He could smell her. It was dark, with not even enough moonlight to illuminate her bedroom. But he didn’t need light to know where she was. He could smell the soap on her: citrus and aloe. He could smell the shampoo in her hair and the detergent on her nightclothes. He could smell her. Her scent, that dark, private musk that had been calling to him the whole evening, until he could use the darkness to climb through her window.
He smiled, there in the darkness. He knew she was waiting for him, even though she was silent. She was breathing, soft currents that wafted across his over-heated skin. She wanted him, too. She’d watched him all evening over drinks. She’d smiled with her perfect white teeth and her sloe eyes. She’d sent out the scent of pheromones, and he’d responded.
She lurched awake and he stopped her. “No,” he whispered, settling his body against hers.
He laid his hand over her mouth and thought how soft it was, how cool and smooth her teeth were against his palm. He thought how hard he was for her, hot and ready and shaking with the effort of control.
He would have her tonight. She knew it, and he knew it, and it made him impatient.
“You know who I am,” he breathed in her ear.
He felt her tremble and nod.
“You knew I would come.”
She nodded again, and he could smell the first taint of fear on her.
“Don’t be afraid.” He slid his free hand along her soft, sleek throat and traced the edge of her clothing. Something silky and light, something that just asked to be ripped away. “I’m going to make it so good for you.”
He knew he was breathing faster. Her heart was pumping faster, and the first tang of perspiration hovered in the air. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. He couldn’t wait. He knew she couldn’t, either.
“Now,” he told her, filling his lungs with the smell of her sex.
She lifted a hand. He thought she would reach up to touch his face. Instead she reached for his hand, trying to dislodge it. He wouldn’t allow her to. He knew she didn’t really want him to stop. He chuckled and said, “No. Not yet.”
He hooked his hand around the neckline of her gown and almost came when he heard the fabric rip. He yanked hard and felt the garment disintegrate beneath his fingers. She was his for the taking. Her skin tightened with the chill. He could imagine that her areolae were pebbling, just waiting for his tongue. He leaned over and tasted her skin, salt and sweet air. He took possession of her breast and thought of what a feast it would be, there in the dark where they were strangers, even though they weren’t. Where he was in control, because she wanted it that way.
He lifted his hand away from her lips so he could kiss her, slide his tongue into her mouth and lap up the last vestiges of sleep. But she yanked her head back.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice suddenly shrill. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.”
“It happens,” he told her, “the way I say it does.”
And he wrapped his hand around her slender, vulnerable throat.
She bucked against him. “You bastard,” she rasped. “Stop it now.”
Rage flared in him. Hunger. How dare she? How dare—
He tightened his hold on her throat. Her pulse beat frantically against his fingers as the rasp of the air in her throat thinned to a whine. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t stop. Yes, like this. With her struggling for air, for life. Like this.
He reached down to yank open his pants, even as he felt her struggle against him. Because he felt her struggle against him. She was his, and she’d better know it now. She’d better understand that he was in control. He was the one with the power. He was smiling as he squeezed her throat, tighter and tighter, as he reached down…
Harry Wyatt lurched straight up out of his bed, his heart hammering. Sweat soaked his sheets, and his hands shook so badly he couldn’t so much as rub the images away from his eyes.
He’d had the dream again. Again he’d woken just in time, before his subconscious betrayed him. He didn’t know how much longer he could survive it. The horrific taste of violence lingered on his tongue. The terror that always followed swamped him, leaving him cold and nauseous.
Awake, he would never so much as consider something so vile. Asleep, he couldn’t seem to stop. And he was still hard as a rock.
What was wrong with him? What in the name of God was he going to do to stop it?
He swore he could still smell her on his hands.