Azaiel stood before her, shirtless, with those damn jeans that had a habit of lying so low on his hips you couldn’t help but look down. He sported his own assortment of cuts and bruises, and someone had stitched up his left bicep. A bandage above his right eyebrow gave him a rakish, sexy air—which he so didn’t need. She swallowed and nearly choked because her mouth was suddenly bone dry. Like middle-of-the-Sahara kind of dry.
His eyes glittered, their freaky otherworld coloring amplified by something other than the muted lighting in the foyer. It came from within.
She attempted to clear her throat. “What happened to you?” Damn, when had she started sounding like Marilyn Monroe? Her cheeks burned in embarrassment, but she refused to look away. Rather, she couldn’t look away.
“We.” He paused and rubbed the back of his head—which only emphasized his exquisite abs and muscular shoulders. If it were anyone else—Priest maybe—she’d think he’d done it on purpose. But it was Azaiel, and he seemed pretty damn oblivious to how incredibly attractive he was.
“Had a few issues getting out of District One.”
“Oh, right.” She didn’t know what else to say, mostly because her eyes were still stuck on the abs. Christ, they looked like they’d been spray painted on. And then there was his stomach. And the freaking low-riding jeans.
“Kellen’s fine by the way.”
Her eyes flew back to his, and she bit her lip in irritation. At herself. “Good. Um . . .” She couldn’t think. He was literally sucking the thinking machine that used to be her brain right the hell out of her head.
“The, ah . . .” Oh God, she even sounded like an airhead.
“Grimoire?” His voice was soft, and she detected a hint of weariness.
“Yes.” The strange notion of exhilaration persisted, but suddenly the clouds parted, and her faculties returned. “Yes, the grimoire. Did you get it?”
“Piece of cake.” He nodded. “Kellen has it.” Azaiel took a step forward. “Look, I’m exhausted and could sure use a bed. I just don’t know where . . .”
“Oh, sure.” Rowan took a step back and swore as her hip grazed the corner of the Queen Anne’s table. She glanced toward the stairs.
“I don’t know where there’s an empty bed. I grabbed the sofa in your living room the other night, but it’s occupied.”
“You can sleep with me.”
Holy Mother of God, did I just say that?
“I mean, not with me like sexually or anything. I just um, you know, I have a big bed, and . . .” He was staring at her as if she had two heads. Stop talking. “Because we can’t go there”—she laughed nervously—“like what happened the other night kind of there . . . not here.” Oh God, stop talking.
He was quiet for a moment though a hint of a smile played with the corner of his mouth. “That would be great.” He nodded toward the stairs. “After you.”
Rowan swept past him and practically ran up the stairs. Her room was the last one on the left, and she flipped the light switch as she entered, grabbing her dirty clothes from the day before off the floor and tossing them into the basket beside her dresser.
Her room was ridiculously feminine and juvenile, but she ignored the pink and white and bent over the bed. Aware that he was behind her. Aware that his silent gaze was unnerving at best. Aware that every cell in her body was on fire with the need to do something other than what she was going to do.
Which was sleep. Catch zzzz’s. There would be no hanky-panky.
She pulled down the cover. And no touching.
Heavy petting leads to sinning. Christ, why was Reverend Beamish’s voice in her head? She shivered and mentally quieted the voices. It wasn’t that hard to do since Azaiel had managed to replace her brain cells with new and improved dumb-ass airhead ones.
She moved to the side, careful to avoid Azaiel, and nodded toward the bed.
“Take whichever side you like. I’m going to go and clean up.” She took another step toward her bathroom. “I don’t snore, so . . .”
Oh my God. Shut the fuck up.
His hooded eyes watched her in silence, and he didn’t say anything. She swallowed thickly and closeted herself inside the bathroom, resting her head against the door until her heart slowed. Her hands trembled, but that was more from fatigue rather than nerves.
You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
“God, stop thinking,” she rasped as she locked the door and whirled around. She grabbed a fresh towel from the shelf, turned the water on, and seconds later slipped beneath the hot spray. It felt like heaven, and for twenty minutes she was able to forget about pretty much everything, though as she cleaned herself, she was careful not to linger at her breasts or down south. No sense in getting worked up and yet . . .
Why not? Why couldn’t she give in to the fantasy that Azaiel represented? She knew he wanted her. She wanted him. What had happened in the Witches Brew was only an amplification of their real emotions. It wasn’t synthetic. It was organic. Real.