How old was he? The question hammered at the back of my mind, a distraction from the intimacy of the moment. He carried the heavy, tectonic authority of a man who had lived through lifetimes, yet this close, the illusion of age fractured. His skin was almost inhumanly flawless, not the supple softness of youth, but something more... permanent. It was marble polished to a high sheen, devoid of the tiny lines, pores, or imperfections that defined a living, breathing human being.
Damn.
At least the oppressive shadows of the office were thick enough to mask the furious, traitorous blush creeping up my neck. I felt like a teenager in the presence of a god, and the humiliation of that attraction, given my current state of decay, stung worse than the cancer.
He held out a hand, palm up, waiting. I stared at it for a beat too long before the fog in my brain cleared and I realized he was waiting for my arm.
"Shouldn't you be wearing gloves?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly. "Standard protocol and all that?"
"I am not at risk of blood contamination, Amanda," he said. There was an unaccountable streak of amusement in his tone.
For some reason, I believed him. It was an instinctive, irrational trust that defied every biology lecture I'd ever attended. I tentatively offered him my arm, inner wrist facing upward in a gesture of accidental vulnerability. His fingers closed around my skin; cool, commanding, and startlingly firm as he slid the sleeve of my oversized sweater up to bare the pale crease of my elbow.
The contact sent a deep shiver through me, a sudden tightening in my center that made my breath hitch. My jacket, which had been draped over my knees, slipped from my lap and crumpled onto the floor between us like a discarded skin. I tried to look away, to focus on the hunting prints or the coffered ceiling, but I couldn't stop myself from staring at the crown of his head. His hair was so black, so impeccably combed, that I was half-surprised it didn't combust under the intensity of my gaze.
He's about to stick you with a needle, you idiot, I snarled at myself, the internal monologue sharp and biting. Have you lost every shred of sense and dignity? You're a terminal patient in a bank vault, not a girl on a date.
He looked up at me then, one side of that delicious, symmetrical mouth quirking into a half-smile. My breath tangled in my lungs, refusing to circulate. No, I thought distantly, my resolve crumbling. No, I don't. No sense or dignity at all.
Mr. Jason wiped the blue veined skin of my inner elbow with an alcohol soaked swab. The sharp, sterile scent of evaporating ethanol hit my nose, turning my stomach and bringing back the ghost of every hospital room I'd ever sat in.
"It won't hurt," he said, discarding the swab with a flick of his wrist and taking up the needle. The tip caught the light of the desk lamp. "I promise."
I started to protest, to tell him that I knew exactly how much needles hurt, that I knew the pinch and the burn of a botched draw , but the words died in my throat. The needle met my skin at the exact same moment his other hand tightened its grip on my wrist.
Something impossible happened.
A sensation spiraled outward from the touch of his palm, a wave of liquid heat that raced up my arm and crashed into my chest. It rippled through my nervous system and surged into my brain so suddenly that I gasped, my back arching slightly against the brocade chair. The needle pushed through my skin, but there was no sting. Instead, a heady, intoxicating wave welled up to meet the iron, turning the expected pain into a deep, twisting ache that sent my heart racing.
Heat flooded my body, pooling in my groin and making my skin feel too tight for my bones. I stared down at the needle buried in my arm, watching as my sluggish blood began to fill the collection tube. I was shivering, my body flushed and burning against the impossible, steady coolness of his fingers.
Swiftly, Mr. Jason pulled the vial free and slipped the needle from my vein. The connection was severed, but the fire in my blood remained, humming with the ghost of his touch.