Fury of Desire

“A while,” he murmured, his gaze on hers. The wonder he spied in her eyes sent him sideways. Pride surfaced, filling him so full he struggled to contain it. Jesus. He got off on her admiration. But more than that, Wick loved the way she looked at him. Interest tinged by a sharp sense of longing rode her expression, making him feel valued. Worthy. Like an upstanding male deserving of her attention. “Almost twenty years.”

“You need to hang these. They belong in a gallery.”

He shrugged, hiding his pleasure. “I’m not the gallery type.”

“No, I don’t imagine you are…” She paused, and turning toward him, crossed the room on a slow shuffle. “You’re too modest for that.”

Wick stifled a snort. Totally laughable. He was about as modest as a peacock in full preen. He just preferred to fly below the radar before he showed his true colors, that was all.

Limp more pronounced than before, she skirted the end of the bed. Giving him a wide berth, she walked behind him. His skin tingled as her aura flared, ringing her body, making her glow from the inside out. Wick inhaled deep and exhaled smooth. She stopped at his workstation and, reaching out, fingered his brushes, then turned her attention to the assortment of tubes littering the tabletop. She touched each one, bypassing blue, green, and red to pick up ochre yellow.

Wick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As his bare feet brushed over the wood floor, he flexed his hands, telling himself to be patient, but… Jesus. Less than five feet away. She stood so close, yet still too fucking far away.

His dragon half urged him to move, close the distance and walk up behind her. Instinct warned him to wait. Attuned to her mood, he felt her tension as clearly as his own. She was stalling for a reason. Maybe for time. Maybe for space. Maybe for a bit of both. Whatever the case, Wick refused to rush her. If she needed him to back off and—

“All right,” she whispered, the strain in her voice palpable as she turned to face him. Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze head-on. “I’m ready now.”

Concern washed through him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.” The rough edge of his voice made her flinch. “I want your honesty. Every bit of it, Jamison.”

“All right. I guess I owe you that much,” she said, looking so unsure he bled for her. “Being alone with you makes me nervous. I know it’s stupid. I mean, you’ve touched me before and everything, but right now I’m…”

He raised a brow as she trailed off.

She bit down on her bottom lip. “Extremely coherent. As in, no drugs in my system.”

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt—”

“No,” she said, her denial so quick it soothed his pride. Made Wick believe he could help her while he helped himself. “I know you would never hurt me.”

“But?” he asked, prompting her, encouraging her to talk to him.

A furrow between her brows, she looked away, then back again, letting him see her vulnerability. The sight made him ache for her. He knew what it felt like to be insecure and uncertain. To live with unease every damned day. But as he waited for her to continue, patient in the wake of her silence, Wick wanted nothing more than to soothe her. To carry her burden, banish all the angst and replace it with comfort and confidence.

“Look, if you really want the truth, I’ll be honest. I came in here with every intention of getting close to you, but one look at you, like that and… God, Wick. You’re so strong. So much bigger than I am, and…” Shaking her head, she blew out a shaky breath. “It’s second nature for me to protect myself. My track record sucks. I’ve never been with a guy who hasn’t hurt me, and even trusting that you won’t, I’m just… I don’t know… freaking out a little.”

“I understand, Jamison.” He really did. His hands-off policy predated the Second World War. A helluva long time to live in darkness, without the warmth of another’s touch. But here… right now… in the presence of a female he couldn’t resist, Wick saw a chance to change tack and head in a healthier direction. Fear was a terrible thing, and trust more than just about knowing. It was about showing. So instead of backing away, he took his hands from his pockets and stepped toward her. When she didn’t shy, he raised his arm and held out his hand, palm up, in invitation. “Come, vanzala. Let me show you how gentle I can be.”

The entreaty surprised him. The meaning behind it even more so.

He’d never thought of himself as a gentle male. A killer without conscience? Without a doubt. But as Jamison slipped her much-smaller hand into his, trusting him to keep his word, Wick reevaluated, seeing himself in a new light. Maybe change was possible. Maybe he wasn’t destined to be alone. Maybe… just maybe… he’d finally met his match.

20

With a gentle tug, Wick drew her into the circle of his arms. J.?J. shivered in reaction, but let it happen. Resistance wouldn’t help her solve the mystery. Nor give her what she longed to collect… answers that would unlock the paradox he presented. Intense warrior vibe. Comforting touch delivered by gentle hands. Delicious dichotomy. Beautiful polarity. And as she waited—breath hitching, heart thumping, uncertainty rising—she wondered what he would do next.

Pick her up. Lay her down. Strip her bare.

All seemed like excellent possibilities. The kind most girls wanted. Problem was…

She wasn’t most girls. Not with her past and prison record. History had taught her caution. Her ex had taught her fear. So the question—the one she really needed to answer… and fast—went something like: respond with the desire she already felt or run scared?

Her hand still in his, J.?J. exhaled long and slow. Such a big decision. So little time to decide which way to jump. Stay and discover. Or run and hide. The second option was the safest, but the first tugged at her, urging her to be brave. To move forward instead of away. To take what she wanted for a change and seize the moment.

So few opportunities, after all, ever came her way.

Good thing fate had a funny sense of humor, tossing her into circumstance, feeding on her curiosity, making her yearn to know him. Really know him every way a woman could a man. And as he closed his arms around her, and she settled into the hard curve of his body, J.?J. let it all go. Every bad deed done. Every hurt suffered. Every punishment received. She deserved to know. Had earned the right to explore, and to a little happiness. So here… now… today, she would find the courage to reach for what she wanted. No fear. No second guessing. Self-preservation be damned.

The thought made her smile.

His eyes reflected her mood, shimmering like golden stars as Wick pressed her closer. Her palms met the wall of his bare chest and… oh my. Skin on skin. The zap of physical and emotional connection, two souls reaching out to touch each other. Instant recognition. J.?J. perceived the shift, felt her world tilt on its axis, heard his low growl before she relaxed and leaned in, moving toward the inevitable instead of away.

Her cheek brushed the wall of his chest, then touched down over his heart. The steady thump picked her up, making hers catch and tumble until it kept time with his. Unable to resist, she caressed his shoulder. Muscles rippled beneath her fingertips, chasing her chill away.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, her head nestled beneath his chin. In an exploratory frame of mind, she played, allowing her hands free rein. Her touch soft, she stroked over his biceps, then changed direction. Brushing over the tops of shoulders, she moved lower to draw gentle circles down his spine. A tremor rumbled through him. She sighed, marveling at the incredible size and strength of him. “You’re always so warm.”

“Curse of a fire dragon.”

No way. Not even close to a curse. She liked that his temperature ran hot. “Do you breathe fire?”

“Kind of,” he said, his voice hoarse as she continued to caress him. Getting in on the action, Wick flicked at her T-shirt. J.?J. sucked in a quick breath as his hand dipped beneath the cotton hem. Fingers spread wide, he