Scorched

She feinted left, vampire fast, but his enhanced reflexes were quicker. He had her caged under him in a second, his limbs trapping her as surely as iron bars. He stripped the ribbon through the last holes of her jacket in a series of efficient jerks. It went spiraling to the floor.

One obstacle down.

She tried to twist away as he pulled the jacket aside, but he held her firm. The corset beneath her top was nothing but stiff cloth laced tight. He was tempted to simply rip it in two. His hands felt clumsy, his brain too consumed with heat to manage another fiddly unpackaging job.

“Get it off,” he demanded. It came out in a growl.

“To hell with you,” she said, writhing like a cat about to be bathed. “I’m no alehouse whore.”

“How else do you expect this to happen unless you untie that bloody thing?”

“Let me up!”

Her wiggling was making things all the more urgent. He had her pinned between his thighs, balancing so as not to actually sit on her. He caught her chin, turning her face to him. His demon was aroused, but his better nature urged caution.

“Am I frightening you?”

She scalded him with a look full of bravado. “You?”

“Or do you like this?”

“Lout!”

“Uh-huh.”

He was stifling, his skin burning with the exertion of holding his demon in check. Without letting her escape, he stripped off his plaid shirt, then the charm Holly had given him, putting it in the pocket of his jeans. Last, he pulled off his T-shirt, welcoming the cool air of the room against his hot skin.

With an intake of breath, Constance stopped her squirming. Mac sensed her interest like a heat lamp. She was transfixed.

A low laugh rumbled out of his chest.

“Holy Mother of God,” Constance whispered as Mac tossed his shirt to the floor. She was utterly out of her depth. She’d never seen a man like that, not even a blacksmith. Not even the guardsmen who, to a man, were physical perfection.

Mac was a fantasy on a grand scale. Every muscle was visible and alive as he moved. The candlelight loved him, washing the landscape of his body with licks of gold. He looked like a giant killer from one of the old tales her grandfather used to tell: He loomed like a thundercloud, heavy with storms.

She felt suddenly limp, as though all her bones had been melted from her limbs. Her arms were trapped at her sides, or at least she thought they were. She couldn’t tell anymore.

With one finger, he scooped up the ends of the lace that tied her stays, then pulled the tail of the knot until it let go with an audible slide of fabric. The sound seemed to catch on her insides, tugging at things with no name.

If I do as he wishes, will he rescue my boy? It was an old bargain—a woman’s body for a man’s strength. Would a creature like him understand the trade? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure that was why she was doing this.

He kissed her again, leaving her breathless. That’s why.

Their previous encounter had wakened desire, brought her to an unfamiliar peak of need. Even though he couldn’t Turn her anymore, even though he didn’t smell like prey, that didn’t dampen her urgency. She wanted more than blood. She wanted the sensual womanhood too long denied her. It’s the magic of the room. The loss of control. It’s making me want him.

But she knew it couldn’t give her appetites. Only free them. The desires were in herself.

Centuries ago, Constance had prayed for a passionate lover, one who wanted her for more than just blood. Her wish had finally been granted. Overabundantly. He was unlacing her underthings right then and there, his big, square fingers as careful and efficient as a watchmaker adjusting a spring.

Without warning, desire flipped back to apprehension. He was too big, too male, and he was touching her in places no man had ever been. Holy Mother, how do I get out of here?

She couldn’t do this. She’d never done this, not really, and it terrified her—even worse than the door to the outside world. This was a door to someplace even more fraught with danger.

Vertigo seized her, dragging her down some hellish drain.

“Let me go,” she ordered again, putting a waspish sting to the words. She started worming her hands free, only to realize they weren’t trapped at all.

“No,” he replied, giving her one of his fleeting smiles. “If you really wanted me gone, you would have poked me in the eye by now.”

“Are you sure you want to give me ideas?”

He bent and kissed her. Gently. Reassuringly. Confused by his tenderness, she nearly burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” she said.

“I think I might. Don’t worry. I’ll make everything all right.”

“But...”

“Shh.” He put a finger on her lips. “Your son. Your dog. Everything. My word on it.”

Kissing her again before she could reply, he gently dragged the second lace away and sunk his hands beneath the layers of cloth to caress her through the thin fabric of her shift. Trembling, she dragged in a breath. She was unarmored, helpless, her defenses gone. Traitor that it was, her body arched to meet him.

He was a demon. The fact didn’t matter. Or that he was magnificently, bizarrely changed. Mac had reached the core of her yearning the way no one else ever had.

He’d been so gentle with her clothes. No man had ever taken that much care of what was hers. No man had ever wanted her enough to peel back the layers around her. Not in any sense of the words. And his kiss ...

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, in a thick, husky voice.

Tentatively, she lifted her hands to his face, digging her fingers into his thick, wavy hair. “Liar,” she said, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

“Far from it,” he murmured just before their lips collided.

The kiss was long and leisurely, and they barely moved apart when it was finally done. For a long moment they stayed, noses almost touching, sharing the same breath. The bones behind her fangs began to ache, waking her own sleeping beast. She had been too shy, too shocked by this unexpected tryst for her own hungers to fully rise before this. He didn’t smell like food, but desire and biting went hand-in-hand. Still, Constance held back, swallowing the saliva pooling in her mouth. She didn’t want anything to spoil the moment.

Slowly, he sank down beside her, stroking her hair back from her face. Stroking her arms. Drawing the long tendrils of her hair through his fingers. Loving her. For all the impatience she could feel radiating from his big body, he was going at a cautious pace. His dark eyes hadn’t changed— outside of a slight smolder of demon fire —and for that she was glad. His gaze was what had called to her when they first met. Despite the wildness of his demon nature, those eyes were still wise and mischievous and kind. The look of someone who had seen more than they should have, but had survived to jest about it.

Feeling less intimidated, she rose and shed the garments he had unlaced, leaving nothing but the flimsy, shabby shift. She unhooked her skirt and pushed it off, but left her petticoats. She wasn’t ready to part with them yet.

As she shed her layers, he stripped down to his skin, but slid under the covers before she could get more than a glimpse of his male parts. They were like the rest of him. Distressingly large.

Bloody hell.

He sat up and pulled her under the covers, steering her into the circle of his arms. He smelled like spice. Resin. Dark, fragrant woods. Musk. This new form of his was exotic and unfamiliar. Hot to the touch.

Kissing her again, he plundered her mouth with the gusto of a pirate. Her resistance melted in all that heat. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the play of strength beneath his skin. That weak feeling swamped her once more, followed by a wave of her own slick fire:

“Connie?”