Black and Blue (Otherworld Assassin 2)

“Uh, Blue,” she said, embarrassed by the tremor in her voice.

“Mmm, you feel even better.” As he rubbed his erection into the cleft of her bottom—no way was that thing as big as it seemed to be—his fingers reached around to slide under her T-shirt. Suddenly she was skin to heated skin with her greatest enemy. He cupped one of her br**sts, purring, “Sweet little teacup. Can’t wait to put my mouth on it.”

Her nipple beaded, craving exactly what he promised. Mouth, with tongue and teeth.

More.

“Blue,” she gasped. “Stop.” Don’t you dare stop. “I’m not one of your women, and I’m not here to service your every whim. You’re engaged to another woman.” That’s right. Oi. Shame beat through her. “And while I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, it does to me.”

“My woman.” He tweaked her nipple and kissed her nape, his tongue flicking out to taste her. It was ecstasy. It was agony.

It was wrong.

Reaching back, Evie grabbed Blue by the hair and yanked. “I said stop.”

“Ow,” he yelped, his hold on her at last loosening.

Though it nearly killed her, she rolled from his heat, moving on top of him and pinning his shoulders to the mattress with her knees. “I think it’s time for us to chat, yeah?”

Four

BLUE SNAPPED OUT OF the most spectacular sensual daze of his life. Used to having to think and act fast, he took stock of the situation in an instant. Moonlight filled a spacious, femininely decorated bedroom.

Evie Black’s bedroom.

Every piece of furniture hovered over the floor, even the bed.

With a sharp mental command, every piece crashed into place. The bed shook, and Evie almost tumbled over the side. He grabbed her by the waist to steady her—such a slender, perfect waist. His palms flamed at the contact.

He’d noticed their fit before. Somehow, it was better now.

She slapped at his wrists with enough force to let him know she meant business, just not enough to actually break his hold. He released her of his own volition. But rather than reward him for good behavior, she glared at him.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. He’d been living with her, he recalled, and she’d been taking care of him. “Why are you on top of me?” Why was his body already aroused to a fever pitch?

“You made a pass at me,” she spat at him. “Put your hands right on my wee br**sts.”

Horror filled him. Horror . . . and a more intense arousal. “No way.”

“Yes way. Want me to write up a review of your performance? Done. First line: Mr. Blue’s rendition of Grabby Hands did not earn a standing O.”

“O as in orgasm?” Annoying baggage. “You’re lying.”

“Are you suggesting you did give me an orgasm?”

“Filthy-minded girl. No.” But I’d like to. “I’m saying I didn’t grab you.”

“Let’s look at the evidence. You have a python between your legs, and it’s poking at me right this very second.”

He bit the side of his tongue. To keep from cursing or laughing, he wasn’t sure. A python? Thank you. “That’s not evidence I touched you. That’s evidence I’m a man. What disproves your grabby hands theory? You aren’t my type, and my fingers aren’t suffering from frostbite.”

For a moment he felt the sting of rejection and frowned. She hadn’t rejected him, so—

Her sting of rejection, he realized. He tried to turn off his empathic ability, but still the sense of rejection remained, hurting him. But . . . she was an emotionless harpy, concerned only with the destruction of all mankind. Nothing he said should bother her.

“Well,” she announced, her tone now flat. “I can honestly say that’s the first time I’ve ever been rejected for being too awesome. Because your type sucks. Blondes with br**sts so big they can be used as flotation devices, and heads so filled with air they’re comparable to balloons. Cliché!”

Yes, he did prefer that type of woman. Even though one had never turned him on the way Evie did. And why the hell did he want to beg for her forgiveness? She’d dished worse to him.

And damn it, why was he now focusing on her perfect teacups, practically salivating, definitely desperate to draw her hard little ni**les into his mouth? As if her “wee br**sts” were the sweetest treats he’d ever had the privilege of touching.

They were. He knew it soul deep.

All right. So there was no denying he’d touched them . . . or that he wanted to touch them again.

Danger. He gripped her by the knees and shoved her to the side of the bed, away from his mouth, and, worse, his throbbing erection.

“Lights,” she said, and golden light cascaded from the overhead lamp.

He sat up and looked himself over. He was completely healed and dressed in a pair of large sweatpants. Men’s sweatpants.

To whom did they belong?

His gaze arrowed to Evie, and his chest constricted. She wore a pink tank top and a pair of men’s boxer shorts.

Did the boxers belong to the owner of the sweatpants? A . . . boyfriend?

For some reason Blue suddenly wanted to punch a wall.

Odd reaction. One he didn’t fully understand.

She tucked her long, slender, and so lusciously pale legs around her, sitting in that crisscross way only a female could manage. Hair of the deepest jet hung wildly around a face he used to tell himself wasn’t really pretty, as he’d first assumed. But he couldn’t tell himself that anymore.

Maybe, after their first interaction, he’d never let himself look past her attitude; but now, in this moment, that prickly layer had been peeled away and he could see her, really see her. Large velvety brown eyes drew him in and refused to let go. Lush porcelain skin flushed to the most erotic shade of pink. Heart-shaped lips red and deceptively kiss-swollen, practically begging for more.

He had to fist his hands to keep from reaching for her.

Arousal he could comprehend. But straight-up attraction? To her?

Really, Blue? Really?

The very idea appalled him.

Michael was more than a boss. Even more than a mentor. Blue considered the man a surrogate father. Michael had found him at his lowest, picked him up, given him friends, a purpose. A reason to go on. And he’d never forgotten Michael’s warning to leave Evie alone.

What father would want his daughter to be with a man like Blue? Not a good one, and Michael was better than most.

It stung to be considered completely unworthy, but that’s just the way things were. The way they would always be. He got it.