The Welcoming by Nora Roberts Page B

herself let it go. “Another trait of hotel people is respecting privacy, but if you turn out to be a mass murderer Mae’s never going to let me hear the end of it.”
    “Generally I only kill one person at a time.”
    “That’s good news.” She ignored the suddenly very real anxiety that he was speaking the simple truth. “You’re still holding my arm.”
    “I know.”
    So this was it, she thought, and struggled to keep her voice. “Should I ask you to let go?”
    “I wouldn’t bother.”
    She drew a deep, steadying breath. “All right. What do you want, Roman?”
    “To get this out of the way, for both of us.”
    He rose. Her step backward was instinctive, and much more surprising to her than to him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Neither do I.” With his free hand, he gathered up her hair. It was soft, as he’d known it would be. Thick and full and so soft that his fingers dived in and were lost. “But I’d rather regret something I did than something I didn’t do.”
    “I’d rather not regret at all.”
    “Too late.” He heard her suck in her breath as he yanked her against him. “One way or the other, we’ll both have plenty to regret.”
    He was deliberately rough. He knew how to be gentle, though he rarely put the knowledge into practice. With her, he could have been. Perhaps because he knew that, he shoved aside any desire for tenderness. He wanted to frighten her, to make certain that when he let her go she would run, run away from him, because he wanted so badly for her to run to him.
    Buried deep in his mind was the hope that he could make her afraid enough, repelled enough, to send him packing. If she did, she would be safe from him, and he from her. He thought he could accomplish it quickly. Then, suddenly, it was impossible to think at all.
    She tasted like heaven. He’d never believed in heaven, but the flavor was on her lips, pure and sweet and promising. Her hand had gone to his chest in an automatic defensive movement. Yet she wasn’t fighting him, as he’d been certain she would. She met his hard, almost brutal kiss with passion laced with trust.
    His mind emptied. It was a terrifying experience for a man who kept his thoughts under such stringent control. Then it filled with her, her scent, her touch, her taste.
    He broke away—for his sake now, not for hers. He was and had always been a survivor. His breath came fast and raw. One hand was still tangled in her hair, and his other was clamped tight on her arm. He couldn’t let go. No matter how he chided himself to release her, to step back and walk away, he couldn’t move. Staring at her, he saw his own reflection in her eyes.
    He cursed her—it was a last quick denial—before he crushed his mouth to hers again. It wasn’t heaven he was heading for, he told himself. It was hell.
    She wanted to soothe him, but he never gave her the chance. As before, he sent her rushing into some hot, airless place where there was room only for sensation.
    She’d been right. His mouth wasn’t soft, it was hard and ruthless and irresistible. Without hesitation, without thought of self-preservation, she opened for him, greedily taking what was offered, selflessly giving what was demanded.
    Her back was pressed against the smooth, cool surface of the refrigerator, trapped there by the firm, taut lines of his body. If it had been possible, she would have brought him closer.
    His face was rough as it scraped against hers, and she trembled at the thrill of pleasure even that brought her. Desperate now, she nipped at his lower lip, and felt a new rush of excitement as he groaned and deepened an already bottomless kiss.
    She wanted to be touched. She tried to murmur this new, compelling need against his mouth, but she managed only a moan. Her body ached. Just the anticipation of his hands running over her was making her shudder.
    For a moment their hearts beat against each other in the same wild rhythm.
    He tore away, aware that