Page 12 of Marked By Moonlight

Her attention moved to his eyes. Green. A pale green. At the moment those lovely eyes—unbefitting such a cold, harsh man—glared at her in the mirror. She focused on the tiny flecks of gold, too numerous to count near the night-dark pupils.

The hand on her waist moved to the opening of her robe and yanked it open, giving further credence to his utter ruthlessness. She gave a tiny gasp, mortified when the robe parted down to her navel. Thankfully the sash was belted tight enough to keep at least some of her business private. But not all. A single breast spilled out of her robe. She grappled to cover herself, but he was bent on his own agenda. He bared her shoulder and thrust it forward until her head almost touched the mirror.

Her gaze dropped to her shoulder. With a single, ruthless yank he tore off her bandage, and she quickly forgot about covering herself. Smooth, unblemished skin was all she saw. Not a scratch in sight. It was a miracle.

“Holy shit,” she muttered into his warm hand, doubly shocking herself at her use of profanity. She rarely swore. Her father insisted ladies did not curse. Yet if there was ever a time for profanity, this was it.

“There’s nothing holy about it. Your DNA regenerates at a greater speed now,” he replied, apparently able to decipher hermuffled exclamation. “You’re facing a bleak future… the loss of your soul… unless you start listening to me.” He dropped his hand from her mouth and cocked an eyebrow in question.

Their gazes clashed in silent struggle: his urging her to accept the impossible, hers steadfast in disbelief. Although more disturbed by the disappearance of her wound than she was willing to admit, that didn’t mean she bought into his outrageous claims.

His gaze scanned her face and then dropped, examining the rest of her. All of her. She felt his crawling appraisal like a brand, hot and burning deep. The pressure of his hips against her brought forth a moan far back in her throat. Belatedly, she recalled that more than her shoulder was bared for his inspection. With clumsy hands, she yanked her robe back in place, but not before his gaze burned across her exposed flesh and her treacherous nipple pebbled and hardened, rising in salute to his silent appraisal.

The hard length of his body tightened like a wire behind hers, singeing her through their clothes. A sudden rush of moisture gathered between her legs, so sudden, so immediate, she almost came on the spot.

A telltale hardness swelled against her lower back, prodding insistently. The temptation to turn around and rub against that hardness insinuated itself. Her gaze shot up in the mirror. Twin flags of red stained her cheeks. Mortified at her body’s betrayal, she wiggled free from the hard press of his body and the wedge of counter, taking refuge in the far end of the room. Putting several feet between them, she fought for breath in the charged air.

His scent followed her. Earthy smells. Cedar, pine, and aroused male filled her nostrils. Clearly her imagination worked overtime. No way could shesmellhim several feet away.

The throbbing ache between her legs alarmed her, but not nearly as much as her longing forhimto assuage that ache. Her body had never reacted this way before.

He had to leave. Immediately.

“Get out!” She pointed a shaking finger in the general direction of the front door, her voice shrill and unsteady. “Now,” she hissed.

Their eyes clashed in a battle of wills. At last, Gideon March turned to leave, but not before pausing to say, “I’ll give you some time to think. This is a lot to digest. But this isn’t over. On the next full moon, you will shift. And you will kill. I need your cooperation if I’m going to help you.”

“Go away,” she urged, resisting the impulse to weep from the inexplicablewantthat burned her blood. “I’m not a—” She couldn’t even utter the word aloud, wouldn’t give it that much power. “I don’t need your help,” she finished.

He nodded slowly, his pale eyes strangely regretful. “Then that’s too bad for you. Because without it, you’re dead.”

Then he was gone.

Legs suddenly too wobbly to support herself, she slid down the wall in a boneless pile. Her entire body shook. Yet strangely enough, not from fear. Her body thrummed for sexual release. She ached in places that had never experienced sensation before. Another second and she would have torn off her robe and pounced on him, wrested off his clothes, and explored that throbbing erection she had felt at her backside. What the hell was wrong with her?

With only one past lover, she didn’t feel those sensations. She hardly ever had. She didn’t have those needs. She didn’t indulge in primitive urges. They were things other women felt. Not her. Those urges were too wild, too primitive, too beastly. Especially to feel for a self-professed killer who broke in to her apartment and spouted insane allegations.

His smell swirled around her as if he were still in the room. She even thought she heard the echo of his steps well past her apartment door now.

She rose and moved toward the phone sitting on her bedsidetable, thinking she would call the police. Her hand hovered over it for a moment before pulling back. What would she tell them? Some guy returned her purse and warned her that she was going to turn into a werewolf on the next full moon? They’d lock her away, and then where would she be?

Besides, Claire had other problems. Like finding out what had happened to Lenny. No way did she accept that he was dead. He probably just took to the streets to get away from his foster father. And she needed to come up with an explanation for missing Sunday dinner. The flu seemed the easiest excuse. The way her body ached and throbbed, she certainly felt as though she were recovering from some malady.

Monday was off to an ominous start and she wasn’t taking any chances. Picking up the phone, she called the automated substitute system and reported her absence for the day.

She ended the call and made her way back to the mirror. The stranger with the wild, silver eyes was still there, waiting for her, preventing her from hiding and pretending everything was okay. As much as she longed to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over her head, and forget Gideon March, her desire-flushed face and tingling body wouldn’t let her.

She could, however, take care of one nagging ache, even if it wasn’t the bewildering, unwelcome ache between her legs. Grabbing her purse off the bed, she headed for the nearest Krispy Kreme.

CHAPTERFOUR

Self-grooming is an instinctive trait for many species, most often employed when trying to attract a mate.

—Man’s Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs

Standing in her closet, Claire tapped her lip and contemplated her wardrobe. Lounging in her bathrobe and stuffing her face had been the perfect therapy yesterday—preceded, of course, by a cold shower to wash away the aberrant yearnings that had plagued her body long after Gideon March’s departure.

Krispy Kreme had been only the start. Her hunger couldn’t be sated. It was an insistent pull on her stomach, demanding satisfaction. Almost as demanding as the sudden, inexplicable ache of her body for a certain green-eyed man.

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