Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [452]
I started to argue with him, but couldn’t think how to do it. I finally said, “I sort of agree with what you said, what of it?”
“God, Anita, it’s not about blame. You act like it’s a sin.”
Something must have shown on my face, because he made a sound in his throat that was part growl, and part exasperation. I had to look away from the expression in his eyes, the anger in them. “I was taught that it was a sin.”
“They also taught you that Santa Claus was real, and you don’t believe that anymore, do you?”
I crossed my arms across my body, which lost some of its intended sullenness, because I was naked, and it’s never easy to be sullen when you’re nude. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He went down on his knees by the bed. “It means, look at him.”
I looked stubbornly at Jason, and not at Nathaniel.
“Turn around and look at him, or I’ll turn you around.”
“You’ll try,” I said.
“Fine, you want to wrestle, we can wrestle, but wouldn’t it be less embarrassing, and less childish, if you just turned around?”
I took a deep breath, let it out slow, and turned around.
Nathaniel was lying there on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. His face was what you noticed first. Those amazing lavender eyes with the remants of the eye makeup still there, making them look darker, larger, as if they needed any help to be amazing. His eyes held such patience, a calm surety that I’d fix this. That it would be alright. I didn’t like anyone looking at me like that, because life had taught me that it usually wasn’t alright. That I couldn’t save everyone. That I couldn’t fix anything. His lips held a slight smile. There was no anxiety in him. No fear that I’d run. He looked at me with the calm face of a saint staring into the face of God. Secure in his faith, safe in his knowledge, trusting in a way that I had lost so long ago. How could he look at me like that? Didn’t he know better? He’d lived with me for four months. Didn’t he know by now that I was screwed six ways to Sunday, and he shouldn’t depend on me?
He ducked his head, almost a bashful movement, but it drew my gaze across the sweep of his shoulder, down the curve of his back. I’d only allowed myself to touch him below the waist once. When the ardeur was very new. I’d covered his back and buttocks with bites, and he’d loved it, and I had fed, and I’d never let myself touch him that much again, until the last two days. That first time had been about feeding, and I hadn’t taken time to really see him, really enjoy him, because I’d looked at it as an evil necessity. Looking at him now, I felt guilty for ever thinking of him like that. He deserved better.
I’d made him put clothes on for months, at least shorts, even in bed. But he was entirely too comfortable nude for me not to have caught glimpses of him. Even last night, at the club, I hadn’t really let myself look at him, not really. Because if I’d allowed myself to linger on his body, I’d have lingered on the part that seemed to fascinate me most, and, no, it wasn’t what you think. His back had a slight sway to it, a curve that spilled to a lovely ass, but at the farthest line of his back, before it became not his back, were dimples. Maybe dimple wasn’t the right word for them, but I had no other word to use. I stared at him now, let my eyes linger, rather than glance and look hurriedly away. I let myself see not that he was nude, but see his body.
I reached out to him and let myself do something that I’d wanted to do for months. I traced my hand down the curve of his back and came to rest just there, just at the end of his back, before the swell of his ass.
He shivered just a little under the touch of my hand, even though all I had done was lay my hand flat against his skin. Let the weight of my hand rest between those two dimples so low on his body. It was as if when the clay had been wet, God had placed his thumbs just above the