They were so damn close he could see her eyelashes, spiky and dark and framing steel-gray eyes that raced over his face. The damned hard-on that had dissipated began to spring back to life. He stepped back, reached to secure his towel.
Oh fuck, she looked good. She was wearing some kind of huge T-shirt. It was ugly and old and so soft that it floated over her curves until it stopped above her knees. He’d never seen anything so hot or so exactly perfect, not in his first life, not in his dreams in prison.
He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in his life. He wanted to push her against the wall and bury his face in her hair. Smell her, taste her. Touch all the soft parts of her that he’d been denied for so long but looked glorious on her.
Doona think about it.
“Sorry. Just getting my bag.” His voice was rough.
“Oh, uh, sure. I was going to get some water.”
They stared at each other, the air too thin between them, and he tried to keep his eyes on her face. Hers glanced off his naked chest and bounced back to his eyes. Seconds passed and she had every chance to walk away, but instead she kept glancing down at his chest and the towel clutched around his waist.
He knew he should go get his bag. Just as soon as he could tear himself away from her. If she wasn’t going to walk away, he should.
“Um, I just realized I haven’t asked you if there’s anyone you wanted to call. You know. Like a girlfriend?” She bit her lip, eyes worried.
“No one waited for me.” And why did she care?
“Oh.” Relief flooded her face.
Holy shite, she did care.
Her eyes dropped to his chest again. He felt like the water droplets were going to steam right off of him.
Gods.
His fist tightened on the towel at his waist. He knew damn well it was tented. When her eyes dropped to it, he felt a flush of desire race up his torso and had to bite back a groan.
She bit her lip and yanked her eyes up to his. He swore he saw desire. Or he was fucking imagining things.
“Gods, Fiona, when you look at me like that, it makes it hard to forget how damn beautiful you are.” His feet carried him a step toward her, close enough that he could smell her hair and feel her heat in the chilly hallway. “What do you want, Fiona?” he asked. But he knew what she wanted. He could see it in the flush of her cheeks, hear it in the quickness of her breath, smell the heady scent of it on the air.
“I, um…” Her eyes darted down and back up again.
Her gaze was making him crazed, so he leaned in to where he couldn’t see it and said at her ear, “I want this, Fiona, so damn bad that I might be misinterpreting your signals. I think you want this too, but I’m going to need to hear it. You want this, you have to say it. If no’, then no problem. I’ll leave you alone.”
She shuddered at the feel of his breath and his cock jerked.
“I, um… I should probably get to bed.” She slipped to the side and down the hall, her heavy breaths still punctuating the silence with the sound of her desire.
His fist clenched and he leaned against the wall, propping his forehead on the hard surface and squeezing his eyes closed. He felt like a fist squeezed his cock and his throat unbearably. But he didn’t just want a woman. He wanted Fiona. But she didn’t want him.
It was going to be a damn long night.
CHAPTER SIX
An incessant beeping noise dragged Ian from a dream of warm skin and a willing woman. He popped upright in bed, muscles tensed and ready for a threat. It took less than a second for him to process his surroundings.
Safe.
For the first time in nearly a century. The beeping noise stopped. It must have been some sort of alarm in Fiona’s room. His muscles gradually relaxed, and he climbed out of the bed that felt like heaven. It’d taken him ages to get to sleep, since he was so used to the prison’s threadbare, ancient mattress.
But once he had fallen asleep…
Gods, the dreams. So similar to the ones he’d had in prison, yet infinitely better. Because they featured Fiona. He wanted her nearly as badly as he wanted his freedom. He glanced down at his erection and frowned. It was becoming a problem.
He shook the thought away and pulled on his clothes, the same rugged black pants and sweater that he’d worn in prison. Though the hellish afterworld he worked in had been hot, the prison had been freezing cold. At least the attire was suited to the Scottish winter, and if one looked closely, it didn’t appear any different than modern clothing.