Mind Game (GhostWalkers, #2)(39)

“What were you doing? People don’t walk on ceilings.”

Dahlia studied his face. His long black hair cascaded to his shoulders and looked as if he’d rubbed his hands through it over and over until he was completely rumpled. He wore a thin pair of sweats and nothing else. Heat radiated off of him, nearly shimmered in the air so that the temperature in the room rose several degrees. He was so beautiful he took her breath away. She stared at him, dazzled. Starry eyed. Idiotic.

Dahlia pressed her lips together. She was no better than he was at controlling the sexual awareness leaping between them. The moment they were together, it spread until it enveloped them and burned them up. She tilted her head. “Why is it that you emit such incredibly low energy, even in the most violent circumstances, but when you’re with me the energy becomes a tidal wave?”

“You don’t censor, do you, Dahlia?”

She shrugged her shoulders, drawing his eye to the line of her neck. He could plant little kisses right along her neck. Take small bites to the curve of her breasts.

Dahlia pressed her hands to the aching swell of her breasts and heaved a sigh. “You just aren’t going to stop, are you?” She frowned. “Should I be censoring? I don’t have a lot of experience in conversing like this. Do you want me to censor the things I say? Milly told me once that I was too outspoken.”

Nicolas rubbed at his pounding temples. There was a strange roaring in his head. He always wondered what the proverbial walking hard-on meant and decided it was a person . . . him. No matter how much he meditated, the moment he went to sleep, he dreamt of Dahlia. Erotic, sexy dreams of her soft skin rubbing against his. Of her mouth sliding over his chest, his belly, edging lower until he thought he’d go out of his mind. Her hand wrapped around his erection, fingers slipping over him, dancing and teasing and stroking long silken caresses. As hard as he tried to control his wayward thoughts, she crept into his mind. He transferred his hand to the back of his neck, rubbing hard to ease the tension. “This is worse than basic training ever was, Dahlia, and no, I don’t want you to censor.”

“What’s worse than basic training?”

“Wanting you. I even want you in my sleep. What the hell is that? I am completely disciplined at all times. What have you done to me?”

Unexpectedly, Dahlia laughed. She lifted the thick mass of her blue-black hair off the back of her neck and let it fall in a cloak around her. “I’m a voodoo queen, of course. I’ve cast my spell, and it’s too late for you to get away from me.”

He wanted to swear. He wanted to cross the room and pin her down on the bed and see if she dared laugh at him then. She’d melted whatever ice had run in his veins, and now she was sitting there in the middle of the damned bed laughing.

The smile faded slowly from her face, from her eyes. She pulled the pillow to her chest protectively. “It wasn’t you, this time, Nicolas, it was me.” Color crept under her skin as she made her confession. “I thought it was safe to indulge in a few fantasies. You didn’t say you were affected when I was thinking about you.”

He counted to ten silently to give himself time to collect his scattered control. “You didn’t tell me you had fantasies about me. Especially erotic fantasies.”

She sighed. “You don’t have to throw it in my face. I am human after all. I may have been raised in a sanitarium, but I do have the usual hormones.”

A slow, very male, smile of satisfaction settled on his face, relieving the grim lines. “For which I’m grateful. Why did you stop? It left me frustrated. I wouldn’t be complaining if you’d finished what you started.”

Her flush deepened, and her gaze shifted away from his face. When he stirred as if to take a step toward her, her eyes widened in alarm and he immediately regained her full attention. “We don’t really need to talk about that. I’ve thought of something else important.”

“If I’m going to survive the night, we definitely need to talk about it.” He folded his arms across his bare chest.

To Dahlia, he looked like a statue, lovingly carved of stone. Someone had paid attention to each detail of his body, of his face. She sighed as she pressed the pillow tighter against her midsection. “I didn’t know exactly what to do.”

He had to strain to hear her confession. He stood looking down at her, wondering how he could be such an idiot when he was reputed to have a high IQ. His smile widened, until he was grinning like an ape. She was just so beautiful, looking flustered and embarrassed, caught with her erotic fantasies just as he had been.

Dahlia threw the pillow at him—hard. “Go away. I’m thinking about very serious matters and you’re not helping.”

He caught the pillow in midair and stalked her across the room, looking every inch the prowling tiger. “I think sex is a very serious subject.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

Dahlia glared at him. “You take up a lot of space. And air. I can’t breathe with you in the room.”

“I’m teasing you, Dahlia.” His voice was so gentle, almost tender, and her heart did a funny little flip. She wished she had the pillow back.

“Are you going to tell me how you managed to run across the ceiling?” he asked.

“I didn’t manage it. Only partway, and then I fell. It’s a matter of bending gravity.” She shrugged her shoulders again, and he tried not to stare at her flawless skin.