Thunder and Lightning

Hmm.

She hadn’t felt this shaken to the core of her being, this turned-on…ever.

Letting out a ragged breath, Bevelyn’s gaze took in every tall, sinewy, powerful inch of her neighbor.

She’d already heard the women in town talking up a storm about him. No pun intended. She could hardly blame them. Even with a lush courtyard sprawled between her and Cane, she felt an erotic shudder that shimmied through her body from her head to her toes.

As the clouds darkened in color and the thunder rumbled in the distance she couldn’t help but wonder, Am I making this happen?

True, Cane was, without doubt, the most sexually potent, disturbingly attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on. But seriously… She was a six-hundred-year-old immortal being. The man standing in the adjacent driveway should not be affecting her so vehemently!

“Strange storm we’re having,” her hotter-than-hell neighbor said. His deep, intimate voice drifted on the warm breeze, seemingly surrounding her.

An understatement, really, for his voice seeped into her very soul.

A sharp crack of thunder overhead made Bevelyn jump.

“Not just a midsummer squall?” she asked, hopeful.

He shook his head, causing a lock of longish, black-as-night hair to dislodge and sweep across his forehead. “Been here long enough to know it’s not typical weather this time of year.”

“Well, then. Strange indeed,” she muttered, her pulse accelerating.

He took a wide step toward her. Bevelyn took a step back.

“Need some help?” he asked.

“Got it under control,” she assured him. Her car was loaded with groceries and household items she’d just purchased. She hefted a paper bag into her arms as if it created some sort of barrier between them.

Yeah, right. She could practically feel his commanding presence enveloping her, swallowing her up, making her want to meld to his body, surrender to his heat and sensuality. Yield to his unspoken promise of gratification and ecstasy.

“I’m Cane McAllister,” he said as he continued to advance on her, as though stalking his prey. Her stomach fluttered at the thought.

“Bevelyn Goitia,” she replied automatically, forcing herself to hold her ground. Despite the fact that the thunder rumbled low and ominous, like a warning. Her breathing became shallow, a bit strained. “Friends call me Bev.”

“Nice to meet you, Bev.” His tone was rich and sensual. A sultry summer caress on her bare arms and legs. A whisper of a touch against the nape of her neck. A tickle along her sensitive clit.

He came to a halt before her, his onyx eyes remaining locked with hers, stirring all kinds of riotous emotions that left her head reeling and her body aching for him. An altogether overwhelming and wholly unfamiliar reaction. Yet enticing and heady all the same.

“Sure I can’t help?” There was a seductive note of suggestion in his tone. One that tempted her as much as it terrified her.

Bev’s male companions over the centuries had all been chosen based on intellect and ambition. Not Buns of Steel. She didn’t doubt Cane was intelligent and driven—the determination and worldliness glowing in his dark eyes convinced her there was more to this man than orgasm-inspiring brawn. But the latter was what tempted her the most, and she innately felt the need to keep her distance from this dangerously alluring man.

So she gave a slight shake of her head at the offer he’d extended. “I can manage, thanks.” Yet for all her independent bravado, her voice sounded breathy and lustful.

That explains the clouds.

She cringed inwardly. Maintaining her distance and keeping the courtyard between them would be her best bet, though it was a little late to exercise that precautionary measure. The man was mere inches from her. And goddamn did he smell good! Like virility and power and passion all rolled together with a hint of Hugo Boss that made the blood rush through her body like a river of fire. The raw intensity of the scent—of the man himself—teased her senseless and awakened dark desires she’d suppressed for centuries.

But she knew she had to keep her suddenly raging hormones under control. She wasn’t able to give into her lust on a mere whim. Bev wasn’t like Cane McAllister…or any other human, for that matter.

A valid point that resonated deeply when she shifted the bag in her arms. The kitchen knife she’d bought escaped its protective sheath and the serrated edge slit the brown paper, slicing across her palm. There was little pain associated with the wound, but as the blood began to pour from her hand—and Cane’s handsome face became a mask of hard angles and his eyes lit with a wild, almost animalistic glint—she remembered the need to be shocked. To pretend to be in agony.

Because that’s how a mortal would react.

Dropping the bag as though it were a delayed reaction to her surprise and suffering, she balled the damaged hand and clutched it with her good one. But Cane’s own hand shot out and he gripped her wrist firmly.

“Let me see.” His voice was rough, edgy. Pulling the injured palm toward him, he carefully unfurled her clenched fingers, his strong hands much more gentle than she’d anticipated from such a powerful-looking man. And shockingly cool, given the warm, humid weather.