Page 6 of A Touch of Crimson
I have her. Adrian savored a ferocious surge of triumph.
If Lindsay Gibson knew how predatory and rapaciously sexual his sense of conquest was, she might have thought twice about having dinner with him. His first urge upon seeing her had been to press her against the most convenient flat surface and take her swift and hard.
To her, they were meeting for the first time. In truth, they were reuniting after two hundred years apart.
Two hellish centuries of waiting and craving.
Today, of all days. Life had a way of grabbing him by the balls at the most in-fucking-convenient times. But he couldn’t bitch about this—would never bitch about it.
Shadoe, my love.
They had never been apart this length of time before. Their reunions were always random and unpredictable, yet inexorable. Their souls were drawn to each other despite the disparate roads their lives were traveling.
The endless cycle of her deaths and her inability to remember what they meant to each other was his punishment for having broken the law he’d been created to enforce. It was an excruciatingly effective reprisal. He was dying in slow degrees; his soul—the core of his angelic existence—was ravaged by grief, rage, and a thirst for vengeance.
Each time he lost Shadoe, and every day he was forced to live without her, further compromised his ability to carry out his mission. Her absence impaired the commitment to duty that was the cornerstone of who he was—a soldier, a leader, and the gaoler of beings as powerful as he was.
Two hundred damned years. She’d been gone long enough to make him dangerous. A seraph whose heart was encased in ice was a hazard to everyone and everything around him. He was a danger to her because his hunger for her was so voracious that he questioned his ability to restrain it. When she was gone, the world was dead to him. The silence within was deafening. Then she returned, and the rush of sensation exploded around him—the pounding of his heart, the heat of her touch, the force of his need.
Life. Which was lost to him when she was.
As they returned to their seats, Lindsay said, “My dad says you’re the Howard Hughes of my generation.”
Impatience clawed at him. Discussing his necessary but meaningless facade after the day’s events was both perverse and anguishing. He was beyond agitated, his blood flowing thick and hot with fury and driving hunger.
“I’d like to think I’m less eccentric,” he replied in a voice that betrayed none of his volatility.
Every cell in his body was attuned to Lindsay Gibson—the vessel carrying the soul he loved. The illicit physical needs of his human shell had roused with vicious alacrity, reminding him how long it had been since she’d last been in his arms.
He could never forget how good it was between them. A single scorching glance could set off an incendiary hunger that took hours to burn out. He craved those intimate hours with her. Craved her.
While Shadoe’s physical form reflected the genetics of Lindsay’s family line, he felt and recognized her regardless of the body she was born into. Over the centuries, her appearance and ethnicity had varied widely, and his love burned undiminished. His attraction was borne of the connection he felt to her, the sense of finding the other half of himself.
Lindsay shrugged. “I don’t mind eccentric. Makes things interesting.”
Raindrops glistened in her hair. She was a blonde in this incarnation, with tousled curls that were sexy as hell. The length was short, about four inches all around. His hands clenched against the desire to fist the lush mass, to hold her motionless while his mouth slanted over hers and quenched his desperate thirst for the taste of her.
He was in love with Shadoe’s soul, but Lindsay Gibson was inciting a blistering lust. The combined response was devastating, blindsiding him when he was already on edge. His spine shifted with restless awareness, forcing him to restrain wings wanting to flex in sinuous pleasure at the sight and smell of her. Sitting beside her on the plane would be both heaven and hell.
He had the advantage of remembering every one of their past relationships, but Lindsay had only her instincts to go on, and they were clearly sending her signals she wasn’t sure how to process. Her nostrils flared gently, her pupils were dilated, and her body language confirmed her reciprocating attraction.
She watched him carefully, assessing him. There was no coyness to her. She was bold and self-assured. Definitely comfortable in her own skin. He liked her immensely already and knew that would be the case regardless of his history with Shadoe.
“Where in Orange County are you heading?” he asked. “And what was the draw worth uprooting for?”
Although Adrian knew her as deeply as any man could know his woman, in most ways, he was starting from scratch every time he found her again. Lindsay’s likes and dislikes, her personality and temperament, and her memories were unique to her. Every reunion was a rediscovery.
She peeled back the flimsy plastic top of her soda cup and took a sip. “Anaheim. I work in hospitality, so Southern California tourism is right up my alley.”
He appeared to reach into his back pocket. With his hand behind him, he summoned a straw and then presented it to her. “Restaurants or hotels?”
How did she take her coffee? Did she even enjoy coffee? Did she sleep on her back or her stomach? Where did she like to be touched? Was she a night owl or an early riser?
Lindsay stared at the straw, then arched a brow at him. She accepted it and tore into the protective paper, but was clearly wondering when he’d picked it up. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
There was so much to assimilate and an unknown amount of time to work with. Once, she’d come back to him for twenty minutes; another time, twenty years. Her father always found her. Syre was as drawn to her as Adrian was, and the leader of the vampires was determined to finish what he’d started. He wanted to make his daughter immortal through vampirism, which would kill the soul connecting her to Adrian.
