Chapter 4

He rolled off the bed, adjusted his stiff cock, then grabbed his shirt, his broad back flexing with each movement as he tugged it on. Watching him cover up such a fine body was almost painful. I had the urge to tear off his clothes and spend the next hour—or several—exploring every curve and dip. I forced myself to look away.

He slipped into his coat, then turned back around and made it clear he had every intention of waiting for me to get dressed and enjoying the show in the meantime.

Fine. Not ashamed of my body. Sitting up slowly, my limbs protested the movement after such a great release. I shook my head, my locs falling around me like a curtain.

"I fucking love your hair. It's so sexy. Especially the gray streaks in all that dark." Michael's voice had a husky quality, letting me know he was serious.

I shrugged, didn't meet his gaze.

His brow furrowed. "Did I say something wrong again? I always mess up around you."

"Nah, man, it's cool. Had the gray since I was a kid." I picked up a loc and ran my hand down the strand. His gaze followed, a hungry look on his face.

My grams said the gray was from growing up in the battle zone that was my father's house.

She was probably right.

I grudgingly liked that Michael didn't make a joke about my hair not matching my age. I'd had lovers call me ‘Daddy' since I hit my early twenties and at only thirty-six—young by raven standards since we lived to over two hundred—I wasn't anyone's Daddy. Not my kink. A lost opportunity, I guess.

He handed me my discarded boxer briefs and jeans and then searched until he found my tee. I dressed as a knock came at the door.

"That'll be Jagger and Ike," Michael said. "They'll stand guard tonight so we can rest up."

"Cool. Could use a night off." Jagger and Ike were the other security personnel Kennedy favored, so she'd be in capable hands.

"You want to—"

"Got plans." I didn't. I just didn't want to spend any more time with him, or I might actually start liking the guy. Couldn't afford to thaw. Being his mate only brought complications, like he said. He needed to move on, find a dire wolf or whatever his parents expected. I liked my life here just fine.

When he continued to stare, I stuffed my hands in my pockets. Wasn't much for lying.

"Later." Stepping past him toward the door, I felt his gaze between my shoulder blades. I stuffed my feet into work boots, snatched up my coat, and opened the door enough to slip through. Outside, I greeted Jagger and Ike before heading down the hallway and turning into my room. I didn't hurry. Even though I wanted to. I shut my door, leaned back against it.

Never should have let Michael blow me. Bad idea. And as much as I pushed it away, guilt ate at me for not returning the favor. Still, I was glad I didn't taste him, get to know his body. Bad enough his scent—fresh fallen snow and pine—lingered on my skin. Some temptations are better left alone. Plus, I wasn't joking when I told him I didn't like him. Attraction wasn't the same thing. Sue me, my dick knows what it likes. But I'd stopped setting myself up for pain a long time ago.

I startled. A little girl in a cream dress—the Lord Baltimore's youngest ghost in residence—sat on the edge of my bed, her feet swinging, a red ball sitting beside her.

"Molly," I gently chided. "You know you're supposed to wait for permission to enter my room. Living creatures need their privacy."

Her lip trembled, and she stared at her black buckle shoes, her movements stilling.

I sighed. Funny thing about the Lord Baltimore, it was loaded with ghosts. Molly was a casualty of the Great Depression. After the stock market crash, her parents took her to the top of the building and jumped to their deaths, taking her with them. I'd met her when we first moved into the hotel, though she was shy at first. When I didn't freak out or run from her like so many guests did, she'd started hanging around more.

"Anyway, thanks for the heads-up about the shade," I said.

The little ghost nodded, a small smile making an appearance. She never spoke. Not sure she could. She communicated readily enough through gestures and seemed to have some sort of foresight. Earlier today, she'd mimed fading in and out, someone springing out at us, and had pointed toward the lobby. At first, I thought she referred to a ghost, because shades were so uncommon. She finally pointed to the Ouija board on my desk I'd picked up in hopes she could talk to me that way. We used it a lot. After the pointer sped around the board, I got the picture. When it attacked, Kennedy had used a bespelled flashlight that kept the shade from being able to fade, at least until Michael had ripped the guy's throat out.

When Molly remained sitting at the end of my bed, I grabbed Roald Dahl's Matilda from the pile of books on my bedside table, sank into my desk chair, and proceeded to read aloud.

Molly leaned so far forward, I thought she'd topple to the floor. I'd bought the book secondhand when I realized she was lonely and probably bored. Imagine being perpetually seven years old.

I closed the book after completing a chapter. "That's it for tonight. I'm really tired."

She mimed clapping, but still didn't leave.

"You okay?" I asked. Were ghosts ever okay?

She pointed at me, then placed her hand above her head to show something—or someone—big. She pretended to howl. Then, putting her hands together in a heart, she grinned. Took me a second. My cheeks heated. Had she seen . . . ?

"No, I don't like him." I almost sounded convincing.

She giggled, though no sound came out, and made the heart gesture again.

"Molly—"

She faded away. Cheeky brat. I shook my head. I'd have to introduce her to more staff so when I returned to Tommy's Neighborhood, they could take over reading to her.

Once I was sure I was alone, I hopped into the shower to wash the day away—and Michael's scent—piling my locs on top of my head to keep them out of the lukewarm stream. Kennedy had purchased the entire 19th floor of the Lord Baltimore Hotel and was still remodeling the space. Living in a former guest room wasn't ideal for a raven, since we're collectors by nature and like to surround ourselves with personal items. Nothing more impersonal than this, even with the framed splatter art and the great view of the downtown. I hoped I wouldn't be here longer than a couple weeks more. I could manage until then.

After the shower, I pulled on a pair of sweats and crawled into bed with a biography of Babe Ruth, even though he played for the Yankees and I preferred football to baseball. I liked reading about famous Baltimoreans. I wasn't born here, but the city had carved a place for itself in my bones, and I didn't see myself ever leaving.

After reading and re-reading the same page multiple times, I gave up. My thoughts kept straying back to Michael's lips wrapped around me, the possessive way he'd gazed at me, even though I should have been the one in control. We both knew I wasn't. I groaned. I liked it better when he'd hated me. That had been simple.

This. This was complicated.

I despised complicated.