Chapter One
The briefest slide of a clawed hand brushed against Adela’s ass. She bit her lip, denying a small moan.
It wasn’t real. It was never real.
Pushing those words around and through her thoughts, she pressed her palm to one of the numerous door-plates grafted into the building before her. The cold metal was a relief to her heated skin and she waited the few tense seconds for the mechanism to give her access to the vast titanium-and-glass structure of the central office of Yeats, Sobel and Rana. Doors flushed open before her. The hand that was not there squeezed, biting into her left cheek. Adela let out a protesting squeak, but staggered forward.
She would not react. No one in the throng of people surrounding her would know that she was completely and utterly crazy. Because no one could see anyone touching her. She couldn’t. Nothing was there. But it was. And every day as she approached her office across the riverside plateau, it began. The sly touches, the brush of skin and fingers and mouths tormenting her. They had for days. Three to be exact. Tantalizing hints of them and it only began there. Once she entered the tube system to return home, she was alone once again. It made her doubt her own sanity.
The nip of teeth at her hip broke her thoughts and caused her strained gait to falter on the marble flooring of the atrium. Damn it. What the hell was this? She tugged at the smooth material of her jacket and rubbed her fingertips over the quick sting in her flesh.
But there was worse to come. Adela drew in a steadying breath. Walking through the streams of weak summer sunlight cast through the clear walls, she turned to the grav-lifts. Her colleagues flowed around her in a rush of chatter, eager to pack themselves into the cramped boxes that shot them to their floor. Adela slowed. Her heart thudded, the beat of it making her head light.
Three days ago, the grav-lifts had become exquisite torture.
In more than one way.
A tide of people swept her into one of the shiny metal boxes that banked the east wall of the office building. Adela found herself pressed to the back of the lift, the heat of the warmed metal bleeding through the thin material of her suit. The doors closed on a soft rush of air and filters kicked in, the hints of grass, earth and somehow open sky pushing back the hot stink of too many bodies crowded into a box.
Adela curled her fingers into her palms and her shoulders tensed. Waiting. Waiting for the next stage in her insanity. A new scent caught her and her pulse jumped. So brief an odor, she did doubt it…but there it was again. A bitter curl of something like burned earth. But not. It was the first sign, one she could never pick out in the vast, open space of the atrium.
Hot breath stung the sensitive skin behind her ear, forcing her eyes to flutter shut as she fought to stay calm. No one stood behind her and to the side and the front was a tightly packed wall of unmoving bodies. Not that they would remain unmoving.
The first brush of a real hand broke her thoughts. Adela sucked in a sharp breath and stayed absolutely still. Completely still. Any movement, any sound on her part and the touching would…stop. And as insane as her life had become with her taunting, invisible lover and the strange reality of the grav-lift, she wasn’t about to give it up. She couldn’t. Something about it was utterly addictive. And not when the other exquisite part of it was him . Marcus Yeats.
His fingers drew a slow line over her hip, the tease of them over her skirt driving the heavy and now familiar ache deep to her core. She flicked a glance to the man pressed to her side in the cramped space. Holding a pad in his other hand, his attention fixed on the thin sheet of stiff synthetic material, he appeared unaware of the movement of his hand against her hip.
The stark light cut across his stern profile with a curling lock of dark hair dipping low over his forehead. Her pulse beat harder.
The briefest slide of a clawed hand brushed against Adela’s ass. She bit her lip, denying a small moan.
It wasn’t real. It was never real.
Pushing those words around and through her thoughts, she pressed her palm to one of the numerous door-plates grafted into the building before her. The cold metal was a relief to her heated skin and she waited the few tense seconds for the mechanism to give her access to the vast titanium-and-glass structure of the central office of Yeats, Sobel and Rana. Doors flushed open before her. The hand that was not there squeezed, biting into her left cheek. Adela let out a protesting squeak, but staggered forward.
She would not react. No one in the throng of people surrounding her would know that she was completely and utterly crazy. Because no one could see anyone touching her. She couldn’t. Nothing was there. But it was. And every day as she approached her office across the riverside plateau, it began. The sly touches, the brush of skin and fingers and mouths tormenting her. They had for days. Three to be exact. Tantalizing hints of them and it only began there. Once she entered the tube system to return home, she was alone once again. It made her doubt her own sanity.
The nip of teeth at her hip broke her thoughts and caused her strained gait to falter on the marble flooring of the atrium. Damn it. What the hell was this? She tugged at the smooth material of her jacket and rubbed her fingertips over the quick sting in her flesh.
But there was worse to come. Adela drew in a steadying breath. Walking through the streams of weak summer sunlight cast through the clear walls, she turned to the grav-lifts. Her colleagues flowed around her in a rush of chatter, eager to pack themselves into the cramped boxes that shot them to their floor. Adela slowed. Her heart thudded, the beat of it making her head light.
Three days ago, the grav-lifts had become exquisite torture.
In more than one way.
A tide of people swept her into one of the shiny metal boxes that banked the east wall of the office building. Adela found herself pressed to the back of the lift, the heat of the warmed metal bleeding through the thin material of her suit. The doors closed on a soft rush of air and filters kicked in, the hints of grass, earth and somehow open sky pushing back the hot stink of too many bodies crowded into a box.
Adela curled her fingers into her palms and her shoulders tensed. Waiting. Waiting for the next stage in her insanity. A new scent caught her and her pulse jumped. So brief an odor, she did doubt it…but there it was again. A bitter curl of something like burned earth. But not. It was the first sign, one she could never pick out in the vast, open space of the atrium.
Hot breath stung the sensitive skin behind her ear, forcing her eyes to flutter shut as she fought to stay calm. No one stood behind her and to the side and the front was a tightly packed wall of unmoving bodies. Not that they would remain unmoving.
The first brush of a real hand broke her thoughts. Adela sucked in a sharp breath and stayed absolutely still. Completely still. Any movement, any sound on her part and the touching would…stop. And as insane as her life had become with her taunting, invisible lover and the strange reality of the grav-lift, she wasn’t about to give it up. She couldn’t. Something about it was utterly addictive. And not when the other exquisite part of it was him . Marcus Yeats.
His fingers drew a slow line over her hip, the tease of them over her skirt driving the heavy and now familiar ache deep to her core. She flicked a glance to the man pressed to her side in the cramped space. Holding a pad in his other hand, his attention fixed on the thin sheet of stiff synthetic material, he appeared unaware of the movement of his hand against her hip.
The stark light cut across his stern profile with a curling lock of dark hair dipping low over his forehead. Her pulse beat harder.
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