In the Dead of Cold by Allie Quinn Page B

had never forced himself on a woman in his life. And now Jane belonged to him—with him—in a tighter bond than he’d ever known.
    His mate. The other half of his heart.
    Hell.
    There was no walking away from her.
    He could have killed her.
    What if next time, she didn’t grab his attention with a kiss?
    There could be no next time.
    His heart, his cock, his entire body cried out for a next time right now.
    He breathed in her scent—earthy, flowery vanilla mixed with his soap. It was now a part of him, integrated into his mind. He would know her anywhere, be able to recognize her in a crowd of millions.
    “Was that a dream?”
    He was glad not only that she was awake, but that her voice didn’t sound like Bart. “No,” he forced out.
    She looked around with wide eyes.
    “What?”
    “He’s here.”
    “No, he’s gone. And he wasn’t physically here. He made you think he was.”
    She held his gaze. “You make that sound so simple.”
    He liked the clear blue of her eyes and chuckled bitterly. “There was nothing simple about any of this.” In fact, he felt bruised all over. He bet she did too. Bart had raped her mind, and Milo was forced to take her blood and her body to counteract Bart’s control. He’d had no choice, but that didn’t make it right. “Are you all right?”
    She took note of her body, the room, her surroundings. “You’re inside me.”
    Yes, he was. Still. It wasn’t a question. And much to his relief, her words weren’t spoken with contempt or fear. “Yes.” And he had no desire at all to leave her. At least she hadn’t ordered him off her yet.
    “And this feels better than a dream.”
    Before he could agree, she went on.
    “Gosh, you didn’t serve wine or bring me flowers. We didn’t light any candles either.”
    He grinned. So far, she didn’t hate him. When her thoughts cleared and she recognized him for what and who he was, she might. It didn’t matter that she’d pleaded for him to do whatever was necessary to get Bart out of her head. When she understood he’d drunk her blood, she might fear him.
    “Next time,” he lied. He wanted a next time more than he wanted another lungful of oxygen. And yet, he couldn’t let there be a next time. “What do you remember?”
    She moved her hands down his shoulders, as if she studied the texture of him. Her heat moved right through him and swirled in the pit of his stomach, growing hotter and hotter, sending sparks of renewal all the way to the head of his cock.
    “Being in the shower with you. Then we were out in the snow, weren’t we? Or was that part of the dream like when we were up on the mountain. My blouse is wet.”
    “It was no dream, but we weren’t out there long. And we should get out of our wet clothes.” He leaned on his elbows to keep his weight off her. He fingered her hair. It was a nice, easy touch that allowed him to keep his control. Neither of them moved.
    “I remember you kissing me. It was wonderful, like our dreams, only better. I didn’t want you to stop. It warmed me, made me feel free and wonderful.”
    He shouldn’t kiss her. In fact, he should move and put as much safe distance between himself and her as he could, maybe even a locked door. He should let her get out of her wet clothes and into a warm shower before she caught a chill. He met her gaze. When he didn’t move, she leaned up and brought her lips to his. Her kiss was heaven, long and deep.
    When he looked into her eyes again, she asked, “Why are you afraid of me? I feel your fear.”
    The fact that she could read him in her touch, that she could know his thoughts, scared him more than anything. “I’m afraid for you,” he lied. “You’re free of Bart’s control, but I’m sure he still wants you.” Bart would still want her because she belonged to Milo. And for the fact that she had slipped from his grasp and was under Milo’s control. “I should move away from you.”
    She wrapped her leg around him and seductively ran