Good thing she’d stopped him. Only two other outcomes had been possible: he would have stopped before actual penetration, leaving her gasping and desperate, or, if they’d actually gone all the way, he would have told her how bad she was afterward. He might have laughed at her again.
Her teeth ground together as she straightened. He’d told her she would regret using the pen against him. Now she did. She needed a distraction.
The living room was empty. “Evie,” she called. “Godiva.”
No reply.
Had they left, or were they in their rooms, getting it on? Glory rolled her eyes and pretended there wasn’t an ache in her chest. Probably the latter, the disgusting witches. Did they ever take a break? Legs screaming in protest, she lumbered forward, using the wall as a prop.
Down the hall she maneuvered. When she reached her bedroom door, she waved her hand over the knob, magically unlocking it. The door creaked open, and she stumbled inside, forced to kick past the clothes and food wrappers still scattered across the floor.
“Hello, Glory,” a strong, male voice said.
She gasped, frozen in place, gaze searching. Her heart pounded in her chest, nearly cracking her ribs when she spotted the intruder. Falon was splayed out on her bed. His dark head rested on her pillow, his arms propped behind his neck.
He wore a clinging black T-shirt that veed at the neck and jeans that showed off the muscles in his thighs.
“Wh-what are you doing here? And how did you get in?” No. No! He’d seen the national disaster state of her bedroom. Seriously, a bra hung from the lamp beside her bed. Sadly, she looked worse. “Don’t look at me,” she said, wanting to turn away as his eyes drank her in.
“Why? You’re beautiful. I like looking at you. Just as you are,” he added.
She rubbed her damp palms against her thighs. “What are you doing here?” she repeated, because she didn’t know how else to react to his praise. The pleasure she felt was unacceptable.
“I would have pegged you for a neat freak,” he said, ignoring her question. Again.
At least he didn’t sound disgusted. “So?”
“Where’s the pen?” he asked conversationally.
She raised her chin. “Like I’ll tell you.”
“You haven’t used it against me since our . . . the . . . our time in the forest.” Had he just stammered? Had his voice dropped with desire?
“Maybe I just haven’t thought of the appropriate punishment yet.”
One of his brows arched, and he sat up slowly. “Punishment for what? Making you feel good?” Now his voice was dry. “Or not taking you all the way?”
“Just get out.” She pointed to the hallway.
He flattened his palms at his sides, his gaze roving over her. That white-hot gaze lingered at her breasts, between her legs, reminding her of everywhere he’d touched—and everywhere he’d wanted to touch. She gulped. She was wearing a white tank top and sweat shorts, and sweat still poured down her flushed skin. She probably looked ridiculous and frumpy.
“Your skin is glistening,” he said, and there was enough heat in his eyes to keep her warm all winter. If Mysteria ever got cold, that is.
“Sweat does that to a girl.”
“I wish I had been the one to make you sweat.”
Now her heart skipped a beat. “What do you want from me, Falon? An apology? Well, you’re not going to get one. We’re even. I’m done with you.”
His eyes sharpened. “You’re not done with me. Not until you destroy the pen in front of me.”
“No. There’s ink left.”
“So you plan to use it against me again? You just said we’re even.”
“We’re even now. I destroy it, and you’re free to torment me for the rest of your life.”
He leaned forward, and she caught the scent of soap and dark spices. Shivered—then shuddered. What did she smell like?
“I’ll swear not to hurt you,” he said.
“And I’m sure you’ll mean it. Today. What about tomorrow?”
Growling, he fell back into the mattress and scoured a hand down his face. She noticed he did that a lot when he was frustrated. “I came here to find the pen, but do you know what I really wanted to do?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “I wanted to follow you on your run, make sure you were safe.”
Really? How . . . sweet. Some of the ice around her heart melted. Don’t believe him, stupid!
“I wanted—want—to strip you, make love to you. Finish what we started. I can’t get you out of my mind. You’re the last person I should want.” Now he seemed to be talking to himself. “But want you I do. Maybe if I have you, I can stop thinking about you.”
Oh, how she wished. He’d consumed every corridor of her mind since their kiss. Always she craved him. Always she dreamed of him, hungered. Sometimes she was even willing to toss caution aside and go to him, beg him to take her. But . . .
What would happen afterward?
She had several strikes against her. She was a witch, and he hated witches. He was perfection, and she was the epitome of imperfection. She’d spent the last week torturing him.
Three strikes. You’re out, girl. Glory sighed. She was afraid she’d already fallen for him, though. He was strength, and he was courage. He hadn’t backed down from her once, even though her powers were considerable, and she could do major damage to him. His kisses were the best thing to have ever happened to her. His touch, electric. Finally she’d gotten a glimpse of what Evie and Hunter, Godiva and Romeo must experience every night. And different hours through the day. She’d liked it, wanted more.
Wanted him.
“No response?” he said, cutting through the silence.
She shook her head in hopes of clearing it. “You’re willing to have me now?”
“I was willing before. I just fought against it.”
“But you’re not fighting now?”
“No. I can’t.” He rolled to his side and stared over at her. “I’m helpless. Did you cast a love spell on me?”
“No!”
“I didn’t think so,” he muttered. “Hoped, but didn’t think.”
“Why not?”
“Because a witch did it once, and this isn’t the same.”
Her shoulders sagged. No love for her, he meant.
“It’s more intense,” he grumbled, surprising her.
Her legs began shaking more forcefully, and any moment she feared she would collapse. Somehow she managed to stumble to the chair in the corner and plop atop the many T-shirts heaped there. Falon’s gaze never left her. She felt it boring past her skin and straight into her soul.
“You want me, too,” he said. Hard, flat. “Don’t try to deny it.”
As if she could. “Who tried to deny it?”
His lips formed a thin line. Almost a smile, but not quite.
“Look, I came to you once offering the same thing. One night. You rejected me.”
“Yes, and it was the biggest mistake of my life.”
“Because you were made to suffer for it,” she said. A statement rather than a question.
“No. Because I crave you.”
Truth or lie? She dared not hope. “Now you’re out to protect yourself from me, and that’s perfectly understandable, but—”
“I don’t need protection from you,” he snapped.
“Falon, we’ll never be able to trust each other. We’ll always suspect each other’s motives.”
“We can call a truce. I’m not asking for a lifetime. I’m asking for a night. And when you came to me that night, that’s all you wanted, too.”
“I—I—” Wanted to say yes, she realized. Wanted it more than anything. After his kiss, though, she couldn’t delude herself and hope the sex would be so bad she’d never desire him again. The sex would be great. At least for her. She would want more than a night; she knew that now. He . . . affected her. “I can’t,” she finally said.