Читать книгу Steam Heat - Elizabeth Darvill - Страница 7

The rain is streaming down my face in a thick curtain and chilling me through. The bare limbs of the trees do little to shield me from the torrential downpour. I suppose I should be grateful we made the transition to spring so I don’t have to deal with snow. The peaks are still coated with thick blankets of snow, but since I am just in the foothills of the mountains, I have only seen an occasional lingering patch.

My chest aches a little more with each step I take and my mood is becoming infinitely more abrasive the longer I go without a swallow of whiskey. I drained my flask about ten miles back. A twinge of hope flickers through me when I see the roof of a large building peeking through the dense trees. I don’t give a shit where I am at this point in time. I am staying here and getting something to drink. Even if the most hideous being is inside that building, I am going to have sex with them and get my fix. I don’t think I can go on without it. The energy I absorb during sex is what sustains me.

The steps that take me closer to the looming stone building are agonizingly slow. I am going to be crawling up to the front door if things keep progressing this way. This would be a completely undignified way for me to be seen. I am a badass assassin who works as a saloon girl on the side. I am tougher than this. As I stumble up the slick stone stairs, the heavy wood door swings open slowly with an ominous creak. The face that materializes behind the curtain of rain is vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Thank God it is a male; it will make luring him into the sack so much easier. I could really use a boost right now.

“Are you real?” he asks, looking slightly perplexed. There is a faint drawl to his words.

“Last time I checked. Can I come inside or are you going to make me freeze out here?” The eyes are the things that seem so familiar, those smoky hazel eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t feel like discussing it in the rain,” I shove the hair back from my eyes and catch his gaze with mine and let the seductive call of the succubus in me do the rest.

“Of course. Come in.” Stepping back from the door he admits me to the interior of his home. “My name is Ian. Although you should know this, you scream it often enough. Are you playing games with me, Angel?”

“Ian?” Is this my Ian? If it is, shouldn’t the feeling that my soul is being eaten be going away? The ache is still prominent and the weakness taking over my body is still weighing me down.

“This has to be a dream.” Ian grabs my arm and pulls me close, dampness from my soaked clothing seeping into his disheveled but dry ensemble.

“Wait a second,” I untangle myself from Ian’s enthusiastic embrace and survey the man in front of me. His dirty-blond hair is sticking out in chaotic spikes and a pair of goggles are shoved up on his forehead. A stained and torn cotton shirt conceals his broad muscular chest and a pair of pinstriped trousers finishes off his look. Somehow I had envisioned him a little more suave, I have only seen him naked until this point.

“Angel, don’t play games with me. We have this same dream every night. Do I have to tie you up again?” In one swift stride he is next to me again, pulling me close as he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and captures my mouth with his, his tongue probing deep.