that? How do you know about me?"
He released a slow breath. "There are people trying to reach you through me. The same people who sent you here."
"The FBI? Pete?" she asked, realizing that she knew.
"Yes."
She wet her lips, confused. "Why you?"
"Just lucky that way."
"You're not an agent?"
"No. I'm an artist."
Miranda grimaced. "And they're using you? Why would they do that? Why would they risk you like that?"
"I'm here because I want to be. I'm here for you, Miranda, not for them. They're not using me. I'm not taking orders from the FBI. It doesn't work that way with me."
She supposed that she knew that, pegging him as one of those individuals who navigated by some deep internal process, unconcerned with what the world might think. It was still foolish of him to risk all that he had.
"You can't help me," she said, her voice raw. "Neither can the FBI."
"What makes you think that?"
"You don't understand what happened." She closed her eyes against the memory of blood. The tears came easily, along with knowledge that was impossible to accept, yet vivid nonetheless.
His lips parted, his eyes registering her pain with difficulty. He made a soft sound, lifting his hand to stroke the errant waves of her hair from her cheek. "I hope you can tell me what happened, sweetheart. I hope you can trust me that much."
"No," she replied, angrily swiping the wetness from her cheeks. "You wouldn't understand."
"Wouldn't understand what?"
She hesitated. "There was so much blood and I could feel… It's like I'm not… I'm not real anymore."
"Real?"
"I remember dying."
He drew in a sharp breath, sympathy forming in his eyes. "That's not what happened. The FBI believes that you've undergone torture and manipulation. You understand? You can't trust your memory, your conclusions, right now. That's why you can't stay here and continue this crusade. You have to come out and get the help you need to recover."
"I can't," she murmured. "I don't exist outside of the Gate."
"How can you not exist? You're here with me. I can see you. I can touch you."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"Then touch me," she whispered.
He watched her for a moment then slowly lowered his head and kissed her, his mouth careful on hers.
Miranda parted her lips, tasting him with her tongue, drawing him closer. He was strong, the precious life she craved flowing rich in his veins. She couldn't turn away, the hunger for it suddenly bright and all-consuming.
Still alive… Please, Seth, let me feel it…
She shrugged off his jacket and climbed onto his lap, the sparkling black beads of her outfit spilling between them. His muscular arms closed around her, his breath hot on her tongue, the caress of his mouth coaxing.
She broke the kiss and rolled her head back on her shoulders, rubbing herself against his groin through the layers of their clothing. It felt impossibly good, the sensations fevered and electric.
He groaned, sliding a strong hand down her back, forcing her to arch her body gently against him. She could feel him move to trace his fingers over her breasts then pull the beads of her bra down to expose them.
Miranda ran her hands into his hair, drawing a ragged breath as he put his mouth on her, teasing one of her nipples until it puckered to a painful bud.
She felt herself grow wetter, her body warm and pleasured. She half-closed her eyes, lingering in the feel of his hands as he stroked her, his tongue as he caressed her.
"Seth," she whispered. "Please."
His hold on her eased and she reached between them, finding the cool zipper of his jeans with her fingers. She freed him carefully, her hands rubbing the entire length of his erection, the skin of his hard phallus tight.
He looked at her and raised his hands to brush her hair back from her face. His expression darkened with concern. "Miranda, are you sure this is what you want?"
"Yes." She held his gaze, tears glistening on her lashes. "Please, I need you. I need you like this."
* * *
He knew he
He released a slow breath. "There are people trying to reach you through me. The same people who sent you here."
"The FBI? Pete?" she asked, realizing that she knew.
"Yes."
She wet her lips, confused. "Why you?"
"Just lucky that way."
"You're not an agent?"
"No. I'm an artist."
Miranda grimaced. "And they're using you? Why would they do that? Why would they risk you like that?"
"I'm here because I want to be. I'm here for you, Miranda, not for them. They're not using me. I'm not taking orders from the FBI. It doesn't work that way with me."
She supposed that she knew that, pegging him as one of those individuals who navigated by some deep internal process, unconcerned with what the world might think. It was still foolish of him to risk all that he had.
"You can't help me," she said, her voice raw. "Neither can the FBI."
"What makes you think that?"
"You don't understand what happened." She closed her eyes against the memory of blood. The tears came easily, along with knowledge that was impossible to accept, yet vivid nonetheless.
His lips parted, his eyes registering her pain with difficulty. He made a soft sound, lifting his hand to stroke the errant waves of her hair from her cheek. "I hope you can tell me what happened, sweetheart. I hope you can trust me that much."
"No," she replied, angrily swiping the wetness from her cheeks. "You wouldn't understand."
"Wouldn't understand what?"
She hesitated. "There was so much blood and I could feel… It's like I'm not… I'm not real anymore."
"Real?"
"I remember dying."
He drew in a sharp breath, sympathy forming in his eyes. "That's not what happened. The FBI believes that you've undergone torture and manipulation. You understand? You can't trust your memory, your conclusions, right now. That's why you can't stay here and continue this crusade. You have to come out and get the help you need to recover."
"I can't," she murmured. "I don't exist outside of the Gate."
"How can you not exist? You're here with me. I can see you. I can touch you."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"Then touch me," she whispered.
He watched her for a moment then slowly lowered his head and kissed her, his mouth careful on hers.
Miranda parted her lips, tasting him with her tongue, drawing him closer. He was strong, the precious life she craved flowing rich in his veins. She couldn't turn away, the hunger for it suddenly bright and all-consuming.
Still alive… Please, Seth, let me feel it…
She shrugged off his jacket and climbed onto his lap, the sparkling black beads of her outfit spilling between them. His muscular arms closed around her, his breath hot on her tongue, the caress of his mouth coaxing.
She broke the kiss and rolled her head back on her shoulders, rubbing herself against his groin through the layers of their clothing. It felt impossibly good, the sensations fevered and electric.
He groaned, sliding a strong hand down her back, forcing her to arch her body gently against him. She could feel him move to trace his fingers over her breasts then pull the beads of her bra down to expose them.
Miranda ran her hands into his hair, drawing a ragged breath as he put his mouth on her, teasing one of her nipples until it puckered to a painful bud.
She felt herself grow wetter, her body warm and pleasured. She half-closed her eyes, lingering in the feel of his hands as he stroked her, his tongue as he caressed her.
"Seth," she whispered. "Please."
His hold on her eased and she reached between them, finding the cool zipper of his jeans with her fingers. She freed him carefully, her hands rubbing the entire length of his erection, the skin of his hard phallus tight.
He looked at her and raised his hands to brush her hair back from her face. His expression darkened with concern. "Miranda, are you sure this is what you want?"
"Yes." She held his gaze, tears glistening on her lashes. "Please, I need you. I need you like this."
* * *
He knew he
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