Kiss of the Phantom: Sexy Paranormal (Book 3, Phantom Series) by Julie Leto Page A

previous owners had sold the place fully furnished, if you could call an old, scarred table with four chairs, a bookshelf filled with Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and a stack of National Geographic magazines, a tattered sofa that pulled out to a sleeper, and a butt-ugly but comfortable recliner “furnished.” Not that she needed much. Mariah had often lived with less. She could do rustic. What she preferred not to do was dirty.
    With a sigh, she started yanking the sheets off the furniture, coughing when the dust flew into her nose. Rafe, on the other hand, stood frozen near the door with his arms crossed over his chest, as if waiting for her to finish.
    She tossed a sheet onto the floor. “You could help,” she suggested, shivering when an icy drop slid off her hair and down the front of her shirt.
    “I suppose I should,” he said reluctantly.
    “I know that men of your birth didn’t often do heavy lifting when it came to housework, but like it or not, you’re in the twenty-first century now. In our day and age, the men help.”
    He arched a brow. “I’m not averse to assisting you, but what do you wish me to do?”
    She smiled. She liked a man who could take direction. “Well, we need to make this place habitable. We’re stuck here for a few days while I figure out where to go next.”
    He nodded, then rubbed his hands together as if about to lift something heavy. Then he closed his eyes.
    She was about to comment that a standing nap wasn’t going to make the cabin any warmer when the pop and crackle of a fire caught her attention. She stared at the fireplace. Flames licked at a thick cord of wood cradled inside. The smell of smoke instantly reminded her that in closing up the cabin, she’d likely shut the flue.
    Darting forward, she wrapped her hand in a kitchen towel and reached just above the flames to work the mechanism, She coughed and turned to ask Rafe how he’d lit the fire when what she saw nearly knocked her off her feet.
    The entire interior had changed. Besides the warm fire, a dozen sconces magically placed throughout the cabin flickered with the light of thick candles. The walls, once rustic pine paneling, were now covered by draping tapestries that blocked out the windy cracks and made the space immediately warm and cozy. Even the furniture had been transformed. Dozens of tasseled cushions covered the couch, the bare floor was now hidden beneath a half dozen animal skins and the rickety table was now made of mahogany and burgeoning with fresh berries, steaming meat and a large carafe of wine.
    “What...?” she said with a gasp. “What did you do? How did you—”
    He held out his hand to silence her, his eyes still closed. The tension in his face, in his entire body, was palpable. She took a tentative step nearer and saw that he was shaking.
    “Rafe, what’s wrong?”
    His eyes flashed open. His pupils had expanded so that his irises were a slim silver circle around total blackness. His stare was unfocused, but penetrating.
    The hair along the back of her neck, which had dried from her nearness to the fire, stood on chilled ends. Something was very, very wrong.
    “Rafe?” she asked, taking a tentative step toward him.
    He turned to her, stabbing her with his sharp gaze. “You must make love to me. Now.”
    “Excuse me?”
    She blinked, and he was standing directly in front of her. He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into them. “Make love to me, Mariah, or we shall both die.”

9
     
    The demand ripped from a crack in Rafe’s soul he’d thought long sealed. Lust tore through the weakened fissure, hard and hot, tensing every muscle in his body, making his head rush as blood flooded to his loins. Never in his life had he made such a crass demand to a woman, not even to his own wife.
    But the impulse to mate, to feel his hard sex buried deep within Mariah’s softness, overwhelmed him. The tips of his extremities prickled with fire. His eyes burned. The storm now