Out of the Dark by Megan Hart

repeated in a hoarse voice. Her eyes shone.
    He didn’t want her to cry. He didn’t want her to hurt. He wanted to take all of this away from her, have it be made undone. But he couldn’t do any of that, he was useless and helpless and worse than that, he was to blame for all of it in the first place….
    â€œLuke,” Celia said, commanding. “Don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you dare.”
    Somehow he was kneeling beside her bed, his face against the sheets and her hand resting lightly on the back of his head. She stroked him while he fought against completely losing control. His shoulders heaved, his throat burned and closed against any sort of words. Not that he had anything to say—apologies were worthless. He could never make this better.
    â€œCome to bed,” she murmured, words slurring.
    He thought he wouldn’t sleep, but he stripped anyway and slid beneath the covers next to her. Celia, with a small groan, rolled onto her side to pillow her head on his chest. Her hand smoothed down over his belly. Then lower.
    He put a hand over hers when it gripped him. “Celia…”
    â€œShut up.”
    In her voice he heard that same dry humor he’d fallen in love with that very first night in that backwoods bar. She stroked him, and unbelievably, his cock rose at her touch. She twisted her palm around the head, and pleasure built.
    Celia rolled on top of him, moving slowly. She straddled him, her knees pressing his hips. She took his hands and put them on her bare breasts. She arched with a sigh and rocked against him. When she looked down at him, her hair fell all around her face. When she bent to kiss him, it tickled his cheeks. His hands moved up and over her back, feeling the bones of her spine, too prominent.
    â€œI’m not dead,” she whispered against his mouth. She moved back to slide down on his cock, and the heat and slick clutch of her flesh around him forced a sudden gasp from both of them. She said it again, a low murmur he had no trouble hearing. “I’m…not…dead.”
    More pleasure built as she moved. His hands found her hips. He tried hard not to grip too fiercely on her bruises, but she put her hands over his and forced his fingers to curl against her. She rode him faster. He was close already, the feeling of her around him a heaven he hadn’t dreamed could exist.
    â€œI’m not dead,” Celia repeated. “And neither are you.”
    â€œI’m not dead,” he breathed.
    She came with a long, low cry, and he matched her. Climax surged out from the base of his cock. Other times he’d experienced orgasm as tumbling into darkness, but not this time. This time, with this woman, he came out of the darkness.
    She collapsed on him, her face against his neck. Her lips traced a pattern on his skin. As he fell asleep, the last words he heard echoed in his mind.
    I’m not dead.
    Â 
    Celia thought she’d have slept for days in the warmth, comfort and safety of her own bed, but instead she was up when the first light of morning probed her window. She wasn’t surprised to find the bed empty, and she lay there without moving for a couple minutes, just relishing the ache in her muscles that meant she was no longer drugged by whatever it was the thing had put in her when it bit her. Because every creak of her joints and sting of her cuts reminded her that she was alive.
    She heard footsteps downstairs and wondered if she’d ever hear that sound without her heart thudding just a little faster in terror before she could convince herself it was no monster down there waiting for her, but Luke. God, she hoped he was making coffee. In the kitchen, she found him at the table. No coffee. Nothing, just…sitting.
    She sat across from him. She took his hand. “You didn’t leave.”
    â€œI thought about it.”
    â€œI know you did,” she told him. She squeezed his fingers. “But you