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He had wanted her, clearly. But he’d spent years telling himself that his attraction to her was all a part of his revenge and why it would work so beautifully. Not...a wanting in its own right.
And Constantine had made himself wait so long. He’d made himself hold back, though such a thing was not in his nature. He had waited and waited—
The waiting ended then. With a crack so loud inside him he was shocked it didn’t tear down this building they stood in, then topple Paris to the ground.
He was shocked he still stood.
But in the end, it was that simple.
One moment he was worried about his plan, the next he was done.
Constantine reached down, unable to control himself a moment longer, and hauled her to her feet. He got his hands in the thick mass of her blond hair, shaking it free of its pins, then slammed his mouth to hers.
And the taste of her burned in him as it always did, so intense and so hot he could not believe he was not scalded.
But it wasn’t enough. Not tonight.
He gathered her against him, plundering her mouth, and he wanted more. More of her taste. More of that sleek, glorious body of hers pressed against him. He could feel the points of her nipples, a sweet agony against his chest.
It was too much.
Everything about her was too much.
Because with every taste of her, every little way she melted against him, it was as if she was somehow blazing straight through all those boundaries he had always kept strong and secure. As if she was the one melting him, from the inside out.
Constantine needed to get inside her. He needed to vanquish her, once and for all, and no other way had worked yet. Surely that would.
It was the waiting, he assured himself. He had never waited for another woman, not in any sense. It had created an unreasonable hunger—but it would be assuaged soon enough.
Now, in fact.
Once again, all the plans Constantine had toyed with over the years seemed to disappear, in so much ash and smoke.
He lifted her up into his arms, then carried her over to the nearest long, deep sofa, where he laid her out like an offering. To his deepest, wildest greed.
The longings he dared not admit, not even to himself.
Molly might be a martyr, but she was his.His.And he intended to lick up every last drop of this sacrifice laid out so temptingly before him.
He tore out of his own clothes, tossing them aside in his haste to finally get as naked as she’d been in front of him all this time. And he only slowed when he saw her eyes grow wide. He watched as she flushed, a rolling splash of color that moved from her cheeks to her neck, and then all over those sweet breasts.
Sure enough, her eyes were dilated. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she found him just as overwhelmingly tempting as he found her.
Good, something in him intoned, like a vow.
And say what she might about enemies, he knew full well that she hated him. He wanted her to hate him. But that meant he knew that if she was looking at him like this, she meant it.
That gave him a little sliver of space to breathe in.
Better yet, to remember who the hell he was.
To slow it down and take control, before he exploded like an untried boy.
It almost felt like a blessing when he stretched himself out over her, there on that long couch. They both fit, if closely, and he could prop himself up on one elbow. Then look down at the work of art before him.
He took his time looking.
“Constantine...” she began, and there was a little break as she said his name.
