His lips parted and he breathed, “Because I want to. Because you want me to.”

I didn’t look from him. His pupils never shifted, never grew. My grip on him became firmer as my arms pressed into him. “There will be no sharing of blood, Kisten. Ever.”

His breath came and went, and his hands tightened. Expression dusky with the knowledge of what was to come, he leaned closer. “One,” he said as he kissed the corner of my mouth. “Step.” He kissed the other side. “At a time,” he continued as he kissed me gently, so gently it made me ache for more. “My love,” he finished.

A stab of desire went right to my core. My eyes closed. Oh God. Save me from myself.

“I make no promises,” I whispered.

“I don’t ask for any,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.” My hands drifted downward from his waist. We were swaying to the music again. I felt alive, and as we almost-danced, a hint of fire came from my demon scar.

“Can I do this?” Kisten asked, moving closer so more of our bodies touched. I knew he was asking my permission to play upon my scar, to willingly let him bespell me. That he asked gave me a feeling of security I knew was probably false.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” So torn. It felt good, just my body touching his, his arms about my waist, a new demand in their strength. “I don’t know.…”

“Then I won’t.” Where were we going? Exhaling, he ran his hands down my arms, lacing his fingers in mine. Gently he pulled my hands to the small of his back, holding them there as we swayed, shifting to the slow, seductive music.

A shiver rose inside me. The scent of leather grew thick and warm. Where he touched sent a sliver of heat to tingle my fingers. My head dropped into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. I wanted to put my lips there, knowing what he would feel, knowing how he would taste if I dared. But I didn’t, contenting myself to send my breath there instead, afraid of what he would do if my lips touched him.

Heart pounding, I moved his hands to the small of my back and I left them there, moving, pressing, massaging. My hands rose to twine my fingers behind his head. My thoughts touched upon us in the elevator when I thought Piscary was going to kill me. It was too much to resist, the memory of my demon scar alive and alight.

“Please,” I whispered, my lips brushing his neck to make him tremble. His torn earlobe was inches from me, tempting. “I want you to.” Pulling my gaze up, I searched his eyes, seeing but not fearing the narrowing band of blue. “I trust you. But I don’t trust your instincts.”

A deep understanding and relief pinched his eyes. His hands dropped lower, caressing until they found the top of my legs, then reversed their motion, moving, always moving, as we swayed. “I don’t trust them either,” he said, fake accent utterly gone. “Not with you.”