Mary had never been with another being physically, but she understood the concept of desire well enough, her education coming mostly through books. And now, this vampire. What he stirred inside of her with almost no effort. Just being close. Pushing physical boundaries with him was as natural as breathing.
What was it about him that made his touch, his body heat feel almost vital?
Like a given. Something that couldn’t be ignored.
Tucker’s thumb retreated and they walked for about a minute, stopping.
She heard Tucker set down her suitcase on the concrete, a key sliding into a lock and a door opening. He pulled her inside, closing the door behind them and locking it twice, with two different sounds. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of aging carpet and faint cigarette smoke, but Tucker’s musk and mint scent was a balm over the unpleasantness.
And his hand was still snug against her cheek.
“All right.” He audibly struggled through a gulp. “We’ve got two full beds. Some pretty brutal turn-of-the-century décor. A television—”
“What way are we facing?”
His attention lingered on her face a moment, then he started again. “We just walked in and we’re facing the back of the room. The two beds are on the left. There’s a dresser on the right, ugly as hell, television on top. Bathroom straight ahead.” His voice changed directions. “There’s a window beside the door and it faces a rear parking lot.”
Mary nodded. Thinking she’d asked enough of him for one day, she reluctantly started to let go of Tucker’s hand, but he tightened his grip and guided her forward. They ventured exactly ten steps, the air consistency telling her when they were passing objects, furniture, until finally a light switch clicked.
“This is the bathroom. There’s a small bathtub on the right, toilet on the left. Someone has definitely been murdered in here.” His thumb brushed her cheek, just a graze, and he seemed to hold his breath afterward. “But you…you’re safe. You know that, don’t you, kid? I won’t let anything happen to you. While I’ve…while I’ve got you.”
“I know,” she murmured, marveling over the fact that she’d gone from skittish to lulled in the space of minutes. “Tucker, why do you call me kid?”
He started to chuckle, but cut himself off. Didn’t speak for several beats. “I call you kid to remind myself to stop noticing how pretty you are,” he said quietly. “That’s not for me to notice, Mary. You’re not mine to look at. Or touch. And it’s reminding me of that, too.”
That fluttering that she’d experienced earlier moved up to her throat. Pretty. He’d called her pretty. No one had ever said that to her before. As someone who rarely ventured out into the real world or had any use for a mirror, her looks had always been inconsequential. But the fae valued beauty. The fact that she had fairy blood running through her veins was never more obvious than now. His compliment made her skin pulse, her radiance tripping and dancing drunkenly around her head. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Every time you call me kid, I’ll hear you calling me pretty, instead.”
“Yeah.” He sounded so close, voice hushed, his breath stirring her hair. “Guess the nickname backfired, huh?”
“Yes. It’s wonderful.” She flattened his rough palm against her cheek and rubbed against it, knowing on some level she shouldn’t be, not when she would marry another in a week’s time, but his touch felt incredible. She’d touched no one but her mother for almost a decade and Tilda’s embrace was perfunctory. Not permissive and exciting like Tucker’s. Maybe she just craved contact with another being. Maybe that’s what was drawing her to him so intensely? And if so, couldn’t she be forgiven for indulging that need just a little? “Tucker, what do you look like?”
If she didn’t have her full face pressed to his hand, she would have missed the jolt that went through him. The shift in his energy signature. “Ah…” He took his hand away. “Nothing to write home about, Mary.”
Her cheek was already cooling and she mourned the loss of heat. “What does that mean?”
He laughed, his footsteps taking him away from her. “Let’s just say everyone looked shocked when you picked me out of a pack of slayers with zero body fat at Enders. I’m like…if a linebacker dressed like a pimp for Halloween.” He jingled his chains. “Except my shit is real.”
His attitude confused her. Was he upset about the way he looked? He talked about his appearance so casually, but there was a thread of discomfiture to it. On one hand, he was casual about it. Flippant. On the other, not so much. But he must care if he’d noticed how others responded to her approaching him.
Oh God. What if she said the wrong thing in response?