He tugged his zipper down and circled her, pausing behind her long enough to whisper, “In my dreams the only thing covering your body is me.”
Her stomach grew hot at the image that unfolded in her mind. She shook her head to erase it as much to discourage him—as if that were possible—and preferably before the jeans riding low on his hips slid any lower.
Avalon help her, there was no way he was wearing any underwear beneath them.
She needed to stay focused on finding a way out of this mess, preferably with her clothing intact.
Given the way the corners of his mouth tipped up, as if amused by her white-knuckled grip on her shirt, the odds didn’t seem to be in her favor. That fact alone spurred her retreat.
Cian tensed like an animal about to take down its prey, but after a few feet, he still hadn’t moved. How was it that he managed to make her feel like she was being stalked when he hadn’t taken a single step in her direction?
She searched his face, finally understanding the wicked glimmer in his eyes. He was enjoying it. He wanted her to run, wanted to catch her.
Which only forced her to acknowledge that she wanted to be caught.
Caught. Kissed. Touched.
And it was all so damn crazy. She didn’t do one-night stands with men under normal circumstances, let alone with one who was casually eyeing the chain she dragged along the floor like it was part of the trap he couldn’t wait to spring.
“I am not some sex slave.”
When he took a step toward her, she wished she hadn’t said a damn thing.
“You’re right about that,” he drawled innocently, and she scrambled back another step, realizing too late he was herding her toward his bedroom.
“Slaves,” he continued, “need to be coerced in the beginning. You want it. Want me.”
A hint of uncertainty echoed beneath all that slick feline arrogance, surprising her. Distracting her. Otherwise she might have noticed how quickly he closed the distance between them, forcing her to tip her head back to meet his gaze. He towered over her five-foot-four frame, but she didn’t find it as intimidating as she should have given the magic-nulling handcuff locked around her wrist.
Everything about the situation left her at a disadvantage, but she refused to play the submissive female.
He stared at her throat before finally lifting his hand and tracing the soft hollow, then moving on to her collarbone. The teasing brush of his thumb was at odds with the tension she felt radiating from him.
“You didn’t deny that you want me.” His hands slid beneath her jacket and over her shoulders.
“And give you a reason to prove I was lying?”
He laughed, and the rough sound washed over her. A little dazed by his smile, she was slow to process her jacket sliding down to her arms.
Her eyes snapped open—when the hell had she closed them?—and she stumbled back. He might have been too distracted when she’d been in the shower to realize how few tracings she had, but risking it a second time was a really bad idea. It wouldn’t take him long to realize the cuff would null any ability to mask her tracings.
A tug on her wrist pulled her forward. She immediately retreated, stepping inside the dark bedroom at her back.
Could he see well enough to notice her tracings—or lack thereof—in the dark?
He stopped in the doorway, the light behind him casting his face in shadows. Maybe she’d been a little premature with the whole not-intimidated thing. She managed another step, and he countered with another tug on the chain until she was forced to meet him halfway.
“Cian.”
He stopped, only a foot away now. “Again.” He stepped forward, and her thighs connected with his.
“I don’t—”
“My name. Say it again.”
Her lips parted soundlessly.
“Please.”
Inches separated them. “Cian.”
His palm caressed her jaw, guiding her closer. “Again,” he murmured.
“Ci—”
He slanted his mouth across hers.
The Medusa Trilogy, Book 1
Ever since the original Medusa ticked off Athena by bragging about her beauty, her cursed daughters have been paying for that mistake. To this day, successive Medusas play cat and mouse with the descendants of Perseus, known as the Harvesters.
When Kallan Tassos tracks down the current Medusa, he expects to find a monster. Instead he finds a wary, beautiful woman, shielded by a complicated web of spells that foils his plans for a quick kill and retrieval of her protective amulet.
Andrea Rosakis expects the handsome Harvester to go for the kill. Instead, his attempt to take the amulet imprinted on her skin without harming her takes her completely by surprise. And ends with the two of them in a magical bind—together.
Though their attraction is combustible, her impending PMS (Pre Magical-Curse Syndrome) puts a real damper on any chance of a relationship. But Kallan isn’t the only Harvester tracking Andi, and they must cooperate to stay at least one step ahead of a ruthless killer before they can have any future, together or apart.
Warning: A hunter who’s fallen for the woman he’s bound to kill, a Medusa who must trust him with her life, and a magical curse only love can break.
“Time for bed.”
Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
Kallan gave her a bland smile. “Time for bed.” He guided her out of the bathroom and steered her into the next doorway, flipping on the light as they went. Her bedroom.
The bed loomed large in the middle of the space, reminding him uncomfortably of being pressed up against her back in the dark kitchen.
She balked, then stumbled when he gave her arm a gentle yank. “I am not sleeping with you.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t recall asking you.” He pushed her toward the bed.
She tried to dig her feet in, but she didn’t get any traction with her boots on the hardwood and skidded into his side.
He nudged her onto the edge of the bed. “Boots.”
She stared up at him, appalled, for a long moment. “You are insane.”
One of his eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You really don’t have a choice, Medusa.” He sat down and caught one of her knees, lifting her leg to untie the shoe and push it off.
She struggled against him, making him grunt when she elbowed one of the slash marks on his arm.
He wrestled her other shoe off and then dragged her onto the bed before stretching out beside her.
She sat up, tugging on her arm. She could go nowhere so it was a futile effort.
Kallan smiled at her. “It’s been a long night. Lie down.”
“I’ll kill you.”
He laughed. She never stopped. “I think that’s my job, my Medusa.”
“I’m not your Medusa. I’m not your anything. My name is Andi.”
He put his free hand behind his head and studied her for a long moment. “Andrea Rosakis. I know your name.”
“How did you find me?”
“I don’t think we’ll discuss that. But I suppose I should inquire as to whether there are any weapons in your nightstand I need to worry about tonight.”
Her look of disbelief made him sit up. He crawled over her, then straddled her and tried not to think about the position while he used his free hand to pull open the drawer. A flashlight, hefty enough to bash him in the head. He tossed it away so it clattered across the floor and landed near the closet. A tattered book. He flipped it over to look at the cover. A romance novel—the half-naked hero on the cover ravishing the slightly more dressed woman in his arms. The worst she could do with that was give him some paper cuts. Or another painful erection.