In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(17)

This development totally blew his mind, which sharply compromised its function. It was years now that he’d been mentally rehearsing getting Sveti into his bedroom. She was finally here.

And he was almost paralyzed with terror.

It should be simple, straightforward. She wanted a sex toy. A guy who was not freaked by her tragic past, or intimidated by the gorgeous, charismatic, practically supernatural being that she was. But she had a mistaken impression of him. He was scared shitless. This was worlds away from all his man-slut experience. Svetlana Ardova was a creature of myth and legend. The stakes were way higher when you seduced a goddess. A guy could get fried by lightning. Turned into a pig.

He flipped on a bedside lamp. Sveti waved at the light, shielding her eyes. “Turn it off,” she said. “Too much.”

He was dismayed. “I want to see you. You’re so goddamn beautiful. It would be such a waste to just grope around in the dark.”

“Too much,” she repeated desperately. “Please.”

He thought furiously. “Wait a minute.” He turned to a stack of boxes against the wall and flipped one open, rummaging through it.

“What’s with the boxes?” she asked. “Did you just move in?”

“Couple years ago. I’m lazy. Haven’t gotten all the furniture yet. Ah, yeah. Here it is.” He held up a large pink candle, wrapped in cellophane. Hearts were stenciled on it. “I got this a couple of Christmases ago,” he told her. “A gag gift from some women I worked with. It’s an aromatherapy love candle. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. Can’t imagine one more special than this.”

She vibrated with quiet, nervous laughter. “I don’t need props.”

“Never meant to suggest you did,” he said smoothly. “But it could solve our lighting problem. Can you deal with candlelight?”

She gave him a tiny nod. Sam tore off the cellophane and tossed it on a pile of folded jeans and shirts. He wished the place wasn’t such a mess. Piles of boxes. Stacks of folded clothing. It was f*cking immature, not to just go out and buy himself bedroom furniture, but back when he was working, he was too busy and couldn’t be bothered, and now that he wasn’t working, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to give a shit.

It was a shock to the system. Giving a shit, so suddenly.

He placed the fat pink candle beside the bed and lit it. The pink cylinder glowed as the flame took hold. Shadows wavered and danced on the wall. “Work for you?” he asked.

“It’s good,” she whispered.

He studied her, still cowering by the door, shivering. “You look tense,” he said. “How about mood music? I’ve got speakers in here.”

“No, it would feel forced,” she murmured. “I’d feel silly.”

“Okay, we’ll be all grim and focused, and do it in charged silence.” He leaned, sniffing at the fragrant candle. “Mmm. Smells nice.”

“Honeysuckle and vanilla,” Sveti said. “And essence of rose.”

“You can smell that all the way over by the door? You look like you’re ready to bolt.”

“I’m not going to bolt,” she said. “And I wouldn’t get far in these heels if I did. They’re four inches. I’m so damned short.”

“Yeah, five foot three. I love it. You’re perfect. Like a little jewel.”

“Oh, please.” She turned her head, hiding behind the swinging curtain of hair. “I’m hardly perfect. You’re the first to remind me.” She reached thoughtlessly, pulling her dress up over her breasts.

“No,” he said sharply. “Leave it, Sveti.”

She dropped it, startled. She held herself so straight, tits out proudly, but her lips quivered with the strain of looking nonchalant. Too bad. She got no quarter. She’d asked for it, and she was getting it. Like she’d never gotten it before, or would again. It was a holy vow.

“I wouldn’t let you run away in any kind of shoes,” he said. “It’s too late for that. In case you were considering it.”

Her chin lifted. “I’m not considering it.”

He sidled around her, placing himself between her and the door. Closing it, before herding her into the room, closer to the bed. Slowly.

“About those four-inch heels,” he said. “Show me.”

It had seemed like a nonthreatening way to start the process of disrobing her. Then she lifted the frilled hem over her ankles.

Whoa. He started to sweat, and he wasn’t even a foot guy. He’d never paid much attention to feet, other than the occasional under-the-table sex game. But those shoes, Jesus. They were a message arrowing straight to his core. He understood it like the silent, wordless language of kisses. The arched delicacy of her feet propped onto teetering heels, the aggressive, pointy toes, the fierce ruby shine, the sexy slave-girl tangle of complicated ankle straps, the brash rhinestone buckle. The shoes told him how she longed to be taller, sharper, tougher. Powerful and sexy. How she wanted to be wanted. It made his chest twist and his cock ache. “Wow,” he said. “Ruby slippers. Very cruel.”

She licked her dry lips. “I’m not cruel.”

“No? Take them off, then.”

She laughed, silently. “I’ll get a sore neck, looking up at you.”