she did move away.
She laughed when he growled an undertone of response. “Ruger,” she said, trying out the taste of his name, and tossed the house keys onto the low bowl shelf by the entry.
He pushed the door shut and took her shoulders from behind—an aggressive move not so different from that of the man at the festival. But for Ruger she turned easily, fluidly, enjoying the strength in his hands and the assumption in his touch. She drank in the sight of him, too-wiry sable hair just long enough to grip when the moment called for it, beard trimmed closely enough to guess the shape of his jaw, and no need to wonder about pale brown eyes or strong brow and cheek, the full shape of his mouth. No need to wonder about the breadth of his shoulders, well above hers, or that bit of hair peeking out at the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt.
She ran her hands across the rough nap of the material, absorbing the warmth beneath, the plane of muscle—the hint of nipple.
He inhaled sharply. “Whatever you want of this night, tell me—” he took a deep breath, let it out “—now,” he said. “Tell me now.” While I can still think. The unspoken sounded clearly enough.
She didn’t hesitate. “What I want is tonight. All of it.”
He looked at her long enough to make her doubt—to hold her breath as he searched her gaze. And then he brought his hands up to cup her jaw, tangling his fingers in her hair, tipping her head up to take her mouth in no uncertain terms. No shy attempt to get acquainted, no hesitant questions. He brought her into it strong and hard, holding her right where he wanted her as he slanted his head for a deeper connection.
It took her no time at all to grab him back, hands skimming his ribs, finding his flanks and kneading hard to pull him up against her. She was too short; he was too tall. It didn’t particularly seem to matter. She felt his response all the same, and she stood on her toes to reach his kiss, full of bursting internal exclamations and enthusiasm. When they broke apart to breathe, she tipped her head back and laughed for the pure exhilaration of it.
“Hell, yes,” she told him, and kicked off her leather walking flats, flipping the snap on her pants even as he came back for her, leaving barely enough room for her hands at his zipper, fingers on automatic as she drank up the scent, the touch, the very presence of him—kissing hard and strong and deep, her hair and her nerves already mussed beyond all redemption by his stroking hands.
She stepped out of her pants, right there in her foyer—no lights necessary, with her night vision showing perfect detail. She reached for the jeans now hanging low on his ass—and for the first time he startled her, both with the low and demanding noise in his throat and with his hands as they slid away from her hair, her shoulders, coming to rest at her waist—picking her right up off the floor with no effort at all to flip her around.
She found her balance with her hands braced against the half wall between the foyer and the great room, and she understood right away. Even in the thrill of it—the strength of him, the anticipation—she whirled back around. “No,” she protested. “I want to touch—”
Just like that, she was facing the wall again, his body pressing against her—but he leaned down, the side of his head against hers, the stiff brush of his beard against her jaw and her hair tangling between them. “Next time,” he said, and quivered up against her, restraint in the hands that tightened at her hips and the sudden gust of breath in her ear. And then he waited, no more than a heartbeat—a space for protest.
Next time.
“Hell, yes,” she said, bracing her arms against that wall.
“Protected?” he asked. Sentinels were, as a matter of course—those who couldn’t ward themselves had it done for them.
His hands ran over her belly, up to her breasts, learning them, kneading them—lightly at first, until she arched into his hand and said, “Hell, yes.”
His arm crossed her chest—supporting her, continuing to play her breast; the other dropped back to her belly—splayed there a moment, pressing them together while Mariska tipped her head back and hummed, a low and uninhibited sound. A bear sound. Her legs parted and he took full advantage, cupping her; she cried out in surprise at the sudden rush of pleasure and heat, and again as his fingers pressed into her.
“Ready?” he asked, and this time his voice came strangled, the tremble of him surrounding her.
“Hell—” she breathed, and got no further, for he lifted her hips and found his way home, his exclamation of surprised pleasure in her ear, his legs stiffening until he found his balance again.
“—yes,” she whispered, wanting so badly to touch him in return—but her arms knew better, absorbing the increased weight while she held her breath in expectation, waiting to feel the fullness and size of him in motion.
Except he just stayed there—holding her, fingers tightening around her body, his breath a convulsive gasp in her ear—while she finally realized he was grasping for control.
Who the hell wanted control?
She squirmed.
He growled, holding her tightly—so tightly, his head pressed to hers and his hips suddenly plunged against her.
Except he somehow had the wherewithal to grab back control—he played with her, little thrusting increments of sensation. She gasped in outrage and then at the spiraling, clawing sensation, drawing on the nerves from her spine to her tightly curled toes. And she gasped in delight—at the understanding that she was claimed, that she was in the hands of the strength and power she craved.
With a cry, she pushed back at him, squirming inside and out. And yes, he made a harsh, startled noise, a fierce noise—a sound of wrenching pleasure as he lost control again and pounded into her without restraint. Her own delighted whimper rose in volume as her feet came right off the floor and hooked around his legs and—
Oh, hell, YES—
He caught her as she stiffened and trembled—and then he shouted as if the moment took him completely by surprise. His knees gave way, and there they were on the floor while she sat back in his lap, clinging weakly to the half wall.
As the aftershocks of hellaciously superb sex faded away and Mariska’s stunned fog of pleasure eased, a short laugh snorted its way out. She clapped a hand over her mouth, sagging precariously close to the wall, but couldn’t help it; she did it again. And of course he felt it—the clench of her internal movement around him, her slipping position.
He pulled her upright, finger-combing the hair away from her face as he tucked his mouth in beside her ear again, and this time his voice was a growl. “What?”
“Just—” she said, and waved her hand at them, at the wall, at the foyer littered with her clothes and her shirt somehow hanging open and her breasts free. “Just—” she tried again, and gave it up and laughed right out loud.
She felt him relax slightly. “Lady bear,” he said, and nipped at her ear.
“Does that make you a gentleman bear?” she asked, twisting to look back at him, his face so close to hers.
He offered a wry smile from within that beard. “Not for a long, long time.”
“About tomorrow—” she said, not having planned it in the least.
But
