Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

His hands close tight on my waist, hurting me. “What? What did you see?” “You. Books. Lots of them. You … I … know you. You are …” I trail off. A sign creaking on a pole in the wind. Amber sconces. A fireplace. Rain. Eternal rain. A bell rings. I like the sound. I shake my head. There was no such place or time. I shake my head harder. He surprises me. He does not push me with words I do not like to hear. He does not shout at me or call me Mac or insist I talk more. In fact, when I open my mouth to speak again, he kisses me, hard. He shuts me up with his tongue, deep. He kisses me until I cannot speak or even breathe, until I do not even care if I ever breathe again. Until I have forgotten that for a moment he was not a beast but a man. Until the images that so disturbed me are singed to ash by the heat of our lust and gone. He carries me to the bed and tosses me on it. I feel anger in his body, although I do not know why. I stretch my naked body on the sleek silk, luxuriating in sensation, in the sure knowledge of what is to come. Of what he is about to do. Of what he makes me feel. He stares down at me. “See how you look at me. Fuck. I understand why they do it.”