His eyes flickered with fiery provocation. Not her imagination, she realized. Hope flooded her. But when several seconds ticked by and he failed to reach out for her, that hope turned to frustration. Time really was her enemy. The longer she stayed here, the greater her chance of being caught.
'Do you not find me desirable, Flowers?'
A muscle ticked below his eye. 'That is not my name.'
'Fine, then. Do you not find me desirable, muffin?'
The ticking spread to his jaw. 'What I find you matters little.'
'That doesn't really answer my question,' she said, close to pouting again.
'Nor was it meant to.'
Grrr! What an infuriating man.
Alrightie, then. She turned and bent down to the floor. Her skirt rode up her thighs and gave him another, better, glimpse of her blue thong and the wings stretching from the center. As she pushed to a stand, mimicking the motions of sex as she did so, she slowly circled, offering a lingering full-body shot.
He sucked in a breath, every muscle in his powerful body tense. 'You smell like strawberries and cream.' As he spoke, he looked like a predator about to pounce.
He growled low in his throat and took a menacing step toward her. He raised his hand to—grab her? Hit her? Whoa, what was
'You're lucky I do not strike you down here and now,' he said, proving her thoughts. Still, his hand lowered to his side.
Anya ceased moving, staring up at him in openmouthed astonishment. Because she smelled like fruit, he wanted to hurt her? That was—that was supremely…disappointing. Her mind had tried to supply the word
Wasn't like she'd expected him to fall at her feet, but she
Men liked women who threw themselves at them. Right? She'd observed mortals for too many years to count, and that had always seemed to be the case.
In all the days she'd watched him, he hadn't favored a single woman. Ashlyn, his friend's lover, he treated with kindness and respect. Cameo, the only female warrior in residence here, he treated with gentleness and almost parental concern. Not desire.
He didn't prefer men. His gaze didn't linger on males with hunger or any hint of softer emotion. Was he in love with a specific woman, then, and no other would do? If so, the bitch was going down!
Anya ran her tongue over her teeth, and her hands clenched at her sides. Smoke continued to billow through the building, hazy, dreamlike. The human females began to crowd the dance floor again, trying to lure the Lords back to their sides. But the warriors continued to observe Anya, waiting for the final verdict of just who and what she was.
Lucien hadn't moved an inch; it was as if his entire body were rooted in place. She should give up, walk away, cut her losses before Cronus found her.
Forcing her expression to follow suit, she sauntered the rest of the way to him, closing that hated distance between them. She trekked her fingers up his strong, hard chest and shivered. No touching—ha! He would learn. Anarchy was hardly an obedient lapdog.
He didn't pull away, at least.
'You're going to dance with me,' she purred. 'That's the only way to get rid of me.' Just to taunt him further, she stood on her tiptoes and gently bit his earlobe.
There was a rumble in his throat as his arms finally wrapped around her. At first she thought he meant to push her away. Then he jerked her deeper into the curve of his body, flattening her breasts against his torso and forcing her legs to straddle his left thigh. That quickly, she was wet.
'You want to dance, then we will dance.' Slowly, decadently, he swayed her side to side, their bodies staying meshed together, her core rubbing just above his knee. Spears of pleasure ignited, traveling through her bloodstream and leaving no part of her unaffected.
Gods in heaven, this was better than she'd imagined. Her eyes closed in surrender. He was big. Everywhere. His shoulders were so wide they dwarfed her; his upper body so muscled it enveloped her. And all the while, his warm exhalations caressed her cheek like an attentive lover. Trembling, she moved her hands up his back and tangled them in his dark, silky hair.
His nose nuzzled her jawline. 'Every man in this building wants you,' he said softly, yet his words were so sharp they could have cut like a knife. 'Why me?'
'Just because,' she said, inhaling his heady rose perfume.
'That answers nothing.'
'Nor was it meant to,' she said, parroting his earlier words. Her nipples were still hard, so hard, and rubbing against her corset, enhancing her desire. Her skin was wonderfully sensitive, her mind hyperaware of Lucien's every move. Had anything ever felt so erotic? So…right?
Lucien gripped her hair tightly, almost pulling some of the strands from her scalp. 'Do you find it amusing to tease the ugliest man here?'
'Ugliest?' When he appealed to her as no one else ever had? 'But I'm nowhere near Paris, sugarpop.'
That gave him pause. He frowned and released her. Then he shook his head, as if trying to clear it. 'I know what I am,' he growled with the faintest trace of bitterness. 'Ugly is being kind.'
She stilled, peering into his seductive bi-colored eyes. Did he truly have no idea of his attractiveness? He radiated strength and vitality. He exuded savage masculinity. Everything about him enthralled her.
'If you know what you are, sweetness, then you know you're sexy and deliciously menacing.' And she needed more of him. Another of those shivers raked her spine, vibrating into her limbs.
He glared down at her. 'Menacing? Does that mean you want me to hurt you?'
Slowly she grinned. 'Only if it involves spanking.'
His nostrils flared again. 'I suppose my scars do not bother you,' he said, completely devoid of emotion now.
'Bother me?' Those scars didn't ruin him. They made him irresistible.
Closer…closer…Yes, contact. Oh, great gods! She glided her hands over his chest, luxuriating in the feel of his nipples as they reached for her, savoring the ropes of strength that greeted her. 'They turn me on.'
'Liar,' he said.
'Sometimes,' she admitted, 'but not about this.' She studied his face. However he'd gotten the scars could not have been pleasant. He'd suffered. A lot. The knowledge suddenly angered her as much as it entranced her. Who had hurt him and why? A jealous lover?
Looked like someone had taken a blade and carved Lucien up like a melon, then tried to put him back together with the pieces out of order. Still, most immortals healed quickly, leaving no evidence of their injuries. So even if he had been carved up, Lucien should have healed.
Did he have similar scars on the rest of his body? Her knees weakened as a new tide of arousal flooded her. She'd watched him for weeks, but she hadn't gotten a single peek at his delectable form. Somehow, he'd always