The Man Behind the Scars

She sensed him more than she heard him come up behind her, and she began to tremble just slightly in helpless reaction, but she still did not turn to face him. He moved closer, until his legs brushed the back of her full skirt and she felt the whisper-soft wool of his jumper brush against the bare skin near her exposed shoulder blades. Did she feel the heat of him, burning like a furnace in the cool room, or did she imagine it?

Did it matter? The effect on her was the same.

“Rafe—” she began.

“Quiet.” It was a command, for all that he said it softly, his breath caressing the back of her neck, making gooseflesh prickle into life all over her skin.

He reached around and let his fingers run down the arm that hung at her side, spreading a sweet, heavy fire into her with his touch, making her whole body seem to tremble, there, on the precipice between panic and desire. Both, perhaps. He took her free hand in his, then raised it, bringing it up and placing it on the opposite side of the door, so she was bracing herself in the doorway, splayed open before him. Her fingers clutched convulsively against the plaster. Why would he…?

And that was when he moved even closer, until his body was flush against hers, plastering her back against his strong, impossibly hard chest. Angel heard herself sigh, and felt herself melt. Everywhere. Her head fell back against his shoulder, as if she had lost the will to keep herself upright. He muttered something, his voice rich and dark, even as her hands clung to the doorjamb as if it was her only link to any kind of safety. As if she could hold herself there—apart. As if that could protect her from this. From him.

From herself.

He leaned down then and pressed his mouth, open and hot, to that exquisitely tender place just below her ear.

And Angel went up in flames.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS like lightning—jagged and bright, coursing through her, into her.

Angel heard herself whimper, and then he was taking her mouth with his, still holding her so her back was to him, his kiss wild. Unmanageable. Impossible to resist.

She didn’t try. She kissed him back with all of her uncertainty, her fascination. All of the want and need she’d been trying to pretend she didn’t feel. This was not the stamp of possession, brief and encompassing, that had marked the occasion of their marriage. This was not even that far more dangerous kiss they’d shared on the dance floor of the Palazzo Santina. This kiss was changing her, somehow. Making her his.

Angel understood on some primal level that Rafe had been holding himself in check before. That he still was, even as his mouth moved against hers with a devastating thoroughness; even as he took her mouth again and again until she was frantic with the taste of him and desperate for more.

His hands moved, tracing their way down her sides, following the artful fall of the shimmering crimson that sheathed her. Then back up again, until his hard palms found her breasts and tested their shape and fullness, making her writhe against him. She felt the heat of him behind her, the hard press of his powerful body, and then, more than that, she felt the unmistakable thrust of his arousal against her bottom.

It made her feel weak. Wild. Capable of anything and everything to get even closer to him. She tried to turn, but he did not allow it, and she found her nails digging into the doorjamb again as his hands moved lower, pulling up the heavy skirt she wore and investigating beneath.

“Rafe…” she managed to say when he pulled his mouth from hers, only to lick a path of wildfire down the length of her neck. “Rafe, I…”

She didn’t know what she meant to say.

“Hold on,” he said, his voice a dark and heavy magic behind her, as one hand smoothed its way along her leg, then onto her thigh, making her breath come too fast, her knees turn to water.

“Hold on?” she echoed, not comprehending him, not capable of thought when he was touching her like this, his palm so hot against her skin, his hard fingers faintly rough, as if calloused—and then his clever fingers found the tiny thong she wore, in a matching, wicked red.

Her fingers clutched at the door.

“Hold on…” she breathed.

She thought he laughed, which should have been impossible, and then he was moving beneath the tiny scrap of fabric and holding the heat of her in his hard palm. He traced a lazy pattern there, and Angel moaned, moving with him, her head falling back against him, her eyes drifting closed. Her hips moved of their own accord, chasing those teasing, tormenting fingers, until he shifted slightly and thrust into her slick heat.

One long finger, then another, and Angel forgot how to breathe.