Deja Who (Insighter #1)(30)

“You hear yourself, right?” Right. Although, now that he thought about it, the thought of Leah’s lips on his wound . . . and then his other wound . . . and then moving lower

(oh please, God, let her move lower)

was disturbingly erotic. He managed to pull back and got a heart-stopping, dick-stiffening look at Leah’s lovely face and glittering eyes, her dark hair mussed and flyaway, her mouth a rosy bruise from kissing. “Okay, we have to . . . mmm . . . settle down now. Ah!” She’d pounced on him at “okay.” “Why wouldn’t you listen to the rest of that sentence?” He extricated himself again—Leah was strong for her size, all the murder-prevention training, no doubt—but it took longer this time because his blood was bypassing his arms and heading for his dick. “And just . . . y’know . . . have a discussion. About something.”

“I cannot think of anything I wish to do less,” she murmured in his ear, and then bit his earlobe. Which, Archer had just discovered, had a line straight to his dick. Who knew? Someone should do a study. Write a paper. Something. “I’m on the pill, and I saw your labs at the hospital. You’re fresh as a daisy, STD-wise.”

“Uh . . .” Boundaries? Wait, he could go in bare? Go in Leah bare? Their first time and any other time? No, no. Boundaries. Bare boundaries. Wait. What was he worried about again?

“I’d like to love you in your tower, so bring me there.”

Huh. That was sort of sweet and romantic. And the tower was pretty great. And he did want to be a good host. Not showing her the tower would be rude. Think how shamed his mom would be if she found out about his lack of etiquette.

(Do not think about Mom right now.)

“No. Here.” He grabbed her wrists and sort of pulled her after him as he backed across the room to the couch. “We need to sit here and—”

“Good idea. I like sectionals.” She pounced and once again his hands were full of Leah, only this time she’d knocked him prone which made it sooooo much harder

(that’s what she said)

(stop that! idiot!)

to fend her off. Not that he was one hundred percent on board with fending her off. Her lovely, apple-sized breasts were mashed against his chest, her lips were tracing the line of his jaw, finding the stubble and running her tongue over it, one of her knees was between his thighs, spreading his legs

(unhand me, you brute!)

and she was holding one of his wrists and stroking a thumb across his pulse point, which caused said pulse to ramp up at least twenty beats. He could feel something hard pressing against his chest,

(is that a balisong knife in your bra or are you just—cue punch line)

no, there were two of them, one in each cup, and he should be alarmed but wasn’t, and really, what harm could come from letting her molest the bejeezus out of him? What possible harm other than accidental stab wounds from her bra knives?

“Gah,” he managed to say into her mouth. “Nnnff. Of all the nights to forget my rape whistle.”

That made her giggle and for a few seconds she just laughed and sort of shook against him. He took the chance and brought his arm up around her waist, raised his head, and kissed her gently on her soft, sweet mouth, and never had a closed-mouth kiss been so glorious.

“Okay,” she said, sitting up. On him, but he didn’t mind. It did leave him well within pouncing range, though, so he couldn’t have escaped those hands and that mouth when she decided to start up again. Which was wonderful. Bad! He meant bad. “What seems to be the problem? Do I have to go on a condom hunt?”

“Please stop distracting me with pictures in my head that are alarming and weird and devastatingly sexy,” he groaned. “Condom hunt. Would that be like a scavenger hunt? A sex scavenger hunt? Oh my God, someday can we have a sex scavenger hunt?”

“It’s a date,” she said in a solemn tone, then spoiled the effect by snickering.

“God, you’re gorgeous when you laugh.” He looked up at her and smiled, and hoped she wasn’t troubled by the enthusiastic presence of Lieutenant Winky, who was currently trying to rip itself free of his jeans, most likely because she was sitting on him.

(Arrgghh yes that’s it escape Lieutenant Winky fly be free you lucky bastard!)

He sat up and willed himself not to burst into horny tears at what he was slowing down. Lieutenant Winky would be furious with him. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” He shook his head to get clear. “Okay. God, you’re so—I love your mouth and think we should no no no!” He sucked in a steadying breath. “First, you’re the sexiest thing in the world and I am breaking my own heart by putting a stop to this. Second, you’re the sexiest thing in the world. Third, my penis is not a sleeping pill. Fourth, you’ve had a really emotional day and I don’t want to be That Guy and take advantage when you’re obviously vulnerable, and fifth, my status as life-blind might count as slumming for an Insighter, so—”

“Wait. What?”

“My penis is not a sleeping pill? That was the weirdest, so I’m betting that’s what you zeroed in on.” Might be the life-blind thing, too, but no, he was betting it was the penis pill analogy.

She was scowling at him, which terrified him and also called up the urge to kiss the corner of her scowl. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“Not that I have anything against comfort sex. I love it. Women are always crying when we . . . let me rephrase.”