Reap (Scarred Souls, #2)(43)

I let him lead me back to the house, then I led him up the stairs. I walked him to a spare room. As we entered, I hung back at the door. “You can sleep here.” I pointed to the bed. “You have a bed, Zaal. No more sleeping on the floor.”

I turned to leave the door, when Zaal suddenly reached for my hand. I turned my head to face him. Raw fear was on his face. He pulled me to his chest. “Where do you go?” he asked, his accent thicker as panic laced his voice.

“My room,” I whispered. My pulse picked up speed at the desperate look of need in his eyes.

His hand dropped and his fingers laced through mine. “I come with you.”

I knew this had to be it. This was the moment I stopped myself from falling off the cliff. This was the moment I called Luka and told him that Zaal had got rid of whatever f*cked up serum was in his body. That it was time to come and get him.

Or, I’d jump off the cliff, arms wide and free-falling. I’d follow what was leading my heart. Zaal, the Kostava who had seized control of my soul.

Stepping closer to Zaal, I ran my hand down his chest, my eyes following my fingers, and I chose to fall. “You go where I go.”

Without looking at his face, I turned and walked to my room. As I entered through the door, I released his hand and walked to the window. I drew the blinds. The sun was fading now, the bright winter’s day drawing to its end. I paused as my hand hung on the blind’s chain. I was exhausted. I felt exhausted, conflicted, confused, yet at the same time, every cell in my body was zinging to life. Lustful adrenaline surged in my blood, igniting every sense. The cause: Zaal.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly turned. Zaal was watching me. I knew that look. He wore that look when I’d bathed him, when I’d stroked his cock. Wore it as I’d washed his hair, then straddled his lap.

Reaching my bed, I pulled a nightgown from my dresser. My eyes flitted back and forth to Zaal, who remained standing, waiting patiently at the door. My body was so aware of his overwhelming presence, that my large bedroom suddenly felt full, stifling. But right.

Throwing my nightgown on the bed, I walked to Zaal and took his hand. I led him further into the room. He followed and I pointed to my right. “The bathroom’s in there. You’ll probably want to have a shower.” My face flushed red as I remembered riding him in the basement. My breasts ached and my nipples hardened at the memory. I wasn’t sane around this man.

Zaal’s eyes bored into mine. His lips rubbed together as he watched me. Suddenly his finger was brushing across the apples of my cheeks. “You are red.” His eyes narrowed, studiously taking in every detail. “Why?”

I shook my head, trying to dismiss his question, but he edged in closer. I almost moaned aloud when his hard torso caressed mine. My gaze fell to his olive skin, then the dark edges of his identity tattoo. I felt my panties grow damp. “Tell me,” he said roughly. His thigh brushed against mine and I could feel his hardness. I closed my eyes and fought with all I had to rein in my desire. “Talia…?” he pushed.

Shyly, and looking for something to do with my fidgeting fingers, I ran my fingertip over the zipper of his sweatshirt. “You may need to clean up before you sleep.”

I saw his head nod in my peripheral vision. Reluctantly dropping my hand from his chest, I walked to the bathroom. I’d assumed Zaal had followed, but when I turned to show him the shower, I was alone.

I moved back to the bedroom to see where he was, and I ground to a halt. My lips parted and a shaking breath slipped from their depths.

Zaal.

Zaal stood beside my bed, free from clothes, his black hair hanging low and free over his chest. Every inch of his body was ripped and raw with tight muscle … and his hard cock … his large wide cock was erect, flat against his lower torso. His clothes were lying in a heap beside the bed. Zaal’s head was downcast, waiting, just waiting for me.

I swallowed at the sight of him. I fought for breath at his savageness; his brutal, primitive presence, and I lost my sensibilities.

Driven by instinct, I stepped forward, Zaal’s eyes immediately snapping up to meet with mine. His nostrils flared, his taut traps flexed, and his hands clenched at his sides. It was predatorily, and I felt like I was his prey. Though I wasn’t afraid. No, the opposite; turned on, compelled, drawn in, but never afraid.

Zaal’s cheek twitched as I approached, and I stopped just inches away. I fluttered my eyes from the view of his chest to his eyes; his eyes were already fixed on mine.

“Zaal…,” I whispered, hearing the longing clear in my tone. “Do you not want to cleanse?”

His pectoral muscles, marred with deep scars and ink, pounded heavily as his breathing grew labored. “You,” he rasped. My stomach and thighs clenched. Reaching down, he picked up my hand and laid it flat on his torso. I gasped when he began to steer my palm over his abdominal muscles, his jade eyes blazing with need. “You cleanse me,” he said, his clipped English and heavy Georgian accent growing thicker. “You touch me.”

He pushed my hand ever lower. My breath hitched as my palm ran over the head of his cock. “Zaal,” I moaned as my free hand lifted to rest on his bulging bicep. I was overcome by him, by this inexplicable pull between us.

Zaal’s hand over mine, we placed our joined fingers over his hard length. His jaw clenched and a growl rumbled in his throat. His eyelids grew leaden. I watched in fascination as his long black lashes swept against his high cheeks, his tongue licking along his full bottom lip.