Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(169)

John rolled over on his back and put his hands into the shaft of light.

Shit, I'm so sorry. But I'm glad you dusted the place.

In her mind, she pictured her return trip to where she'd been held--and the sooty aftermath. "Yeah, I had to burn the thing down. I'd been free for a while when I went back and did it--but I couldn't sleep for the nightmares. I lit the facility up after they'd left for the day. Although," she held a 430

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forefinger up, "there might have been one rather nasty death. But the son of a bitch deserved it. I'm an eye-for-an-eye kind of girl."

John's hands reappeared to sign, That's pretty obvious-- and not a bad thing at all.

Provided it wasn't Lash, she thought to herself.

"Mind if I ask you something?" When he shrugged, she whispered,

"The night you took me around town . . . had you been back to any of those places before?"

Not really. John shook his head. I don't like to dwell on the past. I go forward.

"How I envy you. Me, I can't seem to get free of history."

And it wasn't just about the clinic shit or Lash's little love-nest

nightmare. For some reason, the fact that she'd never fit in--not with the family she'd grown up with, or the larger vampire society, or even the symphath one--resonated through her, defining her even when she wasn't consciously thinking about it. Her lock-and-key moments had been few and far between--and tragically seemed focused on when she'd gone out on jobs as an assassin.

Except then she thought of her time with John . . . and recalibrated the depressing arithmetic slightly. Being with him, their bodies together, that fit.

But it was kind of a parallel to her murdering for hire--ultimately not a healthy thing for all involved. Hell, look at what had just happened: She woke up screaming and John was the one who weaponed up and faced off . .

. while she played poor widdle scared female with the sheet clutched to her widdle scared heart.

That wasn't her. Just wasn't.

And God, that she'd fallen so easily into the role of being

protected . . . that frightened her even more than dreams that made her scream. If life had taught her one thing, it was that your best bet was to take care of your own biz. The last thing in the world she wanted was to chick out and rely on anyone--even somebody as honorable and worthy and kind as John.

Although . . . man, the sex was good. Seemed base and a little crude to put it like that, but it was so very true.

When they'd come up here after their little tete a tete in the tunnel, they hadn't even bothered with the lights. No time, no time--clothes off, on the bed, going hard. She'd ended up passing out, and sometime later, John must have gotten up to use the loo and left the light on. Probably to make sure she didn't feel lost if she woke up.

Because that's the kind of male he was.

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There was a click and whirl and the steel shutters began to lift for the night, the darkened sky revealed, her mental gyrations mercifully cut off.

She hated ruminating. Never solved anything and only made her feel

worse.

"Hot water is calling us," she said, forcing her body upright. The delicious aches in her muscles and bones made her want to sleep for days in this big bed next to John. Maybe weeks. But that wasn't their destiny, was it.

She leaned over and looked down into his shadowy face. After tracing

his handsome features with her eyes, she just had to bring up her hand and caress his cheek.

I love you, she mouthed in the shadows.

"Let's go," she said roughly.

The kiss she gave him was a sort of goodbye--after all, maybe tonight they finally got Lash, and that would mean an end to moments like this.

Abruptly, John gripped her upper arms, his brows tightening, but then, as if he read her mind and knew all too well the score, he released her.

As she got up and walked away from the bed, his eyes followed her . .

. she could feel it.

In the bathroom, she started the water for them and went over to get

some towels out of the cupboard.

She stopped as she saw her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

Her body was the same as it had always been, but she thought of the

way it felt when she and John were together. She'd gotten so used to

thinking of her corporeal form as little more than a weapon, something that was useful and necessary to accomplish things. Hell, she'd fed it and cared for it the same way she looked after her guns and her knives--because that was how she maintained its utility.

In their hours together, John had taught her differently, had shown her that there was profound pleasure to be had from her flesh. Which was

something not even her relationship with Murhder had managed to do.

As if he'd been summoned by her thoughts, John came up behind her,

his height and shoulder width dwarfing her reflection.

Meeting his eyes, she put her hand to her breast and rubbed her own

nipple, remembering how it felt to have his touch there, his tongue, his mouth. The instant she made contact, his body responded, his bonding scent flooding the bathroom, his erection punching out of his hips.

Reaching behind herself, she pulled him against her, his arousal

penetrating the wedge formed by her sex and her thighs. As his hips pushed in against her ass, his warm hands circled around her and stroked down her stomach. Bringing his head to her shoulder, his fangs flashed white as he 432