compulsive about collecting antiques and artifacts, which made no sense. His father had once told him that a part of him yearned for the past. That was bullshit. And he didn’t want to think about Aidan and his wife, Brie, now. “Yer bleedin’all over my twenty-five-thousand-dollar rug.”
“Sorry. I’ll get you a new one—in the twenty-second century, when I’m rich and famous.”
He tugged on the cuff and she came forward, tripping in the broken sandals. He caught her by her hips, which were hard and muscular beneath his hands. He was already in overdrive. Sex would push the last of his memories away. Why wait? “Do ye want to tend the wound?” he asked softly.
“Not if it means letting you out of my sight.” She seized his wrists but didn’t step back. “What, no butler to wait on us?”
“Gerard is sleeping at this hour.” He pulled her closer, and her eyes calmly met his as she came into contact with his huge arousal. “Afraid to be alone with that?”
She took a breath. “I’m never afraid. Hey, I have a great idea. Call Gerard and have him arrange some evening entertainment for you…before you explode.”
He grinned. “Will ye watch?”
“I’m not leaving,” she said flippantly.
He thought about performing for her—again. But that wasn’t what his body was screaming for. He tightened his grasp on her, wedging her against a hall table.
“Don’t think it,” she murmured.
“I can’t think of anything else. Especially with yer body shackled to mine an’ quiverin’ so hotly.”
“You can’t think of anything else, whether we’re shackled together or not.”
He decided not to answer. Instead, he slid his hand down her hip.
She went still, inhaling. “Make a pass at your own risk.”
He smiled. It was hard to restrain himself. He wanted to put his hand between her thighs; he wanted to turn her around and bend her over the table and just do it, finally. She knew. And she wouldn’t object very much. Her words were sharp and caustic, but her tone was thick, those violet-blue eyes smoldering. He could feel her pulse slamming beneath her skin. He could feel her desire building; he could feel the urgency and need.
It almost matched his.
“Why are ye so strong, so brave?” He touched the bloody, crusting tatters of the jersey dress, her left breast brushing his hand, and felt her flinch.
“I’m a Slayer, Maclean.”
“Are ye ever afraid?”
She stared into his eyes. “Not for myself.”
For one moment, he forgot how much he hurt. Admiration swept through him, maybe for the first time. “Then who do ye fear for?”
She wet her lips. “My sister. Brie. Allie…”
Her breast was heavy on the back of his hand. He pressed upward. Her gasp had nothing to do with pain from the gash on her ribs. “How much does it hurt?” he whispered, sliding his hand over to cup her breast.
“What are you, a high-testosterone version of Florence Nightingale?”
He took her bodice in his hands and snapped it down below her breasts.
She inhaled.
His mouth became dry. Very slowly, he looked up into her eyes. “We can tend yer cuts, if ye really wish to, or ye can turn around and let me have ye on this table, from behind, the way I like it.”
Her grasp on his wrists tightened.
He shifted and pushed the weight of his entire arousal against her thigh. “Turn around, Sam.”
She looked down at what was between them. “As good as that looks and feels, no thanks.”
She would resist him still. He reluctantly looked past her bare breasts, her nipples taut, at the open, bleeding knife wound. She wasn’t immortal. She should take care of the cut. He looked up. “Are ye sure? Because I can pleasure ye right now…more than ye’ve ever been pleasured, Sam.”
“I’d rather pleasure myself.”
“Ouch,” he said, but he grinned. He was going to enjoy the hunt. Their gazes held, hers warm but fierce. His hands were positively itching, and he finally let go of her bodice. He knew he’d pay, but he cupped her bare breasts anyway.
Her single spike heel bore into his instep. He released her, cursing.
“Hands off,” she warned. She jerked the dress up.
“Maybe ye should have thought twice about handcuffin’ us together.”
“If you didn’t have the power to leap, I’d handcuff you to the wall,” she snapped. “No, to the bed—but alone. I’ll bet that would torture you.”
He tensed, but hid it. Images flashed. He was hiding beneath the bed. Then he was on it, chained…He forced a smile. “Ye ken we’ll have to sleep together? Bathe together? Use the bathroom together?” His tone was shaky.
She’d noticed. “I can handle it, Maclean. So let’s go. It’s almost one-thirty. I need to clean up and then I’m putting you to bed.”
He stared at her, the need even worse. He had to escape the past. “I’m no gentleman.”
“No kidding. But you’re not a rapist, either.”
He jerked away from her. “Ye don’t know me at all.”
She stared, her messenger bag now in hand. “Is that a warning? Because I’m pretty sure seduction is your MO. Let’s go,” she added sharply. “It’s late and I need a couple of hours of sleep. After all, I am mortal. And just a reminder—if you leap into that vault, I’m coming with you. I’m a really light sleeper.”
The flashback was gone. He started down the hall toward the elevator. “Do ye really think to sleep beside me like a sister?”
“Actually, my plan is to take the floor.”
“How could I live with myself if I let ye sleep on the cold, hard floor when we can share the big, warm bed?” He batted his lashes at her and went past the elevator to a staircase at the end of the hall. He used the elevator often, but didn’t feel up to it now. He was afraid of what would happen in that tight space, after so many flashbacks. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Ian tensed, suddenly disturbed, but not by his past.
He felt evil. It was close by—inside his home. He hadn’t checked his security alerts when he’d come in.
Pausing, he glanced at Sam. She was still and alert, having felt it, too. She showed no fear, just a soldier’s tension. Briefly, for the second time, he had the oddest feeling of admiration for her.
Sam seized his shoulder. “You have company, and it’s not the welcoming kind.”
