Midnight's Master (37 page)

“Just some bruises,” he hedged.

“Where?” she persisted, tugging at his shirt. “Show me.”

He wrenched the fabric out of her hand. “If I take off my clothes now, it’s not going to be to show you my bruises,” he said.

She blinked, swallowed, tried to breathe. Reorganized her mind. There it was. Finally verbalized. No more glossing over it, running away.

“After all this?” Her voice was timid. “You still want to…now?”

“Fuck, yes.” His tone was savage. “I’ve wanted it since I laid eyes on you. It’s gotten worse ever since. And combat adrenaline gives a guy a hard-on like a railroad spike, even if there weren’t a beautiful woman in my face, driving me fucking nuts. Which puts me in a bad place, Nancy. I know the timing sucks for you. The timing’s been piss poor since we met, but it never gets any better. It just keeps getting worse.”

“Hey. It’s OK.” She patted his back with a shy, nervous hand. He was usually so calm, so controlled. It unnerved her to see him agitated.

He didn’t seem to hear her. “And the worse it gets, the worse I want it,” he went on, his voice harsh. “Which makes me feel like a jerk, and a user, and an asshole. Promising to protect you—”

“You did protect me,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, and I told you it wasn’t an exchange. You don’t owe me sex. You don’t owe me anything. And that really fucks me up. Because I can’t even remove myself from the situation. I’m scared to death to leave you alone. And that puts me between a rock and a hard place.”

She put her finger over his mouth. “Wow,” she murmured. “I had no idea you could get worked into such a state. Mr. Super-mellow Liam let’s-contemplate-the-beauty-of-the-flower Knightly.”

His explosive snort of derision cut her off. She shushed him again, enjoying the feel of his lips beneath her finger. “You’re not a jerk or a user,” she said gently. “You were magnificent. Thank you. Again.”

He looked away. There was a brief, embarrassed pause. “That’s very generous of you,”

he said, trying to flex the wounded hand. “But I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“I never thought that you were.” She placed her own hand below his, and rested them both gently on his thigh. Her fingers dug into the thick muscle of his quadriceps, through the dirty, bloodstained denim of his jeans. Beneath the fabric, he was so hot. So strong and solid.

She moved her hand up, slowly but surely, stroking higher towards his groin. His breath caught, and then stopped entirely as her fingers brushed the turgid bulge of his penis beneath the fabric.

Here went nothing. “I think I know what you mean, about the hard place,” she whispered, swirling her fingertips over it. Wow. A lot of him. That thick broad, hard stalk just went on and on. “Or was this what you meant when you were referring to the rock?”

His face was a mask of tension, neck muscles clenched, ten-dons standing out. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice strangled.

Aw. So sweet. Her fingers closed around him, squeezing. He groaned, and a shudder jarred his body. “I can’t seem to stop,” she said.

“Watch out, Nancy,” he said hoarsely. “If you start something now, there’s no stopping it.”

She stroked him again, deeper, tighter, a slow caress that wrung a keening gasp from his throat. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

He reached out, a little awkwardly, clasping his arms around her shoulders, staring into her eyes as if expecting her to bolt.

He pulled her close, enfolding her in his warmth, his power.

Suddenly, they were kissing. She had no idea who had kissed who. The kiss was desperate, achingly sweet. Not a power struggle, not a matter of talent or skill, just a hunger to get as close as two humans could be. He held her like he was afraid she’d be torn away from him.

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Copyright © 2009 Cindy Roussos

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