toward me, bringing the warmth of him, the smell of him, the taste of him, closer.
There was a moment of consideration before I decided I wasn't appalled enough by my actions to let him go.
Ethan.
It wasn't even a whisper, just the mental calling of his name, but he groaned triumphantly, sucked my tongue into his mouth, and tortured it with friction and the heat of his mouth.
I kissed him, let him kiss me, let him clutch my hips, curl his fingers into the fabric of my shirt, slide his hands around my waist and splay them against my back, pull me infinitesimally closer. He made a sound, a growl or purr, some predatory noise that rumbled in his throat, then said my name. And this time, it wasn't a question but a sound of victory, a claim on his prize.
He pressed in closer, fingers splayed and moving slowly upward. As he pressed against me, I felt the rise of his erection, the solidity of it against my stomach.
I cupped his face in my hands as we kissed in long, sensuous pulls and teasing bites, the thick golden silk of his hair falling around my fingers.
Until the knock at the library door.
Ethan shot away, one hand on his hip, one at his mouth, wiping away the evidence.
"Yes?" His voice was loud, a cannon shot in the otherwise empty room.
I brushed the back of my hand across my mouth.
The door opened, a body silhouetted in the doorway, and then Malik stepped inside.
"They're here," he said, eyes on me, some shred of unspoken compassion there, then looked at Ethan. "Front parlor."
Ethan nodded. "Put them in my office. We'll be there in a moment." Without even so much as a second glance, Malik nodded and walked out again, the door closing with a heavy, slow thush.
I moved back to the table and kept my gaze on the notebooks and texts I began to gather up. My heart raced, the guilt I'd thrown back at Morgan now flooding my chest.
What had I done? What had I, we, been about to do?
"Merit."
"Don't." I finished stacking the notebooks, picked them up, grabbed my scabbarded katana, and held them to my chest like a shield. "Don't. That shouldn't have happened."
Ethan didn't respond until I began to move toward the door. He stopped me with a firm hand at my elbow. Even then, a single arched eyebrow was the only question I got.
"You gave me to him."
His eyes widened, instantaneously. He was surprised, then, that it mattered, that it mattered that Ethan had wanted me, for whatever his reasons, in spite of his doubts, and had still given me away. To Morgan. Who was waiting one floor below us.
I pulled my arm away and walked to the door. When I reached it, I stopped, turned, and looked back, seeing that stunned expression still on his face. "You made the decision," I told him. "You get to live with it."
After a moment of obvious shock, he shook his head. "We have visitors." His tone was steely. "Let's go."
Scabbard and paper in hand, I followed him out.
They were in the office when we arrived downstairs - Morgan, Scott Grey, and Noah Beck, all in chairs around Ethan's conference table. I hadn't seen Scott or Noah since the night I'd protected Ethan against a would-be sucker punch thrown by my future ex-boyfriend, one night before Celina attempted to kill Ethan. It seemed appropriate that we were meeting again under equally dramatic circumstances.
Scott was tall with dark brown hair, dressed in jeans and a Cubs T-shirt. He was a sports fan, so sportswear usually made up the uniform of Grey House, such as it was.
Instead of the medals vampires from Navarre and Cadogan wore, Grey House vamps had jerseys.
Noah wore black cargo pants and a black thermal shirt, the only clothes I'd ever seen him in. Noah was shorter than Scott, which didn't say much given that Scott probably reached six foot four, but Noah was broader-shouldered. Noah clearly spent a lot of time in the weight room. And where Scott had a kind of frat-boy attractiveness, now sporting a little soul patch below his bottom lip, Noah was ruggedly handsome. His look was equally vampire rugged - brown hair around big blue eyes, sensuous lips, a few days' worth of stubble along his strong jaw.
Morgan was still in his jeans and T-shirt. He'd also kept the flat, pissed-off stare, which he leveled at me as soon I walked into the room.