Savor Me Slowly (Alien Huntress #3)(11)
Author: Gena Showalter

“Did the infected women mention anything about what the Schön were planning when you interviewed them?” she asked as if the conversation about the otherworlders had never ended.

Disappointment swept through him. “Whatever you ask me, the answer is going to be the same. No. Understand? No!”

He thought she might be gnashing her teeth.

“You’re stubborn,” she said with a regretful—admiring?—sigh. “I need to think about this a little more, maybe approach it another way. So you’re going to have to take another nap.”

“A nap won’t help. And no matter what approach you take, I’m not going to change my mind.”

She chuckled, and the sound of it was a little cruel. “Oh, sweetie, don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’re not going to remember this conversation, so you’ll have no way of knowing what will and will not work.”

“Impossible.”

The bed rocked. A moment later, cold, round pads with gelled bottoms were placed on his brow and temples. Each of them vibrated. His arms were weak, shaky, and pinned. He could think of no way to remove them. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

“What are you doing, Le’Ace?”

“Good night, honey. We’ll talk again in a few days.”

The vibrations became pulses and the pulses seemed to sink past his skin and into his skull. They were warm and only growing warmer…hotter. His thoughts blurred into darkness. “Le—” Her name had been on the tip of his tongue, a taunting whisper inside his mind, but now it was gone. “What’s happening?”

“Shhh. I wish it hadn’t come to this, but I can’t fail. I’m sorry. Just relax. It will be easier for you if you relax.”

His entire form suddenly jerked, his every vein, muscle, and bone seizing in pain. He would have roared, but once again he couldn’t use his tongue. It, too, was anchored in place, glued to the roof of his mouth. A black web wove through his mind, spun by a laughing spider, thick and inexorable.

“Stop!” he wanted to roar. Couldn’t.

Suddenly the darkness burst into a thousand pinpricks of light, freeing his tongue, and he was able to speak. Yet all that escaped was a gurgle; the sound was agonizing, dripping with rage and pain. Then those pinpricks of light congealed into one solid mass, and that mass wiped at certain corners of his mind like glass cleaner being smeared over a dirty window with a spiked washrag. Nothing was left but blood.

The gurgle became a moan and the rage became desperation. But soon that, too, eased, and his body sagged into the mattress. I’m sorry, so sorry, he thought he heard a woman mutter, and then he slept, knowing nothing more.

“Jaxon, baby. Wake up.”

Jaxon struggled through a thick cloud of lethargy, only to be dragged under again and again. Each time, he fought his way free. Had he ever been so tired? So weak?

Finally he managed to pull himself to full cognizance and stay. He rasped, “Just need a little more rest, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? The word rumbled inside his mind, foreign for some reason. He did not usually call women by pet names. That implied a closeness he always fought to avoid. Didn’t he?

He frowned, trying to recall where he was and who he was with. His mind was curiously blank. Then a single musing crystallized: You’re home. You’re with your wife.

He was married? No, couldn’t be. He would remember. Wouldn’t he?

Another musing suddenly claimed his attention, this one an image. A tall, dark-haired beauty with sun-kissed skin and bright blue eyes smiled up at him with absolute adoration. She had freckles on her nose. He remembered he liked to count them.

The image shifted, and the dark-haired beauty was straddling his waist, pumping up and down on his swollen shaft. Sweat glistened on her skin like fairy glitter. Her pretty lips parted, and a moan of pleasure slipped from her.

The image shifted yet again, remaining the same except for a few small details. The woman grinding on his c**k had short blonde hair, pale-as-milk skin, and no freckles. There was a bloodthirsty glint in her dark eyes. She wore a black glove on her right arm.

“Jaxon?”

The blonde faded away, evaporating like mist and revealing the brunette again. The brunette was his wife. He knew it. He also knew she adored him. The realization shouted through his head, seemingly drilled there as it obliterated every other thought. What intrigued him most, however, was the sudden knowledge that she loved giving him blow jobs.

He found himself grinning at that. I’m a lucky man.

He stretched his arms over his head, losing his smile as his muscles screamed in protest. “What’s wrong with me?” His eyelids fluttered open. Bright light seeped from the windows and made him wince, made his eyes water.

“You don’t remember?” his wife asked, concerned.

Tabitha. Her name was Tabitha. How could he have forgotten her name, even for a second? He lived and breathed for Tabitha; he would be lost without her.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.” He turned his head until a murky figure came into view. He blinked once, twice, his vision gradually clearing. Dark hair, lovely face. Freckles. One, two, three…nine freckles on her nose. His chest tightened with a swell of emotion. She’s mine. This woman is mine.

She sucked in a breath. “Your eyes. They’re…lovely.” She sounded surprised, and a moment passed as her words echoed around them. “I just meant,” she added after a nervous laugh, “that I’m never sure if they’re going to be silver or blue. They change with your mood. Today they’re silver and that’s my favorite.”

Then he’d just have to find a way to keep them silver. Anything for his Tabbie.

Jaxon studied her, this woman who had captured his heart. Her head was propped on her gloved elbow—gloved, like the vision of the other woman, the blonde—and she was peering down at him. Concern bathed her, coloring her cheeks the prettiest shade of rose.

His memories were a pale comparison to the reality of her.

Sweet, sweet Tabitha. The long length of her dark-as-night hair cascaded down her shoulders and tickled his chest. Her skin was so luminous she practically glowed. Her eyes were blue, flecked with lavender and framed by feathered black lashes. Those eyes weren’t warm and inviting, though. They were a little cold, a little determined, and a complete contradiction to the concern she radiated.

That seemed important, but he couldn’t reason out why.

“Why are you wearing a glove?” he asked hoarsely.