Perfect Gravity (Wanted and Wired #2)(42)

But reality necessitated a different course of action. Reality needed him to be civilized.

He’d just gotten a vibration on his wrist cuff: the blip board was all decoded and decompressed and ready for viewing. He was itching to get eyes on that data, figure out what his critter spies had been able to document.

Somebody had tried to kill Angela, and he could barely contain a powerful need for payback.

Also, to be fair, he wouldn’t mind getting some more private time with her. Safe place, cozy place. Maybe they could continue to talk out some of the issues that squirmed between them, catch up on all those years they’d lost.

He and Angela passed the kitchen, and Yoink—by her cloying aroma, no doubt coming off a sweet-pickle binge courtesy of Adele, the old softy—fell into step with them.

And then so did Angela’s mech-clone husband. It had been waiting for her just outside the food court.

Well, this wasn’t the sort of evening Kellen had in mind. Dangit. But he was a big boy, right? He could handle it. They could still inspect the data, just without cuddles and soft talk. And with all their clothes on. Might be better that way anyhow. Safer. For him.

He calmly led their way-too-populated party to the glass-walled elevator and then up to her floor, pointing out random shit as they passed it. Pentarc had a lot to see, though most of it didn’t work and never had. He had a need of the distraction, and playing tour guide in a sense relieved some of his tension.

Yoink, apparently sensing something on the air, sat herself in the middle of the elevator carriage and proceeded to lick her own ass, just to taunt him. Sweet evil, that cat.

At floor seven, the doors dinged and glided open. The feline and the mech preceded them into the corridor. Kellen was just about to follow when a bare hand snaked out and pressed the button for eight. The doors closed before he could so much as twitch.

Angela pressed the emergency stop, and their carriage paused. It was glass on the rear, but this far up, there wasn’t anything to see other than a painted elevator shaft. They were alone.

And she stood right in front of him, burning a look upward. Holy fuck, that look.

“What you—”

She put two hands on his chest and pushed him against the elevator wall. Faster than a duck on a june bug, one of those hands was up, past his collar, behind his head, pulling him down. Her mouth found his, hot and needy and not asking.

He was stunned for the first half second, surprised enough that she got the jump on him, but he couldn’t let her win. Not without giving a little of his own back.

She was a little thing—he had forgotten how slight—and when his arms went around her and he cradled her ass, it was the easiest thing to lift her. Her legs came up, wrapping around his waist. Something in her tidy wool skirt tore, and she oomphed a breath against his teeth when he turned their bodies, still locked together, and pushed her back up against the elevator wall.

Better. The angle. She slotted snug against him, mouth to mouth, heartbeat to wild heartbeat. Her hands clamped the back of his head, crushing him into her kiss. Oh yeah, this was the Angela he knew, the girl only he knew. And he had missed this—had missed her—so fucking much.

Her teeth skidded against his, sharp and bright. He nibbled, drawing salt from her lip, and she groaned into his mouth. That count for consent? He thought it might, or maybe the fact that she’d all but attacked him in an elevator. Still, the gentleman in him needed to be sure.

“We gonna do this right here, then?” he rasped.

“At least once,” she breathed against his jaw. “Please tell me those jeans aren’t held together with a goddamn button fly.”

“Press seam,” he said.

“Thank all the made-up gods.” Her magic fingers found the seam and undid it, but the movement stole some of her concentration. Angela, the great multitasker, apparently couldn’t undress a man and pour kisses down his throat at the same time. Kellen reared his head back and watched her.

Wild thing, his gal. He remembered so many times they’d been at this business, and always, always, it had been the death of him. A thousand deaths, a million surrenders. He’d never minded. He’d have given her anything, willingly, as often as she wanted.

But the man she was taking down that road right now wasn’t her nineteen-year-old plaything. And he didn’t have a hankering to play the role for her again. He’d fought to become his own person.

“Think we might pause here for a second, princess?”

She’d made quick work of his pants, and she had him out, clasped in her hot little fist. He couldn’t even process what that felt like. Heaven was too small a word.

“Angela.” Didn’t sound like his own voice, but he had things that needed saying.

She looked up, neither moving nor removing her hand. His arms were holding her up against the wall, and he couldn’t very well shift weight without dropping her unceremoniously on the floor. There was no way to make space between them, not at this point. Heat roiled in the interstice between their bodies. She never had liked the feel of knickers on her nethers.

“What?” Confusion broke through the naked desire on her face.

“That emergency call button only pauses us for three minutes,” he said, trying so hard to be gentle about this.

Her grin got sly instead. “You clearly have no idea how ready I am.” She squeezed, and his throat compressed in synch. “Why are we wasting all this time chitchatting?”