Free Hunter Kiss: A Companion Novella by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

the risks are so great?"
    "Because I want you," I whisper. "And I'm not afraid to want you. It feels ... right."
    "No matter what?"
    "No matter what," I tell him. "Even if it's just for a night."
    "Okay," he breathes. Just like that. Okay.
    I search his eyes. "You're so calm. Why are you always so calm?"
    Grant never answers me. Just wraps his hand around the back of my neck and presses his lips against mine, taking me under with an achingly tender kiss. I almost pull away, almost fight him, but I give up and press against his body, doing everything in my power not to think about what I am doing, to not second-guess myself. No future. Just here. Now. Him.
    I stop shaking after our clothes are gone. I stop shaking when I touch him. I stop shaking when he touches me, though another kind of quake rushes through my body as his palms caress my breasts, my stomach, between my thighs. He is a big man, a strong man, though his right leg is the only sore spot; a mangle of muscle and bone, twisted, skinny. I kiss it. I kiss it with my mouth, my fingertips, my hair tumbling over my face to trail a path up his skin. He shivers and
    groans, writhing beneath me as my tongue finds more to love, hard and hot and long.
    And then, somehow, we are inside each other, and there is a bit of pain but nothing more, nothing but a full heavy pleasure as we move against each other, again and again, riding ourselves higher, together, and it feels so good I think I cry out. I think he does the same, neither of us lasting long at all. But we rest, and we touch, and not much later, begin again.
    Lost time, Grant calls it.
    Not enough time, I say.
    In the wee hours of morning, just before dawn, I feel the boys crowd close beneath the covers and hug my naked body. Grant is spooned behind me, snoring softly.
    "Sleep," Zee breathes into my ear. "Sleep as we sleep, Maxine. And dream."
    I do as he says, and the next time I open my eyes I see sunlight through the window.
    My skin is covered in tattoos.
    Six
    Grant is gone from the bed, but I do not feel particularly aban doned. Not after last night. I roll free of the covers, taking a moment to stare at the chaos behind me. My body is sore, my knees weak. The memories make me smile, though not for long. There are con dom wrappers everywhere on the floor, but that is no guarantee when it comes to me. Or at least, that was my mother's warning the same warning that has ever been written in the old family di aries. I have always been slightly amazed at the lengths my ancestors went to in an attempt to prevent conception. Always failing, though I have to question the resources at their disposal. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe it does not matter. Not anymore.
    The door swings open. Grant walks in, dressed in sweats and nothing else. He is leaning on his cane, but in his free hand carries a white mug of something that smells like coffee.
    He stops when he sees me, and the appreciation in his eyes makes
    me smile. I go to him, walking slow, with a sway to my hips that I never thought I would be capable of achieving.
    "Love the body art," he murmurs. "Not sure I care much for who makes it."
    I glance down. My skin is entirely covered in tattoos: shades of silver and obsidian, scaled ripples of muscle and limb and tangled claw; here, there, a red eye and a curling fang. The boys cover me from the bottoms of my feet to the pads of my fingertips to the tips of my breasts. I do not have a mirror, but I know the intricate labyrinth of dark lines and bodies ends at the top of my neck, be neath my hair. That my face is clear is a conceit on my part, though in the daytime I am still as protected there, as anywhere else.
    Grant hands me the coffee, leaning close to kiss my mouth. His fingers trail down my throat, between my breasts.
    "Feels like skin," he says. "Is that really them?"
    "In all their glory."
    "And you don't know how?"
    I shake my head, sipping the coffee. "No one does. There are sto ries of why, some of