Hot as Hell (22 page)

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T
am cupped her tea in both hands and inhaled the steam as she studied his face. She didn’t like to admit it to herself, but it was taking more energy than she’d expected to withstand the gale force of this man’s sex appeal. Erin had not been kidding.

For some reason, Tam had been expecting a generic male underwear model sort of good looks. Which was unfair. Erin was married to Connor, after all, and even Tam could appreciate his craggy, fierce good looks. Even in her most virulent, man-repelled moods.

But still. She was utterly unprepared for…well, him.

Lethal.
It was the first word that came to mind, even though it embarrassed her. He was so solid, so hard looking. Dynamic, and yet calm and focused. Nothing soft about him, except for the gloss of that thick brush of black hair. She wanted to touch it, just to see if it really was as soft as mink. Gypsy dark eyes, inky brows and lashes. The planes and angles of his face were starkly masculine, arrogantly sensual, but that smile was pure temptation. She’d considered herself impervious to men’s lures, so why was she marveling at the lines carved into his cheeks when he grinned, or that blinding flash of teeth against his dark skin?
Get a fucking grip, Steele. This is unacceptable.

His face looked hard-used for a rich business consultant. There were bumps on his slightly crooked nose, a white diagonal scar sliced through one thick, slashing eyebrow, and subtler scars that only a trained eye accustomed to evaluating the effects of cosmetic surgery could catch. And the hands, of course. He’d fought, in his life. Fought hard. Won, more often than not, judging from his vibe.

And what a vibe. It blasted out of him, full force. It was out of human range, a frequency that only a fucked-up freakoid with a weird, checkered past like hers could perceive. But so different from the danger waves that had throbbed out of the sicko madmen she’d had the misfortune to get close to before, like Novak, Georg, Drago Stengl. Their vibration had been a miasma of rot that made her tissues recoil.

Not so with Janos. In him, the danger was blended like a cocktail with seductive, predatory male sexual energy that assaulted her at every level. It silently said, beneath the smooth veneer of perfect gentlemanly courtesy, that he wanted to fuck her, left, right, up, down, and sideways. And that it would be well worth her while.

She didn’t doubt it. But she wasn’t going to listen, not even with her nerves jangling, her skin prickling, her heart thudding. Back off, boyo. This was business, and that was how it was going to stay.

“You’re not what you try to appear,” she said. “You are charming and flirtatious and inscrutable, Mr. Janos, but tiny details betray you. Your hands should be soft, from handling nothing heavier than a pen and a computer mouse, but yours are scarred and callused. And your face. Your nose has been broken. Several times it wasn’t set. You can’t blame the martial arts club. If it happened during sparring, why would a rich, image conscious businessman neglect to get his nose set? Of course, he would not.”

“I did not see the point of—”

“So it happened when you were a boy,” she went on smoothly. “No one set your nose then, either, which implies poverty, neglect, or both. I’m thinking an urban environment, judging from your basic vibe. And those scars on your face, the tiny one above your lip, the one cutting through your eyebrow, the one on your forehead that you almost hide with your hair, it makes me wonder what other scars you hide with the beautiful six thousand Euro suit you’re wearing. You’ve had laser treatments, dermabrassion, but the ghosts always remain.”

“I’m glad you like the suit,” he said blandly.

“You’re no country boy,” she went on. “But you’re not from Rome. You don’t have the accent of the Roman periphery. Your Italian has a Roman cadence, but to my ear, it is a studied one, not a native one. You grew up somewhere else, speaking something else, and learned your perfect Italian later. And you grew up rough. Very rough.”

He stared back at her, frozen into stillness. His eyes were chips of black, opaque glass. “Go on,” he said.

She set down the teacup, threaded her fingers together and rode the swirling current deeper into wild speculation. She felt like she was drifting on a boat into a night-dark cave of mysteries, and only the currents of air, the echoes, the flutter of distant bats’ wings could hint at its true vastness. It was dangerous. And…exciting.

She pondered his stark face for a moment, and went on. “You are a ladies’ man, and your charm is slick, practiced. You are accustomed to controlling women with sex, but unlike other men with that ability, your ego does not rest on it—although your looks and your body would entitle you to—”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“I am not complimenting you,” she said, her voice impatient. “This is an analysis, Janos. Not flattery. Not flirting.”

“Forgive me,” he said, after a brief, startled pause. “Please, continue to invade my pathetic defenses. By all means, cut deeper to reveal my wretched, naked, cringing inner self. Feel free.”

She did not acknowledge his sarcasm. “Sex is a tool for you,” she said. “But when a tactic of seduction does not achieve its goal, you just change tactics without getting your pride hurt and try again, and again, and again. This suggests a lack of machismo not normal in a man from any culture I know—particularly not one who professes to have grown up in Italy. Italian men aren’t known for their humility, or their self-control. This coolness, this calculation regarding sex is a trait I associate with high-end sex professionals.”

His gaze flickered.

She pounced. “Ah. I’ve hit a sore spot,” she murmured. “Have you ever been a gigolo, Mr. Janos? Do you have a more colorful past than you lead people to believe? Some dirty, dangerous secrets of your own?”

He stared at her. His eyes burned.

“Tell me something, Janos,” she whispered. “Can you make your cock hard on command?”

His mouth was a hard, flat line. “Yes,” he said. “But in your vicinity, no effort is necessary.”

“What a lovely sentiment. Should I be gratified?”

“Reach under the table, and take the measure of your future gratification right now,” he said.

“Oh, my.” She pretended to be scandalized. “The veneer of the perfect gentleman is cracking.”

“You should not wonder at it, since you shattered it yourself with an ice pick. See what lurks beneath the veneer. Go on, feel it. It’s yours for the asking. I do not think you will be disappointed.”

She stared at him, her heart pumping. The game had slipped out of her control and taken on its own life. She realized that she was tempted to do exactly as he invited. To grasp his cock, test his heat, the hardness. Feel the vital energy of him pulsing against her hand.

Make sure to catch

THE MANE ATTRACTION
by Shelly Laurenston,
out this month from Brava…

S
issy Mae turned over and buried her head back in the pillows, trying her best to block out the sunlight. Since she’d never been a morning person, Sissy always kept the blinds in her room at the Kingston Arms Hotel closed. Why she didn’t do that last night, she had no idea.

Well, it didn’t matter. She was too exhausted to care at this point. Exhausted and in pain. Her throat was sore and raw, and her head throbbed. It felt like her brain was rattling around inside her skull.

It had to have been that last sip of tequila. The one where she clearly remembered saying to herself, “Well, I shouldn’t waste it.”

Unfortunately, that was the last thing she really remembered.

No, she wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon if she could help it. And to prove it, she buried her face deeper into the pillow. It felt good to do that, so she did it again. In some bizarre way, the action helped her headache—she’d never call it a hangover out loud—so she did it again. Then she rubbed her head against the pillow.

It was that scent. She wanted that scent on her. A very shifter thing to do and one she’d never really be able to explain to a full-human without getting that telltale “ewww” response.

As her brain began to slowly process whose smell this could possibly be, she felt the bed dip and a heavy weight rest against her side.

“Baby?” a deliciously low voice said. “You awake? I need you, baby.”

Sissy’s eyes snapped open, but she immediately closed them again when bright sunlight brutally seared her brain right inside her skull.

“Mitchell?”

“Yeah,” he purred, nuzzling her chin, her ear. “You up for more of me, baby? ’Cause we are so not done.”

Not caring how much the light hurt, Sissy slammed her hands against Mitch’s chest and pushed him off while scrambling back until her shoulders hit the headboard. Using both hands, she held the sheet under her chin.

“What the hell is going on?”

“What’s wrong, baby?”

She stared at him in horror. “Mitchell Shaw, tell me you didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” He crawled across the bed toward her. “Didn’t turn you inside out and work you like you’ve never been worked before? Well, if you’re asking me to be honest, I guess I’d have to say—”

“Don’t.” One hand released the sheet she had such a grip on to halt his words. “Not another word.”

“Don’t be that way, baby.”

“And stop calling me that!”

He took hold of the sheet and began to pull it away from her. “Don’t be shy, baby. We have no secrets now.”

This wasn’t happening! This wasn’t happening! She was fully dressed!

Wait. She was fully dressed.

Sissy stared down at the clean white T-shirt and white sweatpants. She clearly smelled Ronnie’s scent. These were Ronnie’s clothes. Had to be. Sissy never wore white. She had a tendency to get food on clothes within seconds. And something told her it was Ronnie who’d put the damn things on Sissy in the first place.

“You are so hot, baby.”

Slowly, she looked up at Mitch, and forcing herself to look past her hangover, she could see he was fighting hard not to laugh out loud.

“You. Big. Haired.
Bastard!
”

Sissy launched herself onto Mitch, knocking him off the bed and onto the floor. She punched and slapped at his face, and he held off her blows with those sides of ham he called arms. And it didn’t help that he was hysterically laughing the whole time.

“I hate you, Mitchell Shaw! I hate you!”

“You
love
me, sweet cheeks! Admit it!”

“One day,” she told him between blows, “you’re gonna meet me in hell! And I’m gonna kick your big, white ass!”

“Last night you told me it was the best ass!”

“Shut up!”

He grabbed her wrists and turned, putting her on her back with him between her legs. “Are you going to keep fighting me, or you going to admit I’m your lord and savior?”

“Blasphemer!”

“That’s what the priests all said.”

“I should tell my daddy to kick your ass.”

“He’s on vacation. With your mother. Remember?”

And like that…all the fight went out of her. “She’s gone? Really and truly?”

“Really and truly.” He leaned in and kissed her nose. “Now are you going to keep fighting me, or are we going to get some breakfast?”

“Breakfast, you evil bastard. But this will not be forgotten.”

Grinning, Mitch released her wrists and easily got to his feet. He reached down and grabbed Sissy’s hand, pulling her up.

“You sure you feel okay?” He still held her hand. “I was just messing with your head.”

“It was mean.” And she shrugged. “Of course, when I think about it, I have to appreciate the evil of it.”

He moved closer. “So you’re not mad at me?”

“I should be—” Sissy looked up into Mitch’s handsome face, and her words died in her throat when she saw something there she didn’t see very often—maybe because she’d never really looked before. She saw desire. Pure, clear. It was there on his face and the way he stared at her lips.

Keep an eye out for
MIDNIGHT SINS by Cynthia Eden,
coming next month from Brava…

“Y
ou don’t need to get out,” Cara said when Todd braked at her house. Her voice sounded higher and sharper than she’d intended. “I’ll be fine now.” She thought about thanking him for the ride, then discarded the idea.

Yes, she knew the guy had been doing his job when he questioned her, but she wasn’t going to overlook the fact that he’d been one serious jerk.

Being in the car with him had unnerved her. They’d originally gone to the police station in a patrol car. She’d sat in the back. Like any good criminal.

The confines of Todd’s corvette were far too intimate. The leather seat felt soft and sleek beneath her, and with the windows rolled up, the scent of leather and man filled the car’s interior.

Cara reached for the door handle.

“Wait.”

Her fingers curled into a fist at the command, her fingernails biting into her palm. She glanced at him and found his stare trained on her.

The car was cloaked with shadows, but she could still see his eyes. The strong lines of his face. Cara licked her lips. “What?”

“You feel it, don’t you?” A whisper that felt like a caress against her skin.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She could lie, too.

His lips quirked, just a bit. With a flick of his fingers, he unhooked his seat belt and leaned toward her. “There’s something here.”

The promise of hot, wild sex. Of power and magic rushing into her body and making her scream with pleasure.

But she’d given that up because after the burn of fiery release, she hated the ashes of cold reality.

The reality that a man wouldn’t love a demon, no matter how enticing her physical trappings.

His hand lifted, reached for her.

Her fingers flew out and locked around his wrist in a fierce grip.

Silence. Then he said, “I just wanted to touch you.”

He sounded sincere,
but
…“I thought you just wanted to send me to jail.”

He didn’t deny her words. Didn’t fight her hold. Good thing, too, because the way she was feeling, Cara would have shown him just how strong a succubus could be.

Instead, his gaze dropped to her lips. “I wonder,” he spoke with words little more than a growl. “Do you taste as good as you smell?”

The dam pheromones. “It’s not me that you want.” The admission was hard.

“Ah, baby, but I’m going to have to disagree.” He was close, so close that she could feel the light brush of his breath against her face.

“You don’t understand—”

He kissed her. A soft, fast press of his lips against hers.

Cara’s fingers tightened around him as desire began to heat her blood.

“Not enough.” His lips were just above hers. “I need another taste…”

And she wanted more.