Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

Author:J.T. Geissinger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

22

NAT

With a yelp of terror, I lunge for the nightstand beside the bed, yank open the drawer, and pull out the first solid thing my hand closes around to use to defend myself.

Then I scramble back against the headboard and shout, “I have a weapon!”

The lights flick on.

Kage stands in the doorway of my bedroom.

Shadows nestle in the hollows under his eyes. His dark hair is disheveled. He’s wearing black dress slacks, black leather shoes, and a fitted, button-up white dress shirt that accentuates the beautiful architecture of his upper chest and arms.

From the neck to the hem, the entire left side of his shirt is saturated with blood.

He says, “We need to have a talk about self-defense, baby. You can’t scare away an intruder with that.”

With a faint smile, he gestures to what I’m brandishing at him:

My big pink dildo.

I toss it away, leap off the bed, and run to him, throwing my arms around his shoulders and burying my face in his neck. “You’re here!”

He winds his arms around my back, pulling me tight against his chest. His voice is a low, pleased rumble. “I’m here. Did you miss me?”

“No. Not even a little bit.” I snuggle closer against him, as close as I can get, dragging his scent into my nose and shuddering a little in happiness.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Liar. Give me your mouth.”

I tip my head back and immediately get his lips on mine. He kisses me voraciously, holding me tight.

When we come up for air, I say breathlessly, “Why is there blood all over your shirt?”

“Because some asshole shot me.”

Horrified, I pull out of his arms and stare at him, looking for holes. “What? Oh shit! Where?”

“My shoulder. Relax. It’s barely a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t bleed like that! Let me see—take off your shirt!”

He smiles indulgently at me, as if I’m a fussing baby. “Not even sixty seconds in the door and she’s already trying to get me naked.”

Hands on my hips, I glower at him. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room. And get your shirt off before I have a heart attack.”

His smile grows wider. “And you say I’m bossy.”

He complies with my demand, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt. When he drops it to the floor and stands there bare chested, I take a moment to admire him before I remember what I’m supposed to be doing: looking for holes.

I quickly find what I’m looking for. On the outer part of his shoulder is an ugly red gash from which blood is still leaking.

“Sit,” I order, pushing him toward the bed.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, then grasps my hips and gazes up at me as I stand between his legs and inspect the wound, grimacing.

He murmurs, “My own personal nurse. You should take off your shirt, too.”

He slides a hand up my rib cage and squeezes my breast.

I’m wearing my typical sleepwear of boy shorts and a soft cotton T-shirt with nothing beneath. He thumbs over my nipple until it’s taut, then leans in and gently bites it right through the cotton.

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