Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(34)

With a nod she hurried into the attached bathroom and closed the door.

It wasn’t that she was shy. Or scared.

Or at least not exactly.

But on the day of her eighteenth birthday she’d moved into her own apartment. She wasn’t used to sharing a private space with anyone.

Stripping off her clothes, she stepped into the shower and turned it on hot enough to turn her skin rosy. Steam billowed around her as she soaped herself from head to toe before squeezing her favorite apple shampoo into her palm and quickly washing her hair.

She admired women like Serra who could keep their long hair perfectly coiffed (whatever the hell that meant). She, however, ended up looking like a porcupine by the end of the day. Besides, the unique color attracted the sort of attention she didn’t want.

Hopping out of the shower, she quickly dried herself and pulled on one of the thick terry cloth robes. Then, leaving the bathroom, she returned to the bedroom, keeping her gaze locked on her bare toes.

“Your turn.”

She felt him hesitate, as if he wanted to say something. Then she heard the steady tread of his footsteps as he headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Callie released the breath she’d been unconsciously holding.

This was what she wanted.

It truly was.

But she felt as awkward as a teenager about to go on her first date.

No. This was worse. Her first date had been with a boy she’d known for years. He’d been warned by her foster mother, who happened to be a witch, that if he did anything more than hold her hand he would be turned into a slimy slug.

Certainly she hadn’t been pacing the floor with the sensation of demented butterflies filling her belly.

And what was the deal with the temperature?

She was hot then cold then hot then ...

“Hey, relax, sweetheart,” a male voice whispered in her ear, those strong arms again sweeping her off her feet to carry her to the nearby bed. “I just want you close.”

With care he settled her on the mattress and shucked off his robe to reveal his lean, surprisingly bronzed body covered by a pair of green boxers. She barely had the opportunity to appreciate the broad shoulders, the well-defined six-pack, and powerful thighs before he was sliding in the bed behind her, tugging the blanket over both of them.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” She sucked in a deep breath, forcing her tense muscles to relax as the heat of his body seeped through her skin. He smelled of soap and toothpaste and an enticing scent that was uniquely Duncan O’Conner. “I’ve never slept with anyone before ... I mean ... not for the whole night.”

Cautiously he scooted closer, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Do all high-bloods keep themselves so isolated?”

She settled her head on the pillow, her gaze absently studying the oil painting depicting a field of daffodils that hung on the wall.

“It does seem to be a common trait.”

“Is it because you’re afraid of trusting anyone?”

She struggled to concentrate. She told herself her jitters were because she’d never cuddled in bed with a man and tried to have a conversation. Her few sexual encounters had been brief with little in the way of actual chitchat.

It was bound to be awkward the first time, wasn’t it?

Certainly it had nothing to do with the intrusive images of what would happen if she shimmied out of her robe and turned to face him.

“For some.” She was forced to clear her throat. She wasn’t going to imagine rubbing herself against all that male hardness. Or her sensitive ni**les being tickled by his golden chest hair as he nuzzled kisses down the curve of her neck. Nope. Not gonna do it. “Most have special abilities that mean they have to maintain constant control when they’re around others,” she managed to continue. “They need time and space just to relax.”

“I get that.” His warm breath puffed against her nape, sending arrows of pleasure down her spine. “Cops don’t have special powers, but after a day spent in the gutters they need some serious decompression. Not all spouses understand why we want to go to a bar and toss back a few shots or lay on the couch and try to pretend that we can forget the sight of a young woman found dead on her kitchen floor.”

She stilled. For once they were completely alone with no danger of being overheard.

“That’s not entirely true, is it?” she asked softly.

“What isn’t true?”

“That you don’t have special powers.”

He tensed, remaining silent for a long minute. Callie bit her bottom lip, regretting her impulsive question. It was beyond intrusive to prod into a person’s private gifts. Even the youngest high-blood knew that.

If Duncan wanted her to know about his powers he would have told her.

The apology was on the tip of her tongue when Duncan abruptly broke the silence.

“How long have you known?”

“I don’t know anything for certain,” she assured him. “You work very hard to keep them hidden.” She hesitated, torn between curiosity and the manners that had been drilled into her from the cradle. Curiosity won. “Are you ashamed?”

“Not ashamed,” he clarified, his voice pensive but thankfully not angry. “But when I was very young my ma warned me never to speak about my ... gift.”