That and the fact she was naked.
“Why are you standing there?” She only blinked at him in confusion, and he made a spinning motion with one long finger. “Turn, please.”
She told herself he only wanted to humiliate her. To break her. And she was still holding out hope that he wouldn’t take this as far as he could. That this was all some kind of extended practical joke. Or, if not a joke, precisely, that he wanted to teach her some kind of lesson for rebuffing him all these years. He’d back down. He had to back down.
But that meant she couldn’t.
Mattie turned, and she took her time doing it. She even put her hips into it, so it was a little bit of a show—
Then she felt his hands on her. And froze.
It took her a moment to understand that it wasn’t a random touch, or even a particularly sexual one. He was tracing the delicate tattoo that flowed over one hip and up her side to cradle the lower edge of her ribs.
“It’s a phoenix,” she blurted out, and hated that her voice was so quiet and so rough. Like this was getting to her—his too-warm hands on her skin, his terrifying and intoxicating closeness, her ill-conceived nudity.
“I know what it is,” he said, his tone curt, and she couldn’t see anything she recognized in his face when she turned the rest of the way around to face him. “What I don’t know is how it applies to the charmed life you’ve always led.”
Mattie had no intention of ever telling him. Or anyone.
“Nicodemus—” she started, but he shook his head.
And she had no idea why she fell silent. Why she obeyed him when everything inside her was a blistering, shattering scream.
“And that cursed belly ring,” he muttered, still in that short, dark way, and she steeled herself when he reached over and tugged on the little silver ring, gently enough. So gently it shouldn’t have seared through her the way it did, burning a path from her navel to the molten core of her. Making her melt.
She managed to keep herself from making any sound, but his lips twitched again and she was sure that somehow he knew, anyway.
He shifted closer, and her heart exploded, pounding at the wall of her chest like it might break free, and that was the least of her worries. She was too hot, too cold. Her breasts ached then hurt when he brought his hands up beneath them, spanning her waist, holding her. Caging her—
“Nicodemus,” she started again, and she couldn’t contain her panic or her need, or keep either from her voice. She hardly recognized herself.
“Is this what you wanted?” His voice was gruff and dark, shocking her with the force of it. “Next time, the little dance isn’t necessary. You can simply ask.”
And then he leaned in, as if she’d begged him to do it and he had all the time in the world, and took her mouth with his.
* * *
It was better than he remembered.
Much better.
Mattie tasted like smoke and heat, some kind of perfect whiskey that was all woman and only her, and Nicodemus felt knocked sideways. Drunk for the first time in more years than he could count.
He let go of the sweet indentation of her waist and sank his fingers deep into that glossy hair of hers, widening his stance so he could pull her off balance to sprawl across his chest. And they weren’t in London this time. There were no bouncers nearby, no fear of exposure.
Nicodemus could finally take his time.
He could test this angle and then that one. He could taste her again and again, kissing her with a fury and a longing that took him over, making him wild and desperate and intoxicated with every drugging slide of his tongue against hers.
Mine, declared that primitive voice inside him, the way it had done so many years ago at that fateful ball. And ever since.
And she was perfect.
That spill of thick, beautiful, dark hair that fell around her shoulders and felt like raw silk against his palms. That rangy body of hers, so tall and taut, with her proud, rose-tipped breasts to the inviting swell of her hips. She made his mouth water. Even that damned tattoo he’d ordered her not to get stamped into her pretty skin suited her, as delicate and mysterious as she was, in a swirl of bright colors he longed to taste.
And that belly ring that made him think of long, hot nights and the sweet undulation of feminine hips.
He’d never wanted another woman like this. Not even Arista. He’d never wanted like this.
That sent a chill spiraling through him, and it was the only thing that penetrated the delirious, pounding need that threatened to take him over there and then. He pulled his mouth from hers then ran his hands down the silken length of the arms she’d wrapped around his neck, continuing down the perfect line of her spine to cup that sweet, delectable bottom in his palms. Her eyes were closed, those sooty lashes a distraction. Her lush mouth tempted him, full and slick from his. Her breasts pressed against him and he marveled, once again, at how right she felt in his arms. Not so short he had to stoop, not so slight he was afraid he might break her. Perfect.