Black Diaries

28. Up in the Night

Then why not do it?

Hey, I know we had already been kissing! But so far, it had always been he who had kissed me, not the other way around. I hadn't done a single little thing! That was no way for a modern, emancipated serial killer to behave.

So I did it. I kissed him.

"What was that for?" he asked, one corner of his mouth slightly raised, when I pulled back from the whisper-light touch of lips on lips.

"For being you," I told him, not breaking eye contact for a second.

We were sitting on a bench of a rooftop café overlooking Central Park in the moonlight. The café had been closed for hours, but when you're on a date with the owner of the chain, little things like that tend not to matter.

He smiled more broadly. "Was that supposed to be a kiss?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I don't really think it was. I hardly felt it."

"Oh really?" I raised an eyebrow. "Then what would you consider a kiss?"

Leaning forward, he stroked his fingers over my cheek, down towards my neck. The seductive touch of his fingers made me shiver a delight that I had thought was forever lost to me.

"This," he told me. Fixing me with his dark blue eyes, he closed the distance between us and melded his lips with mine.

Had I thought he had kissed me already? I had been mistaken. Oh yes, he had touched his lips to mine, had rekindled a fire in me that had been buried under a thousand tons of hurt and betrayal, but he had never really kissed me. Because when he did, right then and there, the world exploded.

Parting my lips with expert ease, he caressed my tongue with his, inviting it to a sensual dance it could not say no to—because I wouldn't damn well let it! The sensations that spread down my spine as Elliot expertly explored my mouth were too sweet, too dark, too dangerous not to taste. And once you had tasted them, tasted him, you wanted more. At least I did, very, very much.

I suddenly realized his hands were in my hair, stroking, tucking strands back behind my ear. His fingers found the tender spot of skin just behind my ear and began to caress it, stroking down towards my throat. And then his hands weren't the only thing that was down there.

I sucked in a breath when his mouth was suddenly away from mine—and another, bigger one, when his lips came down swiftly and deadly on the hollow at the base of my throat. Damn! That was unfair!

"Elliot!"

I had meant to admonish him—but his name on my lips sounded far too much like a breathy whisper.

"Cassidy!"

There wasn't a hint of admonishment in his voice. No, there was reverence, and need, and painful dark fire.

In one powerful movement, he rose from the bench we were sitting on, lifting me up with him and hugging me close. Very close. His face was only inches away from mine, his eyes burning into me.

"Oh God...last chance, Cassidy! Your very last chance! You should wrench yourself away and run! Run as fast as you can!"

My heart hammered faster than that of a hummingbird with cardiac arrhythmia. My tongue felt glued to the top of my stone-dry mouth. Still, somehow I managed to get out the words: "Run? Away from you? Why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm going to tell you to come home with me—and you shouldn't! Not with what I have in mind for you."

My heart started to beat even faster. I was hyperaware of his hard body, so close to mine, of his elegant, powerful hands, gripping my waist, and most of all, of his eyes, deep and dark enough to drown in.