forgotten to bring one? She thought back through her day, the cemetery, the wet dirt that was pushed into Gram’s grave, the dull ache in her heart. She’d gone back to the apartment to change for work, and, yeah, she’d forgotten to bring a coat.
“Put this on. It will warm you.” Ciarran slid his sculpted arms out of the sleeves of his leather jacket. Buff. The guy was buff. Hooking one finger under the collar, he held out his hand, offering her the jacket.
There was a tattoo on his left forearm, a dragon. Its head stretched toward the black glove, its body winding upward, aligned with the bulge of his muscle. The tail meandered up and around above the elbow. In this light, the dragon looked black, but its scales seemed to shimmer with a hint of blue and green. And its eyes were bright, a turquoise of incredible luminosity.
Oh, man, she’d always been a sucker for a well-drawn tattoo, and this one was absolutely gorgeous.
The black T-shirt Ciarran was wearing left nothing to the imagination. She could see every ridge of his toned abdomen, and his low-slung, washed-out jeans made her want to catch her fingers in the belt loops and haul him just a little closer. No. A lot closer. If warming her was his goal, that would be a great way to go about it.
When she made no move to take his jacket, he stepped close, and she couldn’t help it. She leaned forward, inhaling the scent of him, almost touching her face to the base of his throat.
Trembling, she stood unbearably still, every nerve sensitized, every cell alive as he stepped around behind her and settled the jacket over her shoulders. A scent teased her, tantalized her. Masculine. Seductive. A little spicy, a lot sexy. God, the coat smelled like him.
She shivered, slammed her eyes shut. She was losing it. Losing it.
“What about you?” she asked, her voice thick. “You’ll be cold.”
Yeah. Right. She could feel the heat of him at her back, and she moved without conscious thought, tipping her head to one side, letting his breath warm her skin. She sensed him leaning in, his lips inches from the side of her throat. Inches. A sweet, sharp tingle of awareness sizzled through her. If she leaned back just a bit, she could rub against him, feel the solid wall of his body. She wanted to do just that, wanted it more than she ever could recall wanting anything.
And that yearning frightened her.
God, he was the most singularly sensual man she’d ever seen. And she was so hungry for him. She craved him with a wet, throbbing ache that made her press her thighs together and wish with all her heart that she was naked and he was naked and that they were on any reasonably comfortable horizontal surface.
The asphalt parking lot would do.
“I’m having a bad day,” she said. Maybe that was the explanation. Grief, loss, stress. Maybe she just needed to have crazy, mindless sex with him, to reaffirm the fact that she was human, that she was alive. Too much death and sorrow and fear for a single day, the culmination of watching Gram slowly fade away for months and months.
Not to mention the fact that demons and magic and filaments of light were a little outside her normal scope of experience. Oh, she’d always known she had some kind of mojo, some kind of weird protection thing going on. But a dead demon . . . shredded by razor-sharp ribbons of light . . . It was way too much.
“I know about your bad day. I am sorry for your loss.” His voice was a smoky rumble beside her left ear. Her insides twisted in response. It didn’t help that she could sense his arousal, feel his desire pulsing from his hard body. It definitely didn’t help that she knew he wanted her just about as much as she wanted him.
Because she didn’t think that her having a bad day explained his passion.
“How do you know? About my bad day? And how did you know to come here just when the demon arrived? How—” The words caught in her throat as he raised his hand, the one with the glove, and
“Put this on. It will warm you.” Ciarran slid his sculpted arms out of the sleeves of his leather jacket. Buff. The guy was buff. Hooking one finger under the collar, he held out his hand, offering her the jacket.
There was a tattoo on his left forearm, a dragon. Its head stretched toward the black glove, its body winding upward, aligned with the bulge of his muscle. The tail meandered up and around above the elbow. In this light, the dragon looked black, but its scales seemed to shimmer with a hint of blue and green. And its eyes were bright, a turquoise of incredible luminosity.
Oh, man, she’d always been a sucker for a well-drawn tattoo, and this one was absolutely gorgeous.
The black T-shirt Ciarran was wearing left nothing to the imagination. She could see every ridge of his toned abdomen, and his low-slung, washed-out jeans made her want to catch her fingers in the belt loops and haul him just a little closer. No. A lot closer. If warming her was his goal, that would be a great way to go about it.
When she made no move to take his jacket, he stepped close, and she couldn’t help it. She leaned forward, inhaling the scent of him, almost touching her face to the base of his throat.
Trembling, she stood unbearably still, every nerve sensitized, every cell alive as he stepped around behind her and settled the jacket over her shoulders. A scent teased her, tantalized her. Masculine. Seductive. A little spicy, a lot sexy. God, the coat smelled like him.
She shivered, slammed her eyes shut. She was losing it. Losing it.
“What about you?” she asked, her voice thick. “You’ll be cold.”
Yeah. Right. She could feel the heat of him at her back, and she moved without conscious thought, tipping her head to one side, letting his breath warm her skin. She sensed him leaning in, his lips inches from the side of her throat. Inches. A sweet, sharp tingle of awareness sizzled through her. If she leaned back just a bit, she could rub against him, feel the solid wall of his body. She wanted to do just that, wanted it more than she ever could recall wanting anything.
And that yearning frightened her.
God, he was the most singularly sensual man she’d ever seen. And she was so hungry for him. She craved him with a wet, throbbing ache that made her press her thighs together and wish with all her heart that she was naked and he was naked and that they were on any reasonably comfortable horizontal surface.
The asphalt parking lot would do.
“I’m having a bad day,” she said. Maybe that was the explanation. Grief, loss, stress. Maybe she just needed to have crazy, mindless sex with him, to reaffirm the fact that she was human, that she was alive. Too much death and sorrow and fear for a single day, the culmination of watching Gram slowly fade away for months and months.
Not to mention the fact that demons and magic and filaments of light were a little outside her normal scope of experience. Oh, she’d always known she had some kind of mojo, some kind of weird protection thing going on. But a dead demon . . . shredded by razor-sharp ribbons of light . . . It was way too much.
“I know about your bad day. I am sorry for your loss.” His voice was a smoky rumble beside her left ear. Her insides twisted in response. It didn’t help that she could sense his arousal, feel his desire pulsing from his hard body. It definitely didn’t help that she knew he wanted her just about as much as she wanted him.
Because she didn’t think that her having a bad day explained his passion.
“How do you know? About my bad day? And how did you know to come here just when the demon arrived? How—” The words caught in her throat as he raised his hand, the one with the glove, and
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