Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(55)

As she walks into my dorm room, she points toward my bed. “That yours?” I close the door and nod. She sets her binder down at the foot of the bed and then kicks off her shoes. Then she sits easily, as if her very presence isn’t turning me inside out.

I settle on the bed opposite her and bite down on my tongue. She came to me, and I want to keep the advantage—even if the ball is really in her court. Whatever she offers me, I know I’ll accept, like the desperate fool I am for her. God, I hate myself. But I can’t go back. She’s effectively possessed me; mind and soul.

“Since when do you wear glasses?” she says, tilting her head, giving me an appraising once over.

“Oh…I forgot.” I go to pull them off, but she’s off the bed and standing before me so quickly, my hand stills in the air.

“Don’t.” She takes my hand in hers. “I like them. I like seeing this side of you. It’s vulnerable.”

She has no idea how vulnerable. Her fingers lace through mine, and I tighten my hand around hers. Hell, but she didn’t have to say anything.

“I need them for reading,” I say as way of explanation. “And they make me look smart.”

She schools her features, betraying nothing of what she may be feeling, if anything. Then she reaches up and runs her fingers through my hair, sending a violent shudder through me. “You kept your word, and now Vee and Gavin are out on a date.” She laughs. “But really, they’ve been together just about all week. I’m so stupid happy for her. She’s beyond elated.”

Against every ounce of restraint, I allow my free hand to snake out and clasp the back of her thigh, keeping her from retreating. “He’s into her,” I say, forcing the words out past the hard knot in my throat. “So why are you here?”

And I could kick myself. I watch her face fall, shifting from ecstatic to wary in a beat. My grip tightens, bringing her between my parted knees, as I gaze up into her face.

A shaky breath slips past her glossy lips. “I said I would help you if you helped me…and I’m keeping my promise.” She nods to the binder on my bed. “If you don’t have any plans, I thought we could work on your story.”

Despite my attempt at cool and calm, composed and in control, I cannot help myself. “I’m more than willing to work on it all night with you,” I say, feeling a smile hike the corner of my mouth. Damn, but I’m me—what can I say? And I desire Ari more in this moment than any damned story.

My breath held, I wait for her reaction, and I’m rewarded with a throaty laugh instead of a reprimand. Making progress.

“Why didn’t I see that coming?” she says, rimming my frames with her finger.

This moment between us is tentative and slow. Us trying to find our rhythm. I want to demand answers—what we are, where we’re going—but I know better than to push her. She once demanded that of me, for me to make a promise of trust—to tell her I’d never hurt her—and I knew then that it was an impossible request. No one can make that vow.

And I can’t be a hypocrite and force her to assuage my insecurities now. If there’s any chance that this could turn into something more, then I have to give her the reins. Let it build at her pace. But damn, how I just want to grab her, toss her down on my bed, and ravage her until she concedes that she’s mine. All mine.

With a hard exhale that burns my chest, I say, “Yes, Ari. I want to make a story with you.” I let the connotation of my words linger in the air around us, filling the room with a heaviness, as I gently push her aside and stand to grab my laptop.





* * *



Ari’s laugh rolls over my skin, drenching me in chills, the sound clenching my stomach with desire. It’s pure agony.

She wipes the crease of her eye, her laugh fading. “Oh, my God. You cannot write that.”

Dragging my gaze away from Ari’s beautiful face, I shift my attention to the laptop screen before us. The last line of our story: And then he does something to reinforce the Revenge theme.

“Hey, my professor said to reiterate the theme. It doesn’t get more blunt than that,” I say, rolling onto my side to face her. We’re stretched out on my bed, lying side by side. The small span of distance between us thrums and crackles with tension. Like the force of a magnet as it’s held back from a link of chain, my body is dying to give in to the pull.

“Ryder, if we’re going to finish this at any decent hour”—she turns on her side to glower at me—“then we need to decide: does the hero take his revenge, or not succumb to his weakness?”

I study her face; the fullness of her lips over the slight cleft in her chin, the long, sweeping lashes brushing her high cheekbones. I could not care less about this story, but she’s sacrificed time to help me, so for her, I try to reel in my lust.

Removing my glasses, I clear my throat. “Is succumbing to doing what’s ultimately right a weakness?”

The smooth skin between her eyebrows furrows. “Is this really a revenge theme, or good versus evil?” She props the heel of her hand against her temple.

Attempting a shrug, I move an inch closer to her, laying my hand at the curve of her waist. “Don’t most themes have more than one subtheme? Can’t it be both?”

She laughs. “You’re being evasive because you don’t want to do the work.” She sighs, as if she’s irritated with me, but I can see she loves this. She’s brilliant, and it’s the surest I’ve ever seen her. Confident in herself. “The hero has to make a choice. It always boils down to that in any story. Whether it’s right or wrong…that really doesn’t matter, as long as he can justify his motives.”