The Indigo Spell (Bloodlines, #3)(95)

He's the only one who never tells me to do anything, I realized. Oh, sure, he asked me to do lots of things, often with cajoling and fast talking. But he made no demands on me, not like the Alchemists or Marcus. Even Jill and Angeline tended to preface their requests with, "You have to . . ."

"Speaking of that dress," he added, "I still haven't seen it."

I laughed softly. "You couldn't handle it."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Is that a challenge, Sage? I can handle a lot."

"Not if our history is any indication. Each time I wear some moderately attractive dress, you lose it."

"That's not exactly true," he said. "I lose it no matter what you're wearing. And that red dress was not 'moderately attractive.' It was like a piece of heaven here on earth. A red, silky piece of heaven."

I should've rolled my eyes. I should've told him I wasn't here for his personal entertainment. But there was something in the way he was looking at me and something in the way I felt tonight that made me want to see his reaction. Breaking the tattoo hadn't affected anything between us, but it - and the deeds I'd done this weekend - had left me feeling bold. For the first time, I wanted to take a risk with him, despite my usual set of logical arguments. Besides, there was nothing dangerous in letting him look.

I manipulated the dream the way he'd taught me. A few moments later, the lacy minidress replaced my jeans and blouse. I even summoned the heels, which bumped my height up. I was still nowhere near as tall as him, but the small boost brought our faces closer together.

His eyes widened. Still holding my hands, he took a step back so that he could take in the whole look. There was almost something tangible to the way his gaze swept my body. I could practically feel every place it touched. By the time his eyes reached mine again, my breathing was heavy, and I was acutely aware that there really wasn't that much clothing between the two of us. Maybe there was something dangerous in letting him look after all.

"A piece of heaven?" I managed to ask.

He slowly shook his head. "No. The other place. The one I'm going to burn in for thinking what I'm thinking."

He'd moved toward me again. His hands released mine and moved to my waist, and I noticed I wasn't the only one breathing heavily. He pulled me to him, bringing our bodies together. The world was all heat and electricity, thick with tension that was only one spark away from exploding around us. I was balancing on another precipice, which wasn't easy to do in heels.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, and this time I was the one who drew him closer. "Damn," he murmured.

"What?" I asked, never taking my eyes off his.

He ran his hands over my hips. "I'm not supposed to kiss you."

"It's okay."

"What is?"

"It's okay if I kiss you."

Adrian Ivashkov wasn't easy to surprise, but I surprised him then when I brought his mouth toward mine. I kissed him, and for a moment, he was too stunned to respond. That lasted for, oh, about a second. Then the intensity I'd come to know so well in him returned. He pushed me backward, lifting me so that I sat on the table. The tablecloth bunched up, knocking over some of the glasses. I heard what sounded like a china plate crash against the floor.

Whatever logic and reason I normally possessed had melted away. There was nothing but flesh and fire left, and I wasn't going to lie to myself - at least not tonight. I wanted him. I arched my back, fully aware of how vulnerable that made me and that I was giving him an invitation. He accepted it and laid me back against the table, bringing his body down on top of mine. That crushing kiss of his moved from my mouth to the nape of my neck. He pushed down the edge of my dress and the bra strap underneath, exposing my shoulder and giving his lips more skin to conquer. A glass rolled off and smashed, soon followed by another. Adrian broke off his kissing, and I opened my eyes. He had an exasperated look on his face.

"A table," he said. "A goddamned table."

A few moments later, the table was gone. I was in his apartment, on his bed, and was glad that I no longer had silverware underneath me. With the venue change complete, his lips found mine again. The urgency in the way I responded surprised even me. I never would've thought myself capable of a feeling so primal, so removed from the reason that usually governed my actions. My nails dug into his back, and he trailed his lips down the edge of my chin, down the center of my neck. He kept going until he reached the bottom of the dress's V-neck. I let out a small gasp, and he kissed all around the neckline, just enough to tease.

"Don't worry," he murmured. "The dress stays on."

"Oh? Is that your decision to make?"

"Yes," he said. "You're not losing your virginity in a dream. If that's even possible. I don't want to deal with the philosophical side of it. And besides, there's no need to rush anyway. Sometimes it's worth lingering on the journey for a while before getting to the destination."

Metaphors. This was the cost of making out with an artist.

I nearly said as much. Then his hand slid up my bare leg, and I was lost again. Maybe the dress was staying on, but he didn't mind taking liberties with it. That hand slipped under my dress, running along the side of my leg and up to my hip. I burned where he touched me, and everything within me became focused on that hand. It was moving far too slowly, and I grabbed it, ready to urge it on.