expects a confrontation from his partner, not their secretary. Throat tight, Nicolas moves past her, too fast for her to block or get in the way.
Water. He needs water. Now.
As he rummages through the refrigerator for an unopened Perrier, she touches his shoulder. His muscles tense. He can almost feel the way she holds her breath, waiting to see if he'll brush her off. He wants to. Oh, does he want to.
But he doesn't. His body won't let him.
Shit. He'd made the wrong decision. He should have told Worick. Let his partner help him, like Theo suggested. They would have both hated it, but Nicolas would have gotten over it. He wouldn't be dealing with this situation now.
Her nails dig into his shoulder.
Nicolas whirls and grabs her wrist. Crushes the bones in his grip. "Don't touch me," he says aloud, throat straining with each syllable.
She winces—whether at his words or his grasp, he doesn't know. But she doesn't pull away. Instead she wraps her free hand over his and exhales slowly. He sees it in the rise of her shoulders, the slow drop. The way her features settle into a mask of perfect tranquility.
Nicolas tenses. She can't be serious.
The tip of her tongue darts out and wets her lips. Nicolas hates himself a little that he follows the movement with his eyes.
"I—" she begins. "I can help…?"
He's not even sure it's a question. He guesses though, judging by the slight tremor in her hands. Does she know what she's saying? She hasn't even fucked Worick yet, despite all his partner's half-assed attempts to get her in bed. Why in the world would she offer him that?
He shakes his head sharply and yanks his hand away. Even as she tries to touch him again, he keeps retreating. He can't. He won't. Not again.
Nicolas stalks into the bathroom, stripping off his shirt on the way. He's hot, he's sweaty, and the way the shirt clings to his back is irritating as hell. Too bad the agitation doesn't get any better. Not when the sticky air makes it even harder for him to breathe. Not when the water he's splashing onto his face doesn't cool him down any.
He grits his teeth. Maybe he should go back to the refrigerator and stick his head inside.
And to top it all off, the woman follows him into the bathroom, her presence rubbing against his senses like a pair of cheap pants. Of course she does. Woman never knows when to leave things alone.
Nicolas raises his head and meets her eyes in the mirror. He expects her to flinch, to look away.
She does none of those things. Instead, she places both hands on his shoulders.
Muscles bunching under her touch, he exhales sharply, bowing his head. Dammit. He reaches back, twisting, and pulls her until she's pressed against the sink. Bracing his arms on either side of her, Nicolas presses into her space. Fine. They'll play this game instead. She'll run.
They always run.
She goes as still as a statue. Well, her body does anyway. In the meantime, her gaze roams over him. His stiff face. His scarred body. Not once does she show any sign of fear. When did that happen? When did she stop being scared of him? That's no good.
All right then.
He grasps one of her hands and guides it to his groin. To his hard dick.
He expects her to recoil. For her courage to falter in the face of the reality. She knows what's wrong with him, but this removes it from theory.
But instead of reacting like he expected, she takes another breath and nods, more to herself than to him. "Okay," she says. "Okay." Her free hand signs. "We can do that."
Confusion fills him. What? He lets go of her hand.
It doesn't move. Not away from him anyway. Without any hesitation, her fingers splay to cup him. Oh shit. The shock of that singular action makes him aware of how hot he is. Of how much his body aches.
Of just how much he wants relief.
Worse yet, he can smell her. A fresh scent that doesn't make sense in this humidity. This kind of weather leaves everyone sticky, smelling faintly of sweat at the very least. The fact that he can only detect a light musk from her if he inhales deeply is strange.
Though what's even stranger is that he's smelling her like this is a normal thing to do.
And that she's letting him.
He leans into her touch for one agonizing moment before realizing his mistake. Jerking back, he moves away.
Except the woman doesn't let him. She shadows him, her hand pressed against the front of his pants, until his back hits the wall opposite the sink. Nicolas wants to laugh. Is this an advantage of being a former hooker? He can't believe his erection doesn't even faze her. The moment he thinks this, a slight tremor runs through her, making him pause.
No. No, that's not right. Nicolas zeroes in on her expression. She chews on her bottom lip, uncertainty peeking out from those bright blue eyes. Funny time to be unsure when she's groping his dick like this.
She lifts her other hand. Her fingers brush over his forehead. It's barely a touch, to be honest. More like the graze of a butterfly's wings.
It becomes even harder for him to breathe. He holds himself still, not daring to relax his control one bit. He doesn't dare. But he needs to push away her hands, to push her away, to just get away from her.
Before—
"You're burning up," she says, her soft lips forming the words with excruciating precision. Her fingers push back a wet clump of hair sticking to his face.
Dammit.
Nicolas surges forward.
She staggers under his weight, her arms lifting up to catch him around his ribs. They stumble against the sink again. He feels her breasts push against his chest as she gasps at the impact. "Don't...move," he says, each word painful as they drag up his tight throat. "I won't do anything." Nicolas presses his nose against her neck, inhaling deeply. That clean smell washes over him, and he feels himself ease back from the edge.
The vein in her throat flutters wildly, the only sign of her nerves. Push me away, he urges her silently even as he rubs his face against it. Push me away now.
It's safer for her. And for him.
But the woman doesn't. That kindness is going to be the death of her one day.
She turns her head. Her body shifts and her hand strokes down his back, from the knob where his neck meets his spine to the base right above his ass. Despite the thready vein pulsing beneath his nose, her movements are sure and calm. He groans. This can't be something she learned as a hooker.
After a while—or not long enough—she stops. Without thinking, Nicolas tries to make her keep going, his stupid Twilight body acting on its own. He shifts his back under her hands, but she doesn't take the hint or just ignores it. After a second, he realizes she's moved slightly away and is looking down. He follows her gaze and wants to snarl. He's been rutting his fucking dick against her like a fucking dog in heat.
She touches his face, bringing his attention back to her. "It's all right."
Except it's not. It's really not.
Unable to bear this kindness, he pushes his face into her palm. The smell here is different—a mix of her fresh scent and his heavier musk. Without a second thought, he sucks her thumb into his mouth. One by one, he takes her fingers between his lips, teeth slightly scraping the skin each and every time. A warning. A threat. And maybe a promise.
Nicolas realizes what he's doing when he finds himself licking between her thumb and finger, but the damage is already done. Shock stiffens her body, and she stands there like a wooden doll.
Ah, so he finally hit on something that spooked her.
Nicolas lets go of her hand and carefully steps back, giving her more than enough room to escape. When she doesn't move, he signs, "You need to go."
Her lips curve into a small, helpless smile. "You need help."
Not breaking her gaze, he shakes his head. She doesn't know what helping him means in this case. She doesn't understand what it'll mean for both of them. She can't. If she did, she'd be running away from him the way she should have when she realized he was hard.
"Please." She slides her hand into his, carefully weaving their fingers together. A shudder runs through him. Her fingers are still wet from his tongue.
Nicolas doesn't know what reaction she sees in his face. Hell, he doesn't even know what he feels right now. How can someone's skin be so cool and so hot at the same time? It doesn't make sense.
Whatever she does see, it satisfies her. Her expression eases and her eyes grow determined. Bad news, Nicolas has a moment to think, before she tugs on his hand and leads him out of the bathroom.
He follows, unable to stop himself and unable to shake his hand free.
She leads him to his chair, where his sword waits and where a towel hangs forgotten over the arm. She walks slowly with even steps—which is good because he's barely holding on by a thread and her calmness keeps that part of him at bay.
When she lets go of his hand, it leaves him feeling empty and adrift. He doesn't like it much. Twilights don't thrive when they have no purpose, no goal to focus on. Left to their own devices, they get distracted by…other…things…
The towel drops over his head, startling him. Nicolas feels his lips part in a sharp smile. He must be in a bad way if he can lose track of her movements like that. The woman slowly pats the lingering moisture from his face.
He flinches.
She freezes.
It's not her fault. She's barely applying any pressure; her hands are so gentle. Too gentle, in fact, but his skin's so sensitive. The towel's texture is unbearable.
He raises his head enough to catch her lips move. "Sorry," she says.
Sorry. Yeah, he's sorry, too.
Nicolas exhales slowly. He inches forward, deliberately, giving her plenty of time to step back if she wants to. With a sigh, he drops his head onto her shoulder. Her scent envelopes him again. Breathing still isn't easy, but the tightness in his chest eases a little. Maybe he can make do with this.
After a moment, the woman abandons the towel and wraps her arms around his shoulders. Nicolas just closes his eyes, trying not to think about anything. It's hard. His body seems determined to occupy his attention, but he's used to a lifetime of battling it, of denying it. This is no different.
Then he realizes something. The woman—She's…vibrating?
Nicolas sucks in a breath when he realizes what it is. The subtle shifts in her shoulders. The way her breasts rise and press against him before dropping back down with each deliberate exhale.
She's singing.
Nicolas has never wondered what her voice sounds like. Not really. He knows it must be good, the way it turns people's heads. But sometimes he's curious. Sometimes he wants to know what kind of voice can put that stupid expression on Worick's face.
Nicolas lays a hand over her sternum, beneath the curve of her breasts. The other, he uses to touch her throat. She pauses, stutters to a stop, the vibration beneath his fingers going still. Nicolas doesn't move and after a moment, she begins to sing again.
Whatever she's singing, it's a slow melody. A song that begs for deep inhales and soaring notes that are held forever.
This isn't so bad, he thinks. Yes, he can bear the heat like this.
Then the woman moves again. She presses her lips against his ear. She's still singing. He can tell by the vibration of her throat beneath his fingers, by the way her ribs expand under his other hand.
Now, though, he can feel her lips shape words, brushing lightly against his ear. Now, though, he can feel her breath dance over his skin.
Nicolas pushes her away.
The woman stops singing and watches him.
He drops into the chair and covers his face with his hands.
Minutes pass. Eventually, her bare feet come into his field of view. Why hasn't she left yet? Why does she insist on torturing them both?
She drops to her knees, wedging her way between his legs, pushing his knees apart. Nicolas sucks in a breath. There's no mistaking or misunderstanding her actions. She cannot be serious.
Her nails dig into his thighs and she looks at him. "Let me help you," she says again.
Nicolas drops his hands and meets her steady gaze. Forget being the death of herself. This woman will be the death of him.
"Please."
When he doesn't answer, she reaches for the waistband of his workout pants and pulls them down. Just a little.
He grabs her hand, causing the pants to snap back against his skin. The shock of it clears his brain. Too bad it also makes him want her to do it again. "You…can't…" he grits out.
"Why?" she asks.
Nicolas searches her eyes. No sign of TB in them. There isn't even any anxiety. She completely sure of what she's doing, and that pushes him off-balance. Why is she doing this? She doesn't owe them anything. Her answering the phones is enough payment. It's more than enough.
Still meeting his eyes, her hand moves under his. He could prevent her. She's not strong enough to stop him. But he doesn't react as she pulls his pants down, freeing his dick. He doesn't react as she wraps her fingers around him. He doesn't react as she moves her hand up. Then down.
Nicolas grits his teeth, his spine arching. He shouldn't have waited this long. It feels too good, and it's just her fingers.
"I'll stop," her other hand signs. "I'll stop if it gets to be too much."
That's not the problem. Any more of this and he won't want her to stop—
Then her steely determination snaps into focus. The way she braces herself like a soldier walking onto the battlefield. She wasn't talking about him.
Nicolas hesitates, even though he knows he's being stupid. She's kneeling between his legs, giving him an awkward handjob. They're well past the point of being shy. Carefully, like he's touching something utterly breakable, he brushes her bangs from her face.
The gesture startles her. She jumps beneath his hands, blue eyes widening. "You don't have to do this," he tells her.
"What if I want to?" she replies.
They stare at each other for one long moment.
He's going to lose this fight. He won't win against her. All right. He'll let her have her way. See how far she's willing to go. The instant he accepts the situation, his muscles relax, the tightly coiled tension easing from his body. It doesn't leave completely. Of course not. But he doesn't feel like he's going to shatter anymore, like his control is going to explode and destroy her, along with him. He leans back and closes his eyes, anticipation pooling low in abdomen.
Nicolas isn't sure what he expected. Something quick and efficient, maybe. She hadn't worked the same way Worick does. Back alleys don't lend for taking your time with anything. And why would she want to? The men he'd seen her with were the type you wanted to get away from as fast as possible.
She isn't fast. She isn't impersonal. She doesn't touch him in the way a streetwalker would touch a customer's dick.
She strokes him, his hand still resting on top of hers. Her other hand cradles his balls as she moves further between his legs, her shoulders pressing against his inner thighs.
He opens his eyes. Wait a minute.
Her lips press a kiss against the base before she licks a stripe to the head.
Nicolas chokes. His hand tightens on her head. Hair slips free from her ponytail, ruined by his fingers. She peers up through the veil of her long lashes and wraps her lips around him. Inch by inch, she lowers her head, her cheeks hollowing and her eyes not looking away from his for a second.
He can't look away. He can't bear to, but he should. This is too much. The hot slide of her mouth gets wetter with each bob of her head. It takes everything he has not to thrust his hips up into that slick heat, to ram into her tight throat. Just as he thinks his control is about to slip, she pulls away, dragging her lips over the crown before dipping lower to mouth at his shaft. Nicolas doesn't know whether to be relieved for the break, to mourn the loss, or to ask her to keep doing that.
She runs a finger over his tip before smiling at him. "See? I'm fine." Then she swallows him to the root.
Too fast. Too much. He comes hot and hard into her mouth before he even realizes he was riding that close to the edge.
She doesn't expect it either. Coughing, she jerks away as come splatters across his chest.
When he stops gasping for breath, he looks down to find her sitting on her ass. Her stunned expression makes him snort. This is what surprises her? His good humor fades after a moment, though. A white glob streaks across her cheek. Shit, he'd made a mess of her face. Still breathing unsteadily, he wipes the smear away with his thumb.
She bites her lip and covers her mouth. The lingering euphoria of having a respite from his persistent, throbbing arousal vanishes. Here's the reaction he's been waiting for. The one he'd been trying to pull from her. It's what Nicolas ultimately wanted, so he doesn't understand the twinge of disappointment.
Except she doesn't cry or flee or any of the other reactions that make sense. The ones you expect from a Normal who has to deal with a Twilight in heat.
She curls in on herself, shoulders shaking as she rocks back and forth. Alarm fills him, but then he notices how her eyes crinkle. She glances up at that exact moment, their eyes meeting, and that's all that needed to break the dam.
She laughs, amusement suffusing her entire face and body. He can't help but join her, even though he knows that sharing this is more dangerous than what had just happened between them. After a moment, she recovers and wipes the tears from her cheeks. Consternation fills him. Had it really been that funny?
The woman eases back between his legs and uses the towel to carefully wipe the drying semen off his skin. "Sorry, I wasn't ready for that," she says.
She wasn't the only one.
Unfortunately, the tranquil moment between them doesn't last. His body—his dick—won't let it.
She flicks his erection. "You're still hard."
Nicolas shakes his head. It'll take more than one orgasm to make the heat go away. Far more than one.
She chews on her bottom lip in consideration before nodding to herself. He thinks she mouths the word "okay" before she proceeds to climb into his lap.
He presses his back into the chair, as far as it'll let him, as far as he can go. Anything to put more space between them, which is ridiculous because she's straddling him and his lap is full of her curves and maybe, just maybe, he begins to understand why Worick likes her so much. There's something to be said for softness that's so different from his hard angles.
Nicolas curses himself. He was wrong before, but he never thought she'd take it this far. They have to stop. He'll break her.
Before he can move an inch, she begins to unbutton the dress she wears. Nicolas tries not to watch but his eyes can't tear away from her clever fingers and how inch by inch, her skin is exposed to him. When the dress gapes open, she takes one of his hands—the one with the healing knuckles—and places it on her breast.
Nicolas stiffens at the contact.
She shakes her head at his reaction. "Don't do that," she says. "I don't mind. I want you to."
He thinks of how Worick does this sometimes—grope her breasts or grab her ass. And how she always retaliates with a quick slap or even a bite. Why is she allowing him touch her like this?
When he doesn't move, she guides his hand over her bra. His fingers catch on the intricate black lace, tugging it a little out of place. She shivers, and her lips part. Her breath ghosts across his face and he realizes she's breathing a little heavier than normal. But then so is he. He has been for a while now.
As she insistently pushes herself into his hands, Nicolas relents and tugs one of the cups out of place. Her breast spills free into his waiting hand.
A smile blooms across her face. "I like your hands," she says. "They're big and warm."
The words make no sense to him. She likes his hands? He's never noticed her looking, but then he's been fixated on her hands, so when would he have? The parallel makes him curve his lips. Just a little.
She learns forward until their noses brush together. "You're smiling."
Nicolas shakes his head and slides an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.
"You are."
He shakes his head again.
"Liar." And then she closes the distance between them and kisses him.
It's a gentle kiss. Shy. A soft press of lips, a sharing of breath, and maybe a little scrape of teeth.
Nicolas pauses. Did she nip at his bottom lip?
He pulls away. Her dress puddles around her waist, the top half slid down to her wrists and the bottom half hiked up around her hips. Nicolas hooks his finger around the front clasp of her bra, undoing it with a twist.
He presses his face into her bare breasts. Her scent is heavier here, mingling with something that makes his stomach tighten and his dick ache. Her breasts heave up and down. Nicolas smiles against her skin. Seems like she's struggling as much as him to breathe.
Surrendering, Nicolas closes his lips around a nipple. If she won't stop him, he won't stop himself. He's getting tired of fighting.
His tongue drags over her skin, mapping her, tasting her. He thinks of how she didn't pull away when he nipped her fingers, of the way her teeth grazed his lips, and sinks his teeth into her soft breast. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. Her back arches and she rakes her nails across his shoulders, but she doesn't pull away.
Fuck.
He soothes the teeth-marks with his tongue before moving to her other breast. After he marks her there in the same way, she tugs at his head up. Their lips crash together and if their first kiss was shy, this is anything but. Her mouth slants over his, her tongue sliding slickly against his
And somewhere in the middle of it, Nicolas becomes aware of her hand wrapping around his dick again. He sighs into her mouth. "Yes," he says.
She rears back to search his face. Is she finally going to balk? As she opens her mouth, he braces himself for her reply. It's all right, he thinks, pushing away his body's protests at the prospect of them stopping. He can get through this. He's made it through worse.
"Condoms," she says.
Nicolas stares at her, the word not registering for a second. When it does, he raises his brows.
"Condoms," she repeats.
They aren't stopping.
He smiles, full-fledged and sharp. Even he knows it's a nasty smile, the one he flashes in the middle of a fight, but it doesn't scare her. Not at all. She even leans closer. One arm tucked around her waist to keep her secure, he leans over and swipes his hand under the chair. It takes a few tries but he finds the strip. Straightening, he flings condoms into her lap.
"Really?" she asks him.
Nicolas shrugs.
It doesn't take long. She tears one open. He helps her roll it on, with their fingers tangling together and him shifting impatiently within the circle of combined heat. Taking off her clothes takes longer. It'd be easier if she wasn't on his lap, but she doesn't seem inclined to leave and he's not inclined to make her.
Finally, she rises up on her knees and reaches down to position him so that he presses against her. Nicolas sucks in a breath. The urge to thrust up is just that strong. But he waits and then, slowly—oh so slowly—she lowers herself onto him.
Nicolas hisses through his teeth. Shit. The tight, wet heat feels good. She feels good. His head lolls back as he mouths her name.
Hands braced against his chest, she begins to move. It's awkward, uneven and unbalanced. Nicolas holds himself still through sheer force of will, letting her set the pace. She eventually settles into a slow rock, an undulating roll of her hips that ends with a deep grind. It's not what he would have chosen, but it makes him hungry and aching all the same.
Her hands cup his jaw and she presses her lips against the corner of his mouth. He feels her say yes against his skin. Once. Twice. More.
Nicolas pulls away to look at her face. She's happy. She's genuinely happy. Maybe because she's helping him but mostly because of something else.
Realization comes sharp and blinding. She likes it. She's enjoying it.
She chose this.
He grips her hips and guides her into a faster rhythm that has her gasping against his mouth and him groaning into hers. She moves desperate and seeking, her arms tightening around his back, her teeth closing on his shoulder.
Yeah, she definitely likes that.
And so, Nicolas finally lets go.
* * *
Once isn't enough. Twice isn't either.
Nicolas loses count, actually. They don't have enough condoms, but he can't keep his hands off her long enough to let her go upstairs to raid Worick's collection. Probably for the best. His partner would notice the lack and then come around asking questions Nicolas doesn't care to answer.
But the limitations don't stop them. She has a pair of hands gifted with very nimble fingers, and she has a mouth graced with a pair of full lips that get more swollen as the day wears on. He accepts everything she offers and gives her what he can in return. It's not enough. It's not remotely enough. He's not as practiced as Worick. He doesn't have those skills. His hands are too rough and his tendency is to go hard and fast.
He'll never understand why she doesn't seem to mind any of that.
Nicolas looks down at her, curled against his chest, as they lay sprawled on the hard floor. He feels a pang of regret. After years of back alleys and who knows what else, she deserves a proper bed, but the thought of going upstairs to Worick's space makes him recoil. It's an unspoken line he won't cross. She's welcome in that bed, but Nicolas is pretty sure that open invitation doesn't extend to him sharing it with her.
She stirs. "Do you feel better?" she signs.
He nods. He does. The heat's not completely gone—it'll take a couple days for that to happen—but he doesn't feel like he's going to explode anymore, the edginess that ran through his veins gone.
She smiles, settling back against him.
He says aloud, "Alex." She starts, sudden breath gusting over his skin. He signs, "Thank you." Then he says her name out loud again.
He feels her swallow heavily. Waits for her to come out and ask whatever's eating at her. After a moment, Alex sits up. She doesn't meet his gaze, focusing instead on his chest and running her fingers over the old scar. Eventually, she peers at him through her lashes. "After…after you're done with this. Can we…again?"
He freezes. If they—If she's offering without the heat, that means—
"We don't have to," Alex says quickly, seeing his reaction. "I—I was just—" Embarrassed, she ducks her head.
Nicolas cups her chin, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her bottom lip before pushing into her mouth. He watches her eyes dilate as her teeth scrapes over his skin.
Then, he leans forward.
Yes, he thinks as he replaces his thumb with his tongue. Yes.
At least one more time.
Probably more.