Micah by Laurell K. Hamilton Page A

else.”
    His smile slipped a little. “What now?”
    â€œThere’s a salad here with grilled chicken on it and a butterflied chicken breast grilled with veggies. The salad better not be mine.”
    He grinned then, and it was that sudden grin that gave me a glimpse of what he might have looked like at fifteen.
    â€œYou get the chicken breast.”
    I frowned. “I would have preferred steak.”
    He nodded. “Yes, but if you eat that heavy then sometimes the food doesn’t sit well if the sex is too, um, vigorous.”
    I tried not to smile and failed. “And is the sex going to be, um, vigorous?”
    â€œI hope so,” he said.
    â€œAnd you got the salad, because . . .”
    â€œI’ll be doing most of the work,” he said.
    â€œNow, that’s just not true,” I said.
    He wrapped his arms around me, and his being the same height made the eye contact very serious, very intimate.
    â€œWho does the most work depends on who is doing what.” His voice was low and deep. His face leaned closer as he said, “I know exactly what I want to do to you and with you, and it means that I will be doing”—and his mouth was just above mine—“most of the work.”
    I thought he’d kiss me, but he didn’t. He drew back and left me breathless and a little shaky. When I could talk without sounding as wobbly as I felt, I asked, “How do you do that?”
    â€œDo what?” he asked as he sat down on his side of the table, spreading his napkin in his lap.
    I gave him a look.
    He laughed. “I am your Nimir-Raj, Anita. You are my Nimir-Ra, my leopard queen. The moment we met, my beast and that part of you that calls and iscalled to the wereleopards were drawn to each other. You know that.”
    I blushed, because the memory of just how much we’d been drawn together from the moment we’d met always made me a little embarrassed. All right, more than a little.
    Micah was the first man I’d ever had sex with within hours of meeting him. The only thing that had kept it from being a one-night stand was the fact that he stuck around, but I hadn’t known he would when it first happened. Micah had been the first person I fed the ardeur off of, the first warm body that I slaked that awful thirst on. Was that the bond? Was that the foundation of it?
    â€œYou’re frowning,” he said.
    â€œThinking too hard,” I said.
    â€œAnd not about anything pleasant, from the look on your face.”
    I shrugged, which made the jacket rub on the gun. I took the jacket off and draped it across the back of the chair. Now the shoulder holster was bare andaggressive against the crimson shirt. My arms were exposed, which showed off most of my scars.
    â€œYou’re angry,” he said. “Why?”
    I actually hung my head, because he was right. “Don’t ask, okay? Just let my grumpy mood go, and I’ll try to let it go, too.”
    He looked at me for a moment, then gave a small nod. But his face was back to being careful. His neutral, pleasant I’m managing her moods face. I hated that face because it meant I was being difficult, but I didn’t know how to stop being difficult. I was tripping over issues I’d thought I’d worked out months ago. What the hell was the matter with me?
    We ate in silence, but it wasn’t companionable silence. It was strained, at least in my own head.
    â€œOkay,” Micah said, and his voice made me jump.
    â€œWhat?” I asked, and my voice sounded strident, somewhere between breathy and a yell.
    â€œI have no idea why you are this”—he made a waffling motion with his hand—“but we’ll play it your way. How did you get the scars on your left arm?”
    I looked down at my arm as if it had suddenlyappeared there. I stared at the mound of scar tissue at the inside of the elbow, the cross-shaped burn scar just below it, the knife