Page 37 of Bite Back

ASHER

The darkness embraces us as we wind our way through backroads, Delilah slumped against me.

As the salt fades from the air, her grip on my waist grows firmer and the tightness in my chest loosens.

It’s pitch black as I guide us towards the illuminated motel sign ahead.

It’s at least two more hours back to the city, so we’ll crash here for the night given how late it’s gotten.

The near empty parking lot, dotted with only a handful of vehicles, tells me we should have no trouble finding a room.

I swing the bike into a spot up front, situating us at a neat diagonal between the white lines, and we hop off.

Delilah waits on the cracked concrete as I secure my bike, looping on the disc lock and chain.

The streetlight’s warm beam washes over her dark hair, the cherry cola glaze glinting in the light.

God. I can’t focus around this woman. Not when my brain’s replaying that kiss.

Not when I can’t get her rose scent out of my nostrils.

Normally, when I’m tracking down a vamp, I’m laser focused.

I take in all the details, sift out what’s important, and discard anything extraneous.

Except this hunt is anything but normal.

And as Delilah’s gaze finds mine, a gleam in those blue eyes, something unfurls within me.

I no longer know if I’m the hunter or the hunted.

That’s not the disturbing part though. What’s disturbing is I don’t care anymore.

I want her to want me. I want to turn back time and undo what I fucked up. I want everything she was willing to give me. And I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give now. I don’t have answers to all the reasons my brain tells me this won’t work. The thing is though, I’m done waiting for answers.

I’ve spent so much of my life planning carefully.

But I’m ready to do something unplanned, spontaneous, reckless even.

I can’t stop playing the possibilities over in my mind as we cut across the asphalt of the parking lot.

What I want, what she might want, what we might do. I like that there’s a we now.

But she may not want what I do. Maybe not ever again.

But certainly not now. She shut down earlier at Luka’s mother’s house.

And while she seems to have come back to herself, I don’t want to assume anything.

The kiss tasted like the start of something more, like the first leaf to turn red in autumn.

Did it taste the same for her? Does she also want more?

I steal glances at her as we check in at the dingy front desk, wishing I could read her mind.

My hand turns the motel key over and over as we head up to our room. The metal grooves and ridges dig into my skin, grounding me in my body while my mind races. I exhale softly as we reach the door to our room.

I slide the key into the lock, jiggling it as it sticks, and, once the door swings open, flick the switch to illuminate the room.

Worn hardwood floor stretches before us.

A small round table with two chairs sits under the front window.

A pair of shabby, but comfortable-looking armchairs fill the space under the back window. All fine.

The problem is there’s just one bed.

I turn to Delilah, jerking a thumb back toward the lobby we came from. “I can go back and ask for a different room.” If the parking lot’s any indication, they have plenty available.

“It’s fine.” She crosses her arms.

“It’s not.” My voice comes out harsher than I meant it to. I don’t want her in my bed because it’s an inconvenience or something for her to prove. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. It’s really no problem for me to request a different one.”

“And, really,” she pulls out the word into three syllables, “it’s fine.” She reaches out, fingers circling my upper arm. “Really, truly, it’s fine. Promise.” A low chuckle escapes her. “It’s not like we haven’t been close before.”

Heat shoots straight through me at that. Knowing that she thinks of that night, thinks of me and her, together, does things to me.

I might be the living one, but, at this moment, I’m sure I’ve died too.

She takes the first shift in the shower, which leaves me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, as I listen to the water run.

Trying not to imagine her naked, water cascading down her curves.

Trying not to picture the glimpses I got of her body in the club.

Trying not to remember how it felt pressed up against mine at the beach. I fail massively.

She comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her curves, wet hair dripping around her shoulders. This woman. How does she wear a bath towel like it’s that tight little black dress from the club?

I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

She flops down on the bed next to me, legs and arms akimbo.

My shower is nothing short of pure agony.

I pride myself on my discipline. But my cock didn’t get the memo tonight, and I spend the entire shower at an uncomfortable half-mast, unwilling to use my hands when I want hers.

The water rinses over me until it runs cold.

And then I stay in the shower even longer, the cold air goosepimpling my skin.

I breathe deeply in and out until I center myself.

Just because I want Delilah is no excuse for me to be anything less than a perfect gentleman.

With a final deep breath, I wrap the towel around my waist and head back to the room. I grab the pajama pants from my bag and shimmy them on, dropping the towel once I’m covered. She’s under the blankets now, bundled up under the quilt like a little burrito, eyes already fluttering shut.

“Hey, I’m gonna need some of these.” I tug at the edges of the sheets, worming my way under the blankets.

She hisses like a cat as a cold draft of air hits her, tugging the blankets back to her side.

“Tough.” She hisses again, but her eyes sparkle.

She tugs the blankets back from me in an easy motion.

Her pupils dilate, blowing out to black as her gaze roves my bare chest, taking in the planes and soft curves of muscle, decorated by scars.

A smirk spreads across her lips when her gaze drifts down towards the evidence of exactly how much I like her looking at me.

“Well, hello there, Buffy.”

Buffy? “Hey! I thought we landed on Van Helsing?”

Her smirk widens into a grin. “You,” she smacks me with a pillow, “are Van Helsing. He’s…” She draws her gaze down suggestively. “Buffy.”

“My dick is not named Buffy.”

“Says you.” She raises up the pillow again, and I arm myself with my own pillow.

I playfully slap my pillow into hers. “My. Dick. Is. Not. Named. Buffy.” With each word, I smack her pillow for emphasis as she shields with her own pillow.

“You really think I’m going to go down that easy?

” And my brain snags on those words, at the other meaning they paint.

She rises to her knees and launches an offensive, rapidly hitting me first right and then left with the pillow.

I do my best to parry, but somehow or another, we find ourselves off balance and we’re tipping backwards, collapsing back onto the mattress in a heap of giggles.

But my laughter stops abruptly when her chest collides with mine and she lands on top of me.

I’m conscious of every point of contact between our bodies.

Each one sparking, electric. And I’m conscious of every point where we’re not touching but I want to be.

Her mouth hovers mere fractions of an inch above mine, and her breath brushes against my lips, a whisper of a touch.

Her giggles subside as her gaze meets mine.

Heartbeats pass. It all plays out in my head, and I open my mouth to say something, anything to confirm this is what she wants. She inhales sharply as my mouth opens. But then she pushes me away.

She rolls off of me and falls to her side of the bed, panting.

“Sorry.” A flush stains her cheeks red. My heart melts.

I flop sideways so we’re facing. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I want to but…after everything.” After everything. My stomach churns. I’ve despised a lot of my targets, but I hate him the most. “Later, maybe.”

I force my eyes shut, but my brain won’t shut off. Can’t shut off. My heart pounds in my chest. Her breathing remains ragged. But I cling to that possibility as I finally drift off.