Illicit Intuitions: Sensory Ops, Book 3 by Nikki Duncan

slammed onto the white floor.  
    “You did.” Her mouth gaped open. She looked down at herself, soaked, and then at him. “You had sex with me when I was unconscious.”
    “It wasn’t…like that.”  
    “Trust me.” She shook her head and moved toward the doorway. “This is a simple question. You did, or you didn’t take advantage of me.”
    “You want simple?” There’s nothing simple about any of this. He slammed the door to the fridge closed with a clanging rattle and invaded her space. He backed her to the counter and brushed his body along hers. Towering over her by nearly a foot, she was forced to look up.  
    “Yes.” Her throat bobbed in a swallow. Her pupils flared.  
    “Too late.”  
    She was aroused. The connection they’d had earlier had played a larger role in her orgasm than the serotonin he’d released into her body. That had only heightened the experience for them both.  
    Not that he could explain to her without revealing everything else about himself. He couldn’t admit to anything he’d done. He had to lie. It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was close enough. The reality slithered with a grimy stench coating his insides.  
    Her gaze darted back and forth across his face, jumping between his eyes and mouth. “H.”
    His frustration fizzled. He stepped back and grabbed the neatly folded towel from beside the sink. “No. I didn’t have sex with you.”
    “But I…”
    “You what, Ava?”  
    “Nothing.” She dropped her head and mumbled. “Never mind.”  
    “Good.” He had done what he had no tolerance for. He’d violated her trust, but rather than admit the truth, he was leaving her with confused memories in her head. He was jumping from one asshole move to another, and didn’t like the feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he would sacrifice his beliefs. “You have more towels? Some cleaning stuff? This is gonna be sticky.”
    “Yeah.” She went through a nearby door and came back out with a spray bottle and a handful of towels.
    He took the bottle, covering her hand with his and holding firm for a moment. His gaze eased slowly up her body, over the shorts covering the head of the Phoenix and the shirt clinging wetly to her braless chest. She would fit like perfection in his palms. If he kissed her now, she would taste syrupy sweet like the soda.  
    His body tensed and hardened. Ready and willing to feel her against him again. “You’re going to be sticky. You want help cleaning up?”
    “No.” She jerked her hand away and moved to the door leading to a hallway and the bedroom. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
    In what way? “If you insist.”  
    “I do.” She spun on the ball of her foot.  
    As she walked away, her workout shorts hugged her tight ass and begged him to abandon the task of cleaning up the mess to follow her instead. To help her strip off her T-shirt and wipe away the stickiness. His tongue was wet. Or he could help her shower. Maybe hold her hair.
    His shields wavered. A blue mist settled over the room. He adjusted to ease the pressure on his dick.  
    “Hey,” he called after her.
    Her feet slapping the tile floor halted just out of view. He imagined her glancing up to the ceiling for patience or control. The image had him smiling with the desire to needle her.
    “What?”
    Yeah, her voice confirmed it. So did the waves of arousal bouncing through the air. She was frustrated, and not entirely by his goading. She may not remember his healing her, but she remembered the sensations of him inside her. Her body remembered his as vibrantly as his recalled hers.  
    “You’re conscious now. Let me know if you’re in a polishing mood.”
    “Only if it involves hot wax and a scraper.”
    “You mean like on a board? I could get behind that.” He suppressed his chuckle so she wouldn’t hear. He didn’t move closer where he could get a better feel of her. A clearer impression of her arousal would only incite his