the wildness in him.
"Or is every fiber of your being concentrated between your legs? Are your nerves tightening as you wait for me to slide my finger inside you?"
He was reading her mind. He was taunting her.
"Maybe just an inch. Maybe all the way in—"
"Stop laughing at me!"
He bared his teeth. They were not at all fanglike, but they were very white. "I have never been farther from laughter than I am at this moment. Look at me.”
She stared at his face, stark and fierce, with golden eyes that blazed in the dim light and, where she'd hit him, a scarlet patch of skin on his cheek.
"No. I mean— look at me."
With a shock, she realized what he wanted. She'd avoided running her gaze over the naked body crouched over her. And why? Fear of the wolf?
Or fear of the man and what he would demand?
She took a fortifying breath, then slid her gaze over his shoulders, so broad they blocked the rain, down his chest with its narrow band of dark, curling hair. The tattoo twisted down the length of his muscled arm, black and enigmatic.
He had a bruise on his left pec, and in the middle of his chest a small, bloody puncture wound. It looked like an arrow had struck him or—no,.not an arrow. The narrow heel of her stiletto.
She chewed her lip. She should be pleased with herself. She'd got him good, and he'd deserved it.
But she'd cried when Bambi's mother died. She'd covered her eyes when she saw Ghostbusters. She was softhearted and a chicken, and she'd hurt Jasha, really hurt him. She touched the bloody mark with her fingertips, a quick, apologetic pat. "Sorry. You scared me and I, um ..."
"You've got a good arm." He impatiently brushed her apology away. "Now stop making excuses and look at me."
She could feel titie heat radiating from above her; it was the only thing that kept her from shivering as the wind howled through the rocks and lightning blistered the air. She looked down at his sculpted belly. . . . His erection was pale, deeply veined, and larger than . . . well, in the magazines, they just didn't look that big.
"Touch me.”
"What?"
"Touch me."
He was furious—with life, with nature, with her— and a smart woman would do as he ordered.
But to touch his erection? When before she'd never had the nerve to do more than shake his hand?
He must have read her refusal in her face, for the hand in her panties pressed hard, and his finger stroked a circle around the entrance to her vagina.
The pleasure was so sudden, so intense, she found herself flattened, her arms stretched out to her sides, grasping handfuls of last year's fallen leaves as if gravity's law had been repealed and the earth threatened to throw her free.
"Touch me," he repeated.
She looked at her hands, dusted them clean, then reached up and grasped his shoulders. The muscles in them shifted, as fascinating a sensation as she could have imagined, and he took a breath as if to instruct her better. Then she dragged one hand down his chest.
The hand between her legs was still. Perhaps to tease her with anticipation. Perhaps because the way she stroked his nipple, circled it, pinched it, made him lose the power of movement. As both his nipples tightened, she heard his breath rasp in his throat.
So. She was not quite as helpless as she thought.
Except that she was—now that she'd started touching him, she couldn't stop. She loved the feeling of his warm skin, loved realizing that he might have chased her down, this not-quite-human man, but she held power over him as she didn't touch him. Didn't—
He freed his hand from her panties, grasped her fingers, and wrapped them around his penis. "There," he rasped. "Touch me."
The heat he radiated originated here. She wanted to pull her hand away before he bumed her with lust . . . but then he used her hand to stroke himself. His voice was gravelly as he said, "This is not a sign of laughter, Ann. That is a sign of arousal. You ran. I chased you down. You were frightened. Now . . . you're not
"Or is every fiber of your being concentrated between your legs? Are your nerves tightening as you wait for me to slide my finger inside you?"
He was reading her mind. He was taunting her.
"Maybe just an inch. Maybe all the way in—"
"Stop laughing at me!"
He bared his teeth. They were not at all fanglike, but they were very white. "I have never been farther from laughter than I am at this moment. Look at me.”
She stared at his face, stark and fierce, with golden eyes that blazed in the dim light and, where she'd hit him, a scarlet patch of skin on his cheek.
"No. I mean— look at me."
With a shock, she realized what he wanted. She'd avoided running her gaze over the naked body crouched over her. And why? Fear of the wolf?
Or fear of the man and what he would demand?
She took a fortifying breath, then slid her gaze over his shoulders, so broad they blocked the rain, down his chest with its narrow band of dark, curling hair. The tattoo twisted down the length of his muscled arm, black and enigmatic.
He had a bruise on his left pec, and in the middle of his chest a small, bloody puncture wound. It looked like an arrow had struck him or—no,.not an arrow. The narrow heel of her stiletto.
She chewed her lip. She should be pleased with herself. She'd got him good, and he'd deserved it.
But she'd cried when Bambi's mother died. She'd covered her eyes when she saw Ghostbusters. She was softhearted and a chicken, and she'd hurt Jasha, really hurt him. She touched the bloody mark with her fingertips, a quick, apologetic pat. "Sorry. You scared me and I, um ..."
"You've got a good arm." He impatiently brushed her apology away. "Now stop making excuses and look at me."
She could feel titie heat radiating from above her; it was the only thing that kept her from shivering as the wind howled through the rocks and lightning blistered the air. She looked down at his sculpted belly. . . . His erection was pale, deeply veined, and larger than . . . well, in the magazines, they just didn't look that big.
"Touch me.”
"What?"
"Touch me."
He was furious—with life, with nature, with her— and a smart woman would do as he ordered.
But to touch his erection? When before she'd never had the nerve to do more than shake his hand?
He must have read her refusal in her face, for the hand in her panties pressed hard, and his finger stroked a circle around the entrance to her vagina.
The pleasure was so sudden, so intense, she found herself flattened, her arms stretched out to her sides, grasping handfuls of last year's fallen leaves as if gravity's law had been repealed and the earth threatened to throw her free.
"Touch me," he repeated.
She looked at her hands, dusted them clean, then reached up and grasped his shoulders. The muscles in them shifted, as fascinating a sensation as she could have imagined, and he took a breath as if to instruct her better. Then she dragged one hand down his chest.
The hand between her legs was still. Perhaps to tease her with anticipation. Perhaps because the way she stroked his nipple, circled it, pinched it, made him lose the power of movement. As both his nipples tightened, she heard his breath rasp in his throat.
So. She was not quite as helpless as she thought.
Except that she was—now that she'd started touching him, she couldn't stop. She loved the feeling of his warm skin, loved realizing that he might have chased her down, this not-quite-human man, but she held power over him as she didn't touch him. Didn't—
He freed his hand from her panties, grasped her fingers, and wrapped them around his penis. "There," he rasped. "Touch me."
The heat he radiated originated here. She wanted to pull her hand away before he bumed her with lust . . . but then he used her hand to stroke himself. His voice was gravelly as he said, "This is not a sign of laughter, Ann. That is a sign of arousal. You ran. I chased you down. You were frightened. Now . . . you're not
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