Shadowfever (Fever #5)

by Karen Marie Moning

But he didn’t. He pulled back and looked past me, and I knew from the look on his face that I wasn’t the only one who could see her. “I think she’s me,” I whispered. He looked at me, back at her, and at me again. “Is that a joke?” “I know this house. I know this place. I don’t know how else to explain it.” “Impossible.” It is nearly too late. Come NOW. It was no longer a wisp of a plea. It was a command, and the hand was implacable on my arm. I could not disobey, no matter how badly I wanted to stay here and lose myself in sex, no matter how desperately I needed him inside me again, needed to feel we were joined in the most primal way, that I was in Jericho Barrons’ arms and mouth and under his skin. And, God, did I need it! So much that I resented it. I never wanted to want a man this much—so much that not having him was physical pain. I never wanted to feel that any man had so much control over me and my life. I pushed up from my knees and shoved past him. He grabbed the sleeve of my coat; it ripped as I pulled away. “We need to talk about this! Mac!” I dashed down the corridor, running after her like a dog chasing its own tail.