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her arousal hit him like a fist to the throat and left him grappling with his need and his hesitation.
    Need won.
    He grabbed his hard length and fed it straight into her welcoming heat. Thigh to thigh, Griff refused to fall into the despair that often accompanied his couplings. This wasn’t just empty sex. This was Bailey. This was about saving her life.
    Liar.
    He ground against her, the action earning him a low mewl. She bucked against his long, hip-rolling drives forward. The response wasn’t to him, though. Just his body. Any body would have done just as well. She had no idea who held her. He could have been anyone. Still, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
    Sick bastard.
    “Say my name, Bailey.”
    No answer.
    Anger washed over him at the situation, her body’s timing, his genetics, everything. The power of his thrusts increased. His grip on her hips tightened, slipped and then dug in. She’d bruise.
    Skin slapped skin as he drove into her again and again. The cold light of the city washed over them and gilded their bare skin in oranges and whites. A siren sounded from the street below. And still that damn faucet dripped.
    Griff fought to keep himself removed, to keep this practical. It was a matter of saving her life and extending his. But this wasn’t living and he knew it. This was existing. Sex had become a matter of drive-through dining—no flavor, no atmosphere, no experience. Every night was a matter of empty, forgettable calories. He was an excellent lay as a matter of necessity, not because there was any connection with his partner.
    A memory swept through him. His rhythm faltered. “Just feel,” he’d admonished Bailey. Now here he was fighting that very thing. Hypocrite.
    Nothing new there.
    He’d give anything to take the advice back.
    Because to survive this fate, she’d have to learn to do just the opposite.
    * * *
    Bailey ached. Everywhere. She scrubbed her hands over her face and tried to clear the fog that swirled through her consciousness. Nothing made sense.
    She rolled over and right out of an unfamiliar, very high bed. Sheets and a heavy jacquard comforter wrapped around her lower body and created a tangled, high thread count mess. Kicking free, she grabbed the mattress and popped up on her knees.
    Griff lay on his side, head propped in his hand as he watched her.
    Embarrassed, she dropped low so her chin was level with the edge of the wide mattress.
    “All I can think is that this is my favorite version of the Whac-A-Mole game ever—very adult and very naked.” Words that should have been playful were impassive.
    “What happened?”
    He arched a single brow, slow and almost insolent. “This is the first time a bed partner has passed out on the front side of a session.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Now, afterward? That’s not uncommon. Should I be offended? By all measures, you enjoyed yourself.”
    Memories blinded her as they illuminated the dark corners of her mind. Recollections flashed like lightning in a stormy sky, each strike a precursor to the emotional boom that rattled through her with jarring percussion. She traced the small wound in her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. “Why?”
    “Why did you enjoy yourself? Because I’m a good lover.”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    He closed his eyes and lifted one shoulder in an attempt at indifference. “You would have died.”
    She slid down the side of the bed and turned, resting her back against the rail.
    The mattress lurched. Air moved as he settled beside her. “You feel any better?”
    She opened her mouth, closed it and cleared her throat before trying again. “Still a little sick.”
    “You’ve got to feed. It gets better after you do.”
    When she started to object, deny, question him, maybe even argue, he laid a hand on her thigh. “Your Marker’s coming in, Bailey. You can deny it all you want, but that ink isn’t going away.”
    “You’re crazy.”
    “I prefer psycho. I’m all about the