“Let go of me.”
“When you calm down.”
She tried to ignore the shiver of excitement that raced down her neck when she felt his voice rumbling from his chest to her back and his warm breath brushing her ear. She inhaled his familiar scent. As usual, it started an unstoppable chemical cascade of arousal in her body. Her lack of control over her reaction infuriated her further.
“I’m about ready to scream myself hoarse. Do you want to upset Aidan?”
“No. Do you?”
She twisted her neck around and glared up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you think you’re really doing the best thing by taking him away from Whitby?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Who’s making that decision? The loving mother? Or your battered ego?”
She went completely still. For a few seconds she thought she’d go stark raving mad if she didn’t get to punch Saint Sevliss’s gorgeous, smug face just once. He stared down at her with those amazing blue eyes while she panted and her breath burned in her lungs.
Using every ounce of her willpower, she forced herself to calm. She inhaled slowly several times, trying her best not to notice the sensation of Saint’s arms enclosing her expanding and contracting ribcage.
“Let go of me, please,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
When she felt him slowly release her, she gave full rein to her fury. She turned, stepped back, cocked her fist and swung. Two weeks of pent-up anger and frustration went into a well-landed right hook to Saint’s angular jaw. His chin swung at the impact of the blow.
He slowly turned to face her. What she saw in his eyes made her take a step back in alarm. He halted her retreat by grabbing her upper arms and hauling her next to his body. Anxiety and anguish mixed with Christina’s fury when she stared up at his face.
How can he feel so much and show so little? It was as if her punch had popped the lid off a tightly sealed container of frothing, scorching-hot emotion. A tear skipped down her cheek when he shook her.
“I didn’t want to hurt you, Christina. I hate myself for having done it. But you gave me no choice, the way you were pursuing me.”
His heat seemed to pour into her body. She experienced his inner turmoil clearly, felt his desperation, his need and his pain in equal degrees to her own. It was unbearable, the friction it caused inside of her. Without thinking about her actions, she struggled to get her right arm free from his hold. Much to her surprise, he released her. She grabbed a handful of soft hair at his nape and jerked fiercely.
“I would think you’d be glad we were leaving. Wasn’t that little show you staged the other night precisely for that purpose?”
She sobbed as tears spurted down her cheek. Despite her unbridled fury, she couldn’t stop staring at Saint’s mouth for some god-awful reason, couldn’t stop from pressing her body against his long, hard length, or rubbing her aching nipples against his ribs.
“I was trying to stop you from getting me into bed. I’m trying to keep you safe from me. Can’t you see that? That doesn’t mean I want you and Aidan to leave Whitby for good.”
“Well, I guess your little plan didn’t work too well, did it?” She jerked on his hair one last time for emphasis before she went up on tiptoe and pulled him down closer to her face. She didn’t stop until she felt his warm breath brushing against her lips. “Why in the hell do I need to be kept safe? You must know by now I can read people’s minds, Saint. I have never been afraid of you.”
His upper lip curled; his eyes blazed. She cried out in surprise when he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her roughly until they were groin to groin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“You should be afraid.” He swooped down and took her mouth in a ravaging kiss.
A torrent of emotion and sensation surged through her. Christina dazedly realized Saint was right. A woman should be afraid she might drown in the deep, frothing well of carnal delight that suddenly submersed her entire being.
Nevertheless, she craned up for him hungrily, all vestiges of rational thought burned into a mist by her lust and need.
The first taste of Christina and he was lost. He felt like an addict who’d just fallen off the wagon face-first onto the pavement, a drunk who had acknowledged his addiction to watered-down wine and suddenly found himself drowning in premium bourbon.
Her potent vitessence flooded his cells, invigorating him like nothing else could. How could he have gone so many years without losing himself in her? He must have forced himself to forget the experience…self-imposed amnesia.
His body shook with need. This was all Christina’s fault, dammit. He’d suffered in her nearness just as he’d gloried in it. He’d been able to keep himself from her, but barely, and only with monumental levels of restraint and willpower on his part.
But she was a mature female now, a woman who knew what she wanted. Gone were the days of her shyness, her uncertainty and hesitation in the presence of a more experienced male. He could no longer cow her with his silences or turn his back on her sweet, subtle invitations to share her bed.
Saint realized too late this was a whole new game, and he was back to square one.