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And when he pulled the soaked lace aside to delve through her heat, her back arched and a moan tore its way out of her, mixing with so many others, and the word she moaned was Adrian. “Oh, yes, Adrian . . .” She begged, moving her hips in time with the featherlight strokes over her throbbing bundle of nerves. She was going to come in front of all these people, and he was going to be the one to make her do it.

“What are you working on?”

Holy shit.

My heart seizes at the sound of Adrian’s voice behind me, right over my shoulder. How long has he been watching?

And dear God, why the hell have I been writing Adrian instead of Jackson?

“Nothing!” I cover the screen with my hands, shaking, breathless. “Nothing! It’s nothing at all.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

He saw. I know he saw. And now he knows I was imagining him behind me. Him playing with me in front of all those people. Whispering in my ear, letting me lean against him while I—

Horror and shame make me shoot up out of the chair.

One problem. I’m still wrapped in the blanket.

The blanket that trips me up. One second I’m on my feet, and the next? I’m falling through thin air, knowing the inevitable is about to happen as the edge of the table suddenly rushes up to meet my forehead.

“Oh shit!” Adrian’s hands land on my arms. “Fuck, are you all right? Are you bleeding?”

Am I? I’m not even sure I’m still alive. Pain zips through my head like lightning, and I’m almost afraid to touch where I made contact with the table’s corner, since that’s where it hurts the most. Obviously.

“I’m fine.” Am I? Who the hell knows? “Nothing’s the matter here. Everything’s cool.”

Until I try to stand up straight, that is. That’s when the room tilts on its side and my vision blurs . . . “Oh no . . .” I manage to mumble before landing against something hard and warm.

He caught me. Adrian caught me. I’m in his arms, but the room is still spinning. “Careful,” I whisper, leaning against his granite chest, supported by his bulging arms. “I might puke on you.”

Chapter Eight

Adrian

“Ouch!”

Here I am, holding an ice pack to this girl’s head after she pulled a complete bonehead move, and she has the nerve to give me a dirty look. “That’s cold,” she mutters, offended.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve made ice warmer for you.” She tries to duck the pack, giving me no choice but to take her by the back of the neck to hold her still.

Interesting. I thought taking care of another person would be my biggest problem, since it doesn’t exactly come naturally to me. I never imagined the warmth in my fingertips once they made contact with her supple skin. The impulse to press in a little, to test the flesh underneath.

Everything about this is foreign to me. I’m used to taking lives, not protecting and taking care of one. I’ve never thought I was good at anything else, never believed that I could be something else. Theo tried to tell me, but I just didn’t believe him. Now I wonder . . .

“To think, the words were really starting to flow.” She sounds completely miserable, though I guess that’s to be expected, considering the tumble she took.

“They’ll flow again.” I wish my problems were that simple.

“I really should try to—”

When she reaches for my laptop, I let go of her neck to snap the laptop shut and push it farther away. “Give it a rest. You might have a concussion.”

Her eyelids flutter like she hadn’t considered this. “Oh. What should I do, then? Um, you’re not supposed to sleep, right?”

“I’ve heard arguments on both sides.”

“What if I have brain damage?” The drama behind her gasp is award-worthy. “What if I can’t write anymore? Have I lost my gift?”