Masks of a Tiger (3 page)

"It's not as bad as
it looks." She tried to pull her wrist away, and
Grisha
knew his tiger was showing in his eyes, when he cupped her chin and forced her
to look up at him. Her emerald eyes widened, and she blinked rapidly.

Damn infuriating woman.

He never had this much
trouble keeping his beast under control, but this little redhead raised all of
his protective instincts.

"Why?" he
asked.

"Why,
what?"
She bit her lip, and that defiant look he was beginning to
know well was back in her eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking
about." She yanked her chin out of his hand and pulled on the tight grip
he had on her arm. "Let me go. You're giving me frost bite. So, I'm
clumsy. It's a burn. I'll get over it."

"Clumsy? Holding
your wrist over a candle long enough to give you a second degree burn is
clumsy?
I wasn't born yesterday, sweetheart. Now hold still, and let me tend this
properly."

She looked as though she
was going to say something else, but his tiger's warning growl made her gasp.
She threw him a worried look and then shrugged her shoulders in a good attempt
at feigning nonchalance.
Too bad for her that his shifter
senses picked up her hurt, confusion, and innate sadness loud and clear.
One way or the other he was going to get to the bottom of this—today.

"You really don't
need to do that."

He ignored her protests,
and she shrieked when he picked her up and set her on the long kitchen counter.
He pulled her legs apart and stepped inside her thighs. With her almost
straddling him and his arms caging her in either side, she had nowhere to go,
and she swallowed hard, as he leant in close enough for her breasts to brush
his chest. Her nipples beaded into hard little bullet points, and he took great
delight in rubbing his shirt repeatedly over them, as he reached behind her for
the first aid kit he would need. The very feminine whimper of need she couldn’t
quite hide shot straight to his groin, and his balls drew tight. He allowed
himself a shallow thrust into her clothed core, the scent and heat calling him
home, and his tiger prowled to be set free.

"Don't,
please." The tiny plea broke through the mist of animal lust, and he
pulled back enough to see her expression. "I'm not what you need, trust
me."

Tears shimmered in her
eyes, and
Grisha
cursed.

"And you would know
what I need how, exactly?"

Again she tried to pull
her hand away and shook her head.

"For the last time,
Neeve
, let me deal with this, or so help me I will
strip those damn leggings off you and paddle your bare ass right now and
here."

"You wouldn't
dare." Her protest was far too breathy, and her pupils dilated to such a
degree her green eyes were almost black. She released the breath she'd been
holding on a loud exhale when he cupped her mound. The fabric was damp with her
arousal, and he pushed one finger through the thin material and into her
channel.
 
She squirmed against his hand,
and her fingers curled into his shirt, whether to pull him closer or push him
away, she didn't seem to know herself.

Their eyes locked, and
Grisha
smiled.

"Don't ever dare
me, sweetheart."

She looked as though she
was going to say something else, but he stopped her with a finger against her
lips. She frowned but obeyed instantly. Only her eyes threw daggers at him, and
Grisha
had a tough time not letting his amusement
show.

"Good girl, now
that's not so hard is it?"

The annoyed growl she
made in response was the sexiest sound ever, and he could almost see his tiger
salivating in response. His damn beast needed to learn when to shut up. His
tiger was starting to act as though this messed up woman trying her best not to
flinch as he rubbed the burn cream into her wound, was
the one.
Craziest notion ever.
He wasn't looking to settle down, and
he damn well didn't need a sub as bratty as this one. Regardless of how much
her scent called him. Regardless of how the tears of pain she refused to let
fall, settled in his gut, or the way her shallow breaths made him gentle his
touch. By the time he'd finished bandaging her wrist she looked about ready to
pass out. She put up no resistance when he picked her up and carried her over
to the well-worn couch on the veranda. It faced the forest, and for the moment
at least, they had the place to themselves.

Night had fallen in earnest,
and the music and rumble of voices carrying through the chilly air were the
only indication that the party under the marquee was by now in full swing. He
took his jacket off, draped it around her shoulders, and she accepted it with a
murmured thanks.

"Don't move. I know
just what you need."

****

Neeve
could no
more have moved if her life depended on it. Seated on the veranda, with his
jacket round her shoulders, his spicy, earthy scent surrounded her and kept the
demons at bay. She could almost pretend they were alone, not at the fringes of
a family gathering that celebrated a woman becoming someone's property. If only
he weren't who he was. She'd recognized the name immediately when Ink had
called him
Grisha
. He had to be
Grisha
Sergewski
. Not only was he one of Club Ink's
exploration facilitators he was also was well known for his skills with fire.
He ran classes in safe fire play, and his sheer fury at her injury, and
insistence of dealing with it, all made sense now.

He would never
understand the demons that drove her, and even if he did, he was a Dom. That
made him an overbearing asshole who would want to control every aspect of her
life, and there was no fucking way she would go down that route. No fucking way
at all. If there was any tying up to be done in the bedroom, then it was
Neeve
getting the handcuffs out, not the other way round.
She didn't give up control for anyone, no matter how much her body lit up at
his touch, or her pussy leaked her juices just by the way he called her
sweetheart—as though he actually meant it.

He couldn't mean it.
They'd only just met, and as much as she'd like to jump his bones and give into
the overwhelming sexual chemistry between them, she couldn't take that risk. He
was dangerous to her equilibrium, those charcoal eyes of his seeing straight
into her soul and stripping her bare with just one look.
 
It was the same look that Nathan gave
Estelle, and Ink gave Cherie, and her body's reaction to that look scared her
shitless.

No man would have that
control over her. She wouldn't let him, no matter how much her body craved him,
no matter how much his smile made her want to please him. When he'd called her
a
good girl,
in that deeply seductive voice of his, she'd wanted to sink
into the knowledge that she'd pleased him, even as the barely functioning,
rational side of her brain called her a fool.

She didn't hear him
approach until the scent of coffee registered. He crouched in front of her and
pressed a mug of the steaming elixir of life into her frozen hands.

"Here, drink that.
You're going into shock."

"I'm not." He
ignored her whispered denial, and raised the cup to her lips instead. He cupped
the back of her head, his long fingers massaging her scalp, and she sipped the
brandy laced fluid obediently.

"Good girl, drink
it all." His voice had dropped an octave, and
Neeve's
skin tightened in need. She tried to scoot away from him, but he anticipated
her move, and in the flash of an eye he was sitting on the couch with her on
his lap. His strong arms tightened around her when she tried to get off.
"Stop it. You will just hurt yourself, and I can still put you over my
knee."

He chuckled into her
neck when she snorted in frustration, and she glared at him.

"Sure, use your
superior strength to make your point. Get off on beating up on women, do
you?"

She regretted the words
almost the minute they left her mouth, and she didn't dare look at him.
 
He went so still, she couldn't be sure he was
even breathing.

His arms tightened
around her for an instant, and then he sighed. One of his large hands trailed
slowly up her side, until he reached her neck. He gently massaged the knot of
tension away.

"Look at me,
sweetheart."

The growly whisper was
impossible to ignore. She forced her gaze upwards, and the grim determination
on
Grisha's
face took her breath away.

"Who hurt you,
Neeve
? Give me the name of the fucking bastard, and I'll
tear him limb from limb."

The steely determination
in his eyes, and the controlled, almost careful, way his chest rose and fell sent
shivers down her spine. The tight grip he had on his emotions and the quiet way
he studied her made her feel as though she was the prey he was about to pounce
on. Rather than fear coursing through her veins, it was an entirely different
emotion making her breath hitch and her nipples tighten. He noticed of course.
He seemed to notice everything, and his gaze dropped briefly to her breasts.
They ached under that quick visual as though he had run his hands over them,
and
Neeve
shook her head.

"I wouldn't give
any man the satisfaction of being able to hurt me. I told you, I'm not a
sub."

Grisha
closed his
eyes for a moment, and when he opened them they glittered with barely
suppressed fury. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"If that is truly
the way you feel, then why are you still sitting on my lap? Should you not be
running away screaming?" He lifted his hands away from her, as if to make
his point. "Yet here you sit. Why is that I wonder?"

"I … I… I'm not. …
I mean…"
Neeve
hated how wobbly her voice
sounded. Why
was
she still sitting on his lap?

"I'm sorry."
The words flew from her mouth before she knew she was going to say them.
"I shouldn't have said that. I don't know why I did, really."

Grisha
nodded,
once. That was his only reaction. Hands placed on the couch either side of his
legs he didn't move, just watched her with that unwavering attention that
pinned her, as though he had tied her to him with invisible bonds.

"Thank you for
taking care of this." She lifted her wrist and tried to smile at him, but
her attempt wavered as his expression darkened. He took hold of her hand and
turned it over. He bent his head and pressed a kiss into her palm. His hot
breath sent tingles up her arm, and she clenched her hand into a fist. He
kissed her knuckles, one at a time, before he pressed his lips against the
bandage. He licked a path up her inner arm, leaving the most delicious tingles
in its wake, and
Neeve
could almost forget who this
man was and what he stood for. When he finally raised his head and looked at
her,
Neeve
struggled to draw breath into her lungs.

"Why do
you feel the need to mutilate this beautiful skin, sweetheart?"

"I … you wouldn't
understand. And it's none of your business."

He raised an eyebrow and
smiled—a slow, sexy as sin,
I-can-see-straight-through-your-bullshit-smile
—that
broke through every one of
Neeve's
carefully
constructed layers of witty comeback, years of pretense, and cut right into the
pain she carried with her, lest she ever forget what happened.

"Trust me."

The whispered statement
hung between them, and
Neeve
shook her head.

"I don't know you.
How can I trust you?"

"Because sometimes
it's easier to tell someone you don't know." He cupped her chin and dug
his fingers into her skin hard enough to hurt. "And because I get the
whole need to mark skin thing, but you need to do it in a safe manner. I leave
marks that fade, never scar. Marks that tease, and arouse, and get you so damn
turned on, you'll have the hottest sex you ever had. Marks that will proclaim I
own you, at least whilst in a scene. Think on that, sweetheart, next time you
stare into the flame."

He let go of her so
suddenly she felt bereft. As smoothly as he'd placed her on his lap, he moved
her off it, until she was sitting on the couch looking up at him. He pulled a
card out of his trouser pocket and placed into her hand. He leant down to do so,
and
Neeve's
stomach flipped over as he drew so close
their breaths mingled. Her eyes fluttered shut in anticipation of his kiss—a
kiss she suddenly craved with every fiber of her being—a kiss that never came.

"Look at me,
sweetheart."
 
His lips hovered over
hers, when she opened her eyes, and he smiled. Arms either side of her body, he
obliterated her view of anything but him, but her senses drank in the sight and
feel of his powerful body. He'd rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, and opened
a few more buttons on his shirt, exposing a smattering of dark hair on his
chest, and
Neeve's
mouth watered. The contrast of the
white shirt against his dark skin mesmerized her. She took in the play of
muscles as he straightened away from her. With his tie loose around his neck,
and his hands now pushed into his trouser pockets, he was the image of
disheveled elegance.