He was sitting on the floor outside her door, leaning against the wall, one leg stretched out before him, the other bent up at the knee, his arm resting on it. She had the whole top floor, so there wasn't really a corridor. More like a landing. He stood when he saw her coming up the last flight of stairs.

"Michael?"

His eyes caught and held hers as she climbed, but he said nothing until she reached the landing and was standing in front of him.

"You were right here. Right here." His voice was deep and quiet, beautiful, but soft with hurt. They were the first words he'd said to her since that night ten years ago, and they hurt her to hear.

She nodded.

"Why?"

She knew what he was asking-why had she stayed away, knowing they were so close? Because there were things-there was one thing, a big thing-he didn't know. Because she'd been afraid she'd hurt him more if she'd sought him out. Because she couldn't get so close to her mother. Because she didn't know if he'd still want her.

"I don't know. Afraid, I guess."

"Of me?"

"No, Michael. Never of you. Of...it. Us. What happened. I don't know."

"Are you still afraid?"

Again, she nodded. She was still afraid.

"Me, too." He laughed and smiled sadly-even sad, his was the most beautiful smile. It made the intensity and distrust that seemed a feature of his face disappear and left behind kindness and...well, faith, though Faith felt corny to think it.

"Will you come inside? Will you talk to me?"

Michael nodded and held out his hands for her bags. After she pa.s.sed them over, she unlocked her door and let him into her life.

As they came in, and Michael went to her table and set her bags down, Sly jumped down from his newly-designated favorite sill and meowed a threat. He came forward carefully, his body skimming the floor, his ears back.

"Holy s.h.i.t," Michael muttered. "Is that...that's..."

"Yeah. He was at my mom's."

Michael turned to her. "You didn't have him with you all this time?"

She shook her head. "Long story. My mom kept him."

Giving her something like a scowl, Michael squatted and held out his hand to the cat. "Hey, dude."

Sly slunk forward, growling all the way. He sniffed Michael's fingers and swatted at his hand. It was his greeting ritual, and a test. Not many people pa.s.sed. As far as Faith knew, the only people who had were in this room right now.

The trick was to be steady. Not to flinch, not to run. Sly b.u.mped Michael's hand and came forward, relaxing. Michael picked him up and held him snugly.

He scratched Sly's truncated ear. "He looks a little rough."

"He always was a sc.r.a.pper. But he doesn't like being cooped up in the house. He probably took on the whole neighborhood." They were talking like normal, like friends. As if the past ten years hadn't happened. It felt weird. And right, too.

"Are you keeping him here now?"

Faith didn't know the answer to that. She didn't know if she was keeping her here. It depended on her mother. And on Michael. And on more things than she could sort out at one time. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Michael. What are we...?" She'd meant to finish the question with the word 'doing,' but it wouldn't come. But it sounded right as it was: what are we. That was really the question, wasn't it?

He put Sly down, and the cat sauntered off, content, toward his fancy china bowls, already the master of this place.

Michael took the three steps that put them face to face. "I can't talk, not about...before. I thought I could. That's why I'm here, I think. But I can't. I don't know what to say. There's too much."

Faith looked up at him. He was so strong and broad, so beautiful. His fair hair and beard were close-cropped, not shaved. She missed the smooth cheeks and s.h.a.ggy mess of pale hair he'd had. The scruff over his head and face now made him look older. Wearier. But he was still so very beautiful. His deep blue eyes were intent, locked on hers.

"Then what do you want, Michael?"

He looked at the floor between them, and Faith got the sense that he was steeling himself. Then he met her eyes again. "You. I want you. We were wrong before, but maybe we can be right now. I love you, Faith. I never stopped. I don't know how you feel, but-"

She put her hand on his mouth to dam up his words. "I love you, stupid. I never stopped, either."

His expression showed the perfect relief that Faith felt herself. He put his hands around her face and murmured, "I won't stop. I'll never stop." Then he kissed her, and she leaned in, curving her body to fit with his, moving her tongue with his, holding his head in her hands as he held hers.

Kissing Michael, even after all this time, was perfectly familiar. They understood each other's bodies, even though they hadn't had long to be together, and they hadn't been together in a long time. But he kissed differently now, too. He was more confident-but maybe that was simply a feature of their age. He was thirty-two; she was twenty-seven. They both had more experience. And whatever they might have now, next, it wouldn't be something they had to keep in the shadows. They needn't feel guilt or apprehension now.

What had happened before couldn't happen now. They were safe now.

That realization, and the way it swept her fear right off the edge of her consciousness, sent a fire through Faith's blood. She grasped Michael more tightly, pulling herself up on him, getting as close as she could. She wrapped her arms around his head, and he groaned and moved his hands to her waist, enclosing her in his arms and standing up straight, lifting her off the floor.

He walked across the room, straight to her bed as if he'd known where it was. When he laid her down on it, his knee on the mattress between her legs, Faith felt a brief flash of memory that, irrationally, brought her fear back.

They'd only ever been on a bed together one time before. The last time. When they'd made at least one terrible mistake.

As that memory dragged its claws over her heart, Faith pulled back with a gasp. She opened her eyes and found Michael looking down at her, his face flushed, his eyes worried. "Faith?"

She shoved the past away. They were safe. "I love you," she said, to have a reason for having pulled away.

"I love you." He smiled, and she believed they were safe.

They were both still fully dressed, and that would not do at all. She shrugged out of her leather jacket and pulled her long t-shirt over her head. Michael stayed where he was, looming over her, and watched, his eyes vivid with l.u.s.t.

She went for her bra, but he put his hand on her chest, splayed so that his thumb and fingers hooked over her collarbones, and held her down. Kneeling, his legs framing one of hers, he hooked the fingers of both hands into the straps of her bra, then slid them down and into the cups until the backs of his fingers brushed her nipples. The touch made her muscles go tight and hard, and she arched up as high as she could, wanting more, wanting him to make her feel everything. A decade's worth of everything.

His hands went back up the straps to her shoulders and then pulled the stretchy satin down her arms, pulling until the cups folded down, too. And then he bent down and took a desperate nipple into his mouth.

"Oh, f.u.c.k, oh f.u.c.k," she breathed, needing to make an utterance but trying to be quiet. Michael had always been quiet when they were like this, silent except for anguished groans when he finished. He'd seemed distracted, almost disturbed, by the sounds she'd made. He'd been her first, and their short time together had built in her a shyness about making noise during s.e.x-but her natural inclination was to vocalize. To this day, she fought those two impulses always.

This time, instead of flinching or even pausing in his attention to her breast, he answered her quiet words with a low groan, and the hand he wasn't propping himself up with slid down, over her belly, and into her leggings.

Just as his fingers pushed over her pubic bone, he lifted his head abruptly and stared down at her, his fingers moving over her mound, into her folds, exploring. It felt good, so f.u.c.king good, and she could feel him feel how wet she was. He was surprised, though, and when his fingers returned to the bare skin over the bone and brushed back and forth, she understood. Feeling breathless and a little shy, she smiled. "I've been doing that a while. Everything feels more intense shaved."

Before, she'd been pretty natural, just shaving what showed around her bathing suit and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the rest. He returned to her folds and let his fingers move lightly over the bare, delicate skin. His touch made her twitch and gasp.

"So good," she whispered.

Still without a word, he took his hand away and leaned back. He took hold of her waistband with both hands and pulled, and she lifted her hips to help him.

He pulled her pants and underwear together down her legs, until he got to the boots she was still wearing. Then he stopped and, smiling down at her, lifted her feet onto his thighs and started unlacing her boots. He was yet completely dressed, boots and kutte and everything, but she didn't protest at all when he pulled her boots off and then rid her of her lace-up leggings and her underwear. All she was wearing now was a bra, scrunched up under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She reached under her back and unhooked it, then tossed it carelessly away.

Now, she was totally bare, and he was staring down at her like she was an exotic delicacy.

He pulled her to the edge of the bed, knelt on the floor, and fed on her as if she were.

And oh, f.u.c.k, he was good at it-better than she remembered. He lifted her legs onto his shoulders and then moved his hands to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s so he could pluck and tweak both nipples in time to the rhythm of his lips and tongue.

He went down on her like there was nowhere in the world he'd rather be, and she could think of few places she'd rather have him. The scruff on his face, the buds on his tongue, the heat of his breath, the rough skin of his fingers exciting her excitable nipples-it all made a symphony of sensation that Faith could barely contain.

She wasn't a prude. She had not been celibate during the past decade, not by any stretch. She enjoyed s.e.x and hadn't required an emotional connection to enjoy a physical one. But this-he'd been her first and in many ways, both emotional and physical, her best lover. He was better now. It was all better now. It was so good.

So good. So good, Oh, f.u.c.k, so good. She pulled her knees up and grabbed his head, holding him to her as she came, curling up around him, trying to be quiet but failing.

He stayed on her, his tongue flicking at her c.l.i.t until she couldn't take the intensity for another second. When she pushed his head back, he stood and began, at last, ridding himself of his clothes.

Except for his kutte, which he hooked on the corner post at the foot of her bed, he dropped his clothes wherever they happened to fall.

d.a.m.n. He was gorgeous. The same man she loved, but dramatically different, too. He was ma.s.sive, the muscles on his arms, torso, legs, everywhere, deeply cut. He knelt again on the bed and leaned over her. Then he twitched and sat back, reaching to the floor. Faith didn't understand at first, but he'd picked his jeans up and was fishing in the pocket.

She made a call. She hoped it was the right call. But she knew he'd tell her if it wasn't safe. "Michael."

He stopped and c.o.c.ked his head. She hadn't understood before why he was so quiet during s.e.x, and she still didn't. It was just who he was. She loved his silence for that, if nothing else. She loved knowing that about him, feeling the hominess in that familiar silence now. She stretched out her arm and showed him a small scar. "I have an implant. You don't need that."

She'd used an implant for most of the past decade. Michael hadn't been very good at getting a condom on right from the beginning, and sometimes not at all, though he always pulled out. And she hadn't been good at stopping him. She'd learned it was better not to have to think about it in the heat of the moment. Because sometimes the moment got too hot to think.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then dropped his jeans. And then he was on top of her, his weight so much more than she remembered. He pulled her leg up to his hip, holding himself with his other hand, guiding himself into her.

He filled her, huge and hot. She felt full in more than just her body. She felt complete. She bent her head back as he pushed deep, unable to stop her cry. "Oh G.o.d, Michael!"

When he didn't move, Faith settled back on the mattress and opened her eyes. He was staring down at her, pain riding his features hard. His cheeks were red. She didn't understand. "Michael?"

His head fell, sagging from his shoulders. "I...can't. I can't."

The fear she thought she'd swept away came back and leaned in. "You can't what?"

He shook his head.

Oh, no. This was not all going to fall apart while he was inside her. She lifted his head in her hands and made him face her. His eyes glistened. "You can't what?"

The pain in his expression deepened, but he didn't answer. He wasn't going to tell her. But she wasn't going to let him go. She knew one thing he couldn't do: resist. She flexed her hips, drawing him into her as deeply as she could. His groan overwhelmed her own gasp, and he pleaded, "Faith, I..."

She flexed her hips again. And again. "Shut up, Michael. Shut up and f.u.c.k me." Pulling his head down, she lifted up to meet him, and she kissed him hard, demanding that he finish what they'd started. With a sound of defeat, he did.

At first, he was gentle and slow, careful, like he was still fighting the demon that had come between them, whatever it was. They kept their mouths joined, kissing as he moved inside her and she moved with him.

But then her pleasure kicked into high gear and she began to move to her own rhythm, chasing the ecstasy she knew was headed her way. He sped up, too, keeping up with her. She knew the moment when he lost control-and she thought she knew, too, what he'd meant when he'd said I can't-because he made a sound that could only be called a growl and sat back on his heels, yanking her hips up with him. And then he f.u.c.ked her harder than she'd ever been f.u.c.ked before, far harder than he'd ever f.u.c.ked her, so hard and so fast that she felt jackhammered, and her grunts and cries were broken and syncopated by her bouncing body.

He'd been intense before, but this ferocity shocked her. Yet it didn't hurt her. She came hard then, and in a totally new way, one she couldn't describe, like he'd found another spot in her body that could stimulate to climax, something even deeper than a g-spot. Her juices let down in a rush just as he came, groaning as if his release were torture, his fingers digging deeply into her hips, his head thrown back, the muscles and veins in his neck and shoulders bunched and swollen, his skin flushed dark red all the way to his pecs.

When Michael relaxed, he did so completely, collapsing onto her in a heap. Faith wrapped her arms around him and held him, feeling his body shaking. This big, tormented man was so different from the smaller, tormented boy she'd known, but so alike, too, wanting so much to be good, trying so hard, and so much in need, that she felt like she was falling in love all over again.

Slowly, their breathing returned to normal, and he lifted away and looked down at her. "Did I hurt...I'm s-"

She put her hand over his mouth. "Don't you dare. I'm not hurt. I love you. I loved that. There is nothing here at all to feel bad about. We're safe now. We're good."

Nodding, he kissed her hand. "Okay. Okay. We're good. Okay."

He dropped his head and tucked his face against her neck, and she held him.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Demon woke on his back, with Sly curled between his knees and Faith leaning over him, running her hands over his chest, making soft swirls and waves of sensation over and over.

He had Faith in his arms.

In his head and his body, he was quiet. He could have wept for the ease he felt, alien to him in its comfort.

Seeing him awake, she smiled down at him and put her hand over his heart. "It's still there."

He smiled and combed his hand through her beautiful, dark hair, messy now from their s.e.x. "My heart? Yeah. Waiting for you."

That made her smile grow, but she shook her head and traced one finger over his skin. "No. Your ink. The one I knew. The kanji. I thought you'd covered it up, like your old club ink, but it's still in here. Just...tangled up in the rest of the ink now."

The symbol for strength. He'd gotten it shortly after he'd aged out of foster care. He'd been homeless at the time, but he'd managed to squirrel away the cash for a cheap tat. It had felt important-crucial-to him, at eighteen, to get that ink. Back then sixty bucks had been a whole lot of money. He'd skipped food and shelter to save it. But that kanji had meant everything to him. It seemed stupid now.

Less stupid in this moment, though, with Faith tracing her fingertip over that old ink.

Her hand moved over his chest and traced a scar across his ribs, and another high on his belly. "What happened here?"

Demon put his hand over hers. "Life. Not important." Not even to Faith would he talk about the club, past or present.

She met his eyes. "Club stuff, huh?"

He shrugged. "Got into some sc.r.a.pes."

"What was it like, being a Nomad?"

Feeling some of his peace ebbing away, he sat up against her headboard. "I don't want to talk about that. I just want...I want..." He was afraid to say. Everything he'd wanted had been lost to him-Faith, his home, his son. But he'd gotten a chance to have it all back-his home, his son, and now, maybe, Faith. The thought that he had traveled that full circle should have brought an even deeper sense of peace, maybe even happiness. But instead, Demon felt a creeping certainty that it was indeed a circle he was on, that he would lose it all again.

"What do you want, Michael?"