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A lick of pain went off in her chest like a match strike, but then he moaned low in his throat and his head kicked back, his blue-black hair feathering over the black pillow. As his hips flexed upward, his stomach muscles tightened in a sequential rush, the tattoos at his groin stretching and returning to position.

“Faster, Jane. You’re going to do it faster for me now.”

One of his legs shifted up and his ribs began to pump hard. Across his luscious, fluid skin, a flush of sweat gleamed in the dim lamplight. He was getting close…and the closer he got, the more she realized she was doing this because she wanted to. The clinical-curiosity thing was a lie: He fascinated her for different reasons.

She kept pumping him, focusing the friction at his plum-sized head.

“Don’t stop…. Fuck…” He drew the word out, his shoulders and neck straining, his pecs tightening until they threw sharp edges.

Suddenly his eyes flipped open and glowed bright as stars.

Then he bared fangs that had fully dropped and shouted his release. As he came, he stared at her neck, and the orgasm went on and on until she wondered if he’d had two. Or more. God…he was spectacular, and in the midst of his pleasure that glorious scent of dark spice filled the room until she breathed it instead of air.

When he was still, she released him and used the hand towel to clean his belly and chest off. She didn’t linger on him. Instead she got to her feet and wished she could have some time to herself.

He watched her through low lids. “See,” he said gruffly, “just the same.”

Not by a long shot. “Yes.”

He pulled the duvet over his hips and closed his eyes. “Use the shower if you want.”

In an uncoordinated rush, Jane took the bedpan and the washcloth to the bath. Propping her hands against the sink, she thought maybe some hot water and something other than scrubs on her back would clear her head—because right now all she could see was what he’d looked like coming all over her hand and himself.

Overwhelmed, she went back out into the bedroom, got some of her things from the smaller duffel, and reminded herself that this situation was not real, not part of her reality. It was a hiccup, a tangle in the thread of her life, like her destiny had the flu.

This was not real.

After he finished with class, Phury went back to his room and changed from his teaching clothes of a black silk shirt and cream cashmere trousers into his fighting leathers. Technically he was supposed to be off tonight, but with V flat on his back they needed an extra set of hands.

Which worked for him. Better to be out on the streets hunting than getting involved in that sitch with Z and Bella and the pregnancy.

He strapped on his chest holster, slid two daggers in, handles down, and popped a SIG Sauer on each hip. On his way to the door he pulled on his leather coat and patted the inner pocket, making sure he had a couple of blunts and a lighter with him.

As he hit the grand staircase at a fast clip, he prayed no one saw him…and got busted just before he made it out of the house. Bella called his name as he stepped into the vestibule, and the sound of her shoes crossing the foyer’s mosaic floor meant he had to stop.

“You weren’t at First Meal,” she said.

“I was teaching.” He glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see she looked good, her coloring bright, her eyes clear.

“Have you eaten at all?”

“Yes,” he said, lying.

“Okay…well…shouldn’t you wait for Rhage?”

“We’ll meet up later.”

“Phury, are you okay?”

He told himself it was not his place to say anything. He’d already closed that door with his pep talk to Z. This was totally none of his—

As always with her, he had no self-control. “I think you need to talk to Z.”

Her head eased to one side, her hair falling farther down her shoulder. God, it was lovely. So dark, yet not black. It reminded him of fine mahogany that had been carefully varnished, glowing with reds and deep browns.

“About what?”

Shit, he so shouldn’t be doing this. “If you’re keeping something from Z,