Nightfall by Anne Stuart Page A

counter. And because she retreated, he advanced, unable to resist the temptation. If she was going out with Mark Bellingham, he wanted her to go with his taste on her mouth, his touch on her flesh, his heat on her cold fear.
    He put his hands on her shoulders, lightly, hesitating for a moment before letting them settle. She felt curiously fragile beneath his touch, and he knew it wouldn't take much strength to crush those bones. He was very strong, he knew it, he used it.
    He let his thumbs brush against the hollow beneath her collarbone, and he felt her tremble. Her lids were lowered, as if she was afraid to let him see the sheer panic in her expression. He didn't need to see it or know it. He could sense it, breathe it, smell it. And he knew that mixed with that panic was unwilling fascination.
    He bent down, and put his lips against hers. He could taste the toothpaste and lipstick, he could taste the desire. He increased the pressure, gently, and her mouth opened beneath his, unwillingly.
    He moved his hands down her arms, capturing her wrists and putting them around his neck, pulling her body up against his. He wanted to groan with the pleasure of it, but his control was absolute, and he made no sound whatsoever as he slowly took her mouth.
    The first tremor that swept over her body was fear. The second was something else, as he felt her nipples harden against his chest in the warmth of the dark kitchen, felt the reluctant softening of her mouth. She made a sound, a quiet one, of protest and surrender, and he slid his tongue against hers, pushing her, forcing her to accept him. Or to run. He needed an answer, even as he felt his body harden against hers, even as he felt the call of her, a siren lure, enticing him, calling him to drown in the scented richness of her flesh, to drown and forget the nightmare that haunted his every moment.
    He was angry. Angry that she'd reached him again. He'd stalked her, intent on testing her, seeing how far he could push her. And instead she'd pushed back, crawling inside his skin, so that it was his hands that were trembling, his body that was shaking.
    She smelled like sex and lies. She tasted like love and truth. He threaded his hands through her thick mane of flame-colored hair, reveling in the texture, and slanted his mouth across hers. He'd never liked kissing much before.
    He liked kissing Cassidy Roarke. Liked feeling the passion rise in her, liked feeling the surrender racing just beneath the surface of her heated flesh. He could have her. He could slide his hands down that low neckline and cup her breasts, taste her nipples. He could push her down on the old linoleum floor of the kitchen and pull her dress out of the way, he could fuck her, hard, and she wouldn't protest. She would cry, and she would come.
    And then she would run away. Too soon, too soon.
    He released her, suddenly, abruptly, taking a safe step away from her, trying to distance himself from the taste, the heat, the scent of her. She looked up at him, her eyes dark with shock and remorse, and he was glad he was so skilled at shielding his expressions. She would be able to glean nothing of his reaction to her.
    And then her eyelids fluttered closed, and she groaned, a soft, despairing sound that would have torn at softer hearts than his.
    He could play it out, toy with her, push her. He was tempted to. The need that spiked through his body was strong and fierce, and he needed her, needed her.
    But he needed more than the blessed forgetfulness of sex in her warm, lush body. He needed her heart and soul as well.
    "Sorry," he said lightly, the prosaic word defusing the situation.
    Almost. Her eyes flew open again, and she stared at him. "Sorry?" she echoed, almost as if she didn't understand the meaning of the word.
    "I must have been overcome by my baser urges." His voice was cool, ironic, and he could see the flush stain her pale cheeks.
    And then her eyes met his, unflinching. "I don't think you allow anything to