Page 22 of Try As I Smite
Behind her entered a woman with dark red hair. Greyson Master’s now new bonded wife, Rowan. This was her trial before that marriage, when they found out who she was.
“Ms. McAuliffe?” Alasdair’s previous self said. Deliberately he injected a bored sort of uncaring in his voice. Nothing covered fierce emotion better than boredom.
Rowan nodded, and he shifted his gaze to the woman at her side. Dark eyes, a twinkle of amusement sparking at him, like she’d known what he was doing a second before, met his gaze dead-on. He had to resist the need to sit up straighter. Holding onto that air of ennui, he lifted an eyebrow. “And you must be Ms…?”
The woman gave him a cool smile which, contrarily, only made his cock ache worse. “Delilah,” she said in a throaty voice that didn’t help his current situation in the slightest.
Mother goddess. If he hadn’t met her in that moment in time…if things had gone differently…different choices…he would never have gone to her today with the demon problem. He wouldn’t be stuck in this recycle of his life with her. And he wouldn’t know she tasted of cherries.
“First or last?” the old version of himself asked.
Delilah said nothing, merely held her polite smile and his stare. Rare to find someone who didn’t back down under his gaze. Even one as polite as this.
After a long, intense moment, he let it go, turning back to Rowan. “I’m Alasdair Blakesley, current head of the Syndicate. Greyson has filled us in on the situation and”—he flicked a glance at Delilah—“supplied us information provided by various witnesses.”
In a disorienting flash, Alasdair found himself outside the memory looking in, Delilah materializing beside him as they watched their previous selves together. The voices in the room continued to go through the scene, but, body still thrumming with pent-up sexual tension from both the kiss they’d shared and the memory of their first meeting and his own realization—fuck, no wonder he’d wanted her so badly, so immediately.
The woman from that alley had starred in his fantasies for years. Had some part of himself recognized her? Or was it recognition of his reflection, of someone just like him in the ways that counted most?
“Screw whatever I’m supposed to be learning from this,” he muttered.
Pure, frustrating-as-fuck yearning had him turning his back on the room to step in to her, backing her up until she hit the wall, even as her chin came up—defiance and curiosity staring at him, a heady combination when it came from her. He pressed his body against her.
He lowered his head, hovering where he could watch her eyes. “You know what I wanted to do to you that day we met?”
Her walls were still up even as he could feel her heart fluttering against him. “Kick me out of the building?” she quipped.
His lips tipped up in amusement. “No. I wanted to do this.”
With slow, deliberate moves he undid the top buttons of her shirt, never taking his gaze from her eyes as he parted the fabric, pulling both sides back to expose her shoulders, then farther down. She remained still, lips parted, and didn’t protest when he traced the lacy demi-cups of her nude-colored bra. Her nipples poked through the material, as though reaching for him. He glanced at her expression, waiting for her to say no. She didn’t, so he dragged the cups down, releasing her breasts to his eyes, rosy tips peaked, begging for his mouth.
Her gaze flicked over his shoulder to the people—the previous versions of themselves and the syndicate—still talking in the room.
“Don’t look at them. They don’t matter anymore. Look at me,” he commanded.
She gave in to him, a small victory but still one he’d relish as she focused in on him intently, silently daring him to take what he’d wanted to take that day and every day since.
Watching her expression, he rolled one of her nipples between his fingers, her whimper lodging in his chest before traveling south in pulses.
“If you’re going to say no, goddess,” he said. “Do it now—”
She shook her head, hair still down, framing her face in tousled waves. “I want this,” she whispered in that sexy, husky voice of hers, her body restless against his, pressing. No more ice or wariness in her eyes. Only heat, unadulterated, unhidden, all for him.
Thank the powers. This was how he wanted Delilah. Completely undone. Wild. For him.
“Good.” He pressed into her softness, claiming those luscious lips again. Plucking at her nipple and swallowing her moans. Gods, her taste—soft and decadent and yet with a bite—could become addicting. Better than bourbon. As heady as magic. Like energy and aching and pleasure all in one.
She tugged at his lower lip with her teeth, then sucked, demanding more, and his cock surged.
A change in lighting flashed—dark than light, but slower than a blink—and he lifted his head, both of them panting. They’d moved locations again. He knew exactly where. The hallway inside the Syndicate building. Not a soul in sight.
Their second encounter that day. Who gave a shit? He was more interested in this encounter.
Roughly, Alasdair yanked her skirt up, trailing a hand up her quivering thigh, then brushing it over her panty-cover mound. Soaked. For him. Already.
“Hell,” he groaned, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, imitating what he had every intention of doing with his cock.
Her hands found their way to his pants, which she undid, pushing both those and his boxer briefs down until he sprang out, turgid and pulsing, into her hand. She squeezed, hard, milking his cock with a viselike grip, and his hips bucked against his will.
