Page 9 of Thirst
The thrall gave a cry of excitement. “Take me, cher. I feel lucky tonight.”
Rodrigo slapped her bottom. “Do you?”
She smiled and whispered something in his ear, and they moved off.
A quarter of an hour had passed; Cain would be getting restless. The man was scarily punctual. I took a covert look around, making sure no one from the QCS was watching me, and slipped out of the gallery.
The hallway was lined with those white tiles you see in subway stations all over Europe and North America. I passed the first washroom, guessing Cain would be in the second. The industrial steel door opened and his hand snaked out, hauling me into the dimly lit interior.
The bathroom was also tiled—a glossy, red-and-black mosaic. I barely had time to register it before Cain had the door locked and me backed against it. He’d dropped the glamour but kept the pink, a striking contrast to his pale hair and lake-ice eyes. His tie was shoved into a pocket, and his crisp white shirt hung open at the collar, exposing the strong column of his throat.
He stopped a few inches away. I moistened my lips, taking in his face, beautiful in that stark, angular way that made him look carved rather than born.
Four months since I’d last seen him, and that had been on that godsforsaken island, with me hidden in the shadow world. And it had been even longer since I’d touched him, felt his hands on my skin...
He was looking at me with the same concentration, his gaze lingering on my lips before dipping to my cleavage, visible beneath the fishnet.
He stilled. Something dark and hungry radiated from him, so intense I could almost feel it.
This was why I’d worn this dress—on the off chance he’d hear I was in Paris without my father and find a way into the gallery. We only ever met in public places, and I hadn’t attended anything but a couple of QCS events since that botched operation in Nova Scotia.
I should be explaining, asking for forgiveness.
He should be demanding it.
Neither of us spoke. Instead, I skimmed a fingertip over the wheat-brown scruff on his jaw. It was a new look for him, sharpening the cut of his jaw, deepening the hollows of his cheeks.
He shifted closer, his lips hovering over mine.
I found myself lifting onto my toes. Wanting—no, needing—to get closer to him.
Then I blinked and jerked back, the cold steel door stopping me short. “No.”
He followed, stepping into my space again. His body heat—cool to a human but just right to me—warmed me from breasts to thighs.
“No?” he asked.
I bit my lower lip. I wanted this as much as he did, probably more. I didn’t kid myself that he was celibate between our meetings, even if I was.
But there was that painting between us, and the edge in his voice when he’d told—no, ordered—me to meet him in the washroom.
His fingers brushed my black choker. The choker he’d given me last spring. His hand encircled my throat around the velvet.
“No, what, Nyx Nazaire?”
The tips of my breasts prickled against the flimsy silk of my bra. Somehow hearing him speak my full name—acknowledging that I was the daughter of his enemy—felt like both a threat and an invitation to sexy, filthy things. His gaze dipped and I knew he could see how my nipples had hardened into points.
I gulped, and his expression softened. He traced the underside of my jaw with his thumb.
“Answer me, love. No, what?”
Love.
He didn’t mean it; I knew that. But the sharp pang the word elicited made me slap my palms to his chest.
“No, I won’t do this. Not when you’re pissed off at me.”
“Pissed off?” A corner of his mouth lifted—not in a smile, something darker. “I’m a lot more than pissed off. I’m halfway to wringing this pretty neck of yours.”
