Stroke of Midnight (Midnight Breed 13.5)

“You are...so incredibly beautiful.” His deep voice was a growl of sound, tangling through his teeth and fangs. “But we made a deal, Seraphina.”

She knew they had a deal. No looking. No touching. No physical contact of any kind. They had set clear boundaries and established separate corners where they could cohabitate for the week without having to spend any awkward time together. When the handfast was over, they would simply say their good-byes and return to their normal lives.

So why was she wishing so desperately that Jehan would pull her into his arms?

Why was she longing to feel the press of his muscled, hard body against her?

Why was the coil of smoldering need within her winding tighter, all of her nerve endings on fire and eager for more of his touch?

Eager for his kiss and everything that was certain to follow...

But he didn’t kiss her.

A snarl curled up from the back of his throat. An animal sound. An otherworldly sound.

One of denial.

He shook his head, sending the thick waves of his dark hair swaying where they brushed his broad shoulders. His hand dropped away, down to his side. On a slow exhale, he stepped back, creating a cold vacuum of space between them.

He stooped to pick up the pool of red silk from the floor. He was retreating, yet when his gaze lifted to hers, his eyes still blazed with fiery desire, so hot it seared her. His fangs still glittered razor-sharp and hungered behind his lips.

He wanted her. It was written in his fierce expression and in the arousal that made itself obvious when she glanced down at the sizable bulge tenting his loose linen pants.

And he knew that she wanted him just as badly.

She could see that knowledge gleaming in his arrogant, knowing stare.

Damn him. He knew very well, and he was enjoying her torment!

He placed the mound of silk into her hands, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Goodnight, Seraphina.”

He pivoted back toward the door. Then he strode out of the room without so much as a backward glance, leaving her to stare after him, half-dressed, fuming, and determined to avoid the infuriating ass for the duration of her confinement with him.

CHAPTER 8

For the next two days, he hardly saw Seraphina.

She spent her evenings behind the closed door of the massive bedroom suite, pointedly ignoring his existence. During the daytime, she slipped outside to the villa’s sunbaked patio for hours on end, safely out of his reach and about as far away from his company as she could get.

She was pissed off, punishing him with frosty silence and deliberate avoidance.

Exactly as he’d intended when he’d left her high and dry—and as sexually frustrated as he was—that first night.

Better to earn her contempt than test his control under the desire-drenched heat of her gaze again. Her absence was a reprieve he welcomed. Better that than trying to withstand the temptation of her enticing curves and infinitely soft skin, now that he knew the pleasure of both.

Fuck. He’d only touched her for a few moments and the feel of her was branded into his fingertips. Her warmth and cinnamon-sugar scent was seared into his senses.

Even though she was out of sight now—rummaging quietly in the kitchen, by the sound of it—all he had to do was close his eyes and there she was in his mind. Standing in front of him in nothing but a few scraps of scarlet silk, her parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes inviting him to touch her. To take her.

No, pleading for him to do so.

But he’d shown her, right?

Pretending he was the one in control, denying both of them the pleasure they both wanted because he’d been too swamped with need to trust he could control himself. Now she was going to great lengths to ignore him, no doubt cursing him as a cold bastard. Meanwhile, he was walking around the villa like a caged animal with a semipermanent case of blue balls.

Damn.

He wasn’t only a bastard. He was an idiot.