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I need to move, to outrun these invasive thoughts until they diffuse and go away entirely.
If I stay here, I won’t be able to resist.
I walk through the house, feeling as though I’m trespassing even if Fiona told me I have free rein of the property.
The house creaks and whines like it’s haunted, and I have to tell myself several times not to be silly as I round corners and mistake shadows for attackers.
I end in the far wing of the house – the mansion, I correct myself – on the opposite side of the living room where we had hot cocoa.
The room I walk into is so out-of-place that I have to blink to assure myself it’s real.
Stark electric lights run along the walls, the sort you might see in hospitals or offices, and the floor is shiny hardwood and not covered with even a single embroidered rug.
All along the sides of the large room sit Formula One cars, propped up on display brackets, their colors vibrant and eye catching, blooming reds, and sunny yellows and luscious greens. I count nine cars in total dotted around the long, wide room.
I walk through it, glancing at the cars, and then behind the cars where the photos hang. Each one shows Saul standing next to the car, his eyes intense as he stares at the camera, the shadow of a smirk on his otherwise grim lips.
He doesn’t even smile in photos.
He starts out young in the photos, a teenager maybe, and then grows progressively older until he looks as he does now, a silver-flecked fox with a bulging muscle laden body and eyes that tell me to run back to my room right now and finish what I started.
Behind me, someone clears their throat.
I freeze.
I turn.
And Saul steps forward, fists clenched, jaw trembling, eyes burning into me.Chapter FourSaulThe universe must be having one hell of a laugh at me right now.
The whole reason I came here is to escape the thoughts of this curvy gorgeous off-limits woman, and so of course the second I walk through the door, there she is.
She turns, lips parting slightly, the blossoms in her cheek making her look endearing, making her feel magnetic, as though any moment I’m going to sprint across the room and claim her right here, bend her over one of my old decommissioned cars and ram her hard, ram her like she deserves.
I have to clench my fists and jaw to fight the need that propels unceasingly through me.
I can scent her in the air, which makes no damn sense. But it’s true. Her scent wafts over to me in swirling touches of womb and need and motherhood and pure hot sex. My seed flares within me, roaring at me with an atavistic desire to claim her before the dark comes, before the wolves and the fire and the danger.
Claim her. Put a child in her belly before it’s too late.
“I’m sorry,” she says, after a pause during which we just gaze at each other.
Does she feel the same?
I don’t know.
All I know is that if given the chance I’d make her feel more than she’s ever felt before. I’d slide my finger into the wetness of her slit, push past one knuckle and then the other, pin her against the wall, and with my other hand claim her golden hair in my fist.
“Cream for me,” I’d growl, close to her ear. “Until I see your luscious cream squirting all over my hand, we’re going to stay like this. I don’t care how long it takes. A minute, an hour, all night. Cream for me, Sadie.”
I walk toward her, realizing I haven’t said anything, that I’m just staring at her like a wild, patient beast.
“No need to apologize,” I grunt.
“This place is amazing,” she says. “The whole house is.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, as we both walk closer, and closer, until we’re inches from each other and I can smell her perfume and her scent and her just-Sadie tanginess.
Her womb.
God, I can smell the neediness of her.
“What are these, all your old cars?”
“Yep,” I say, forcibly unclenching my fists, trying to project the image that I’m Fiona’s father and nothing more, that there isn’t a maelstrom of desire and compulsion swirling through my very soul.
“Well, they look pretty awesome,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice stilted as a thousand unsaid things writhe beneath the surface.
We stare at each other.
Who are you, Sadie? Tell me everything about you. It’s only fitting that a man knows everything about the future mother of his children.
“The house, too,” she goes on, swallowing so that her throat shifts, her cheeks blazing an even firmer red. “I wanted to ask … why all the old-timey stuff? The shields and the suits of armor and the tapestries?”
I find myself moving closer, dangerously – the door open behind us – but even so, I move until we’re almost touching. I can feel her breath pick up, feel it against my neck. I can see her eyes grow wide and she bites her lip in a way that sends savage certainty to my manhood.
