Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(64)

“I really don’t— Damn it, of course I want to see them.”

Grasping the reprieve, Sawyer pulled the pouches from his pocket. “This one’s the big kahuna.”

He poured the stone into his hand. Perfectly round, beautifully blue, it gleamed there like a small pool.

“Aquamarine.” Smiling, Bran rubbed a hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “As legends say the mermaids once prized the stones.”

“Blue sea—the name means blue sea, so it fits,” Riley added.

“It’s lovely, Sawyer. Can I?” Sasha lifted it, held it up. “Oh, look how many shades of blue in the light. You couldn’t have chosen anything more right for her.”

“You think? I’ve got these little stones.” From the second pouch he poured a stream of tiny diamonds, pink sapphires, more aquamarines. “I was thinking you could come up with something, and I got these.” From a third pouch he took two bands of platinum. “And then maybe Bran could put it all together.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“And I’ve already got a couple of ideas.” Sasha took another study of the stone, handed it back. “That doesn’t mean I’m not still annoyed.”

“Down to annoyed’s progress.” Sawyer re-pouched the stones, the bands.

“In the name of progress, I’d like to add one thing. When the bitch said a storm’s coming, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.”

Sawyer looked at Riley. “You, too?”

“Oh, yeah. Something there, something big. That wasn’t just bluster. For me, it was slipped in out of pique, but it had weight. Maybe it’ll springboard something for you.”

“Not right now,” Sasha told her.

“Something to think on. I’m going to think on it while I hit the books. That’s my penance.”

“Researching isn’t penance for you. Making a salad, however—”

“I’m better at that; she’s better at the books.” Sawyer tried that winning smile again. “Let’s play to our strengths.”

“Good plan. I’m in my room, digging in if needed.” Riley escaped while she had the chance.

Maybe she didn’t like having Doyle and Annika still pissed, but she figured Annika wasn’t wired to stay mad for long. And she had a plan where Doyle was concerned.

As she had her balcony doors open, she heard them come back. Biding her time, she continued to work, take notes. It didn’t take him long.

When he walked in, she sat at her desk. Wearing nothing but his shirt.

He closed the door with a decisive snap. “That’s your research outfit?”

“This?” She swiveled in the chair. Yeah, still pissed, but . . . interested. “I figured you’d get around to wanting your shirt back. Just wanted to have it handy.”

“You think you can distract me with sex?”

“Sure.” She rose. “I get wanting your shirt back, but it seems a little redundant when you’re already wearing one.”

While he stood, she took off his sheath, stood the sword beside the bed. Came back and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re that sure of your allure?”

“Allure? Please. I’ve got all the necessary girl parts. That’s allure enough, especially with a man who’s already cruised them.”

She tossed the shirt aside, gave him a little nudge toward the bed. “Sit down, big guy, and I’ll get you naked.”

“It didn’t trouble you that Sawyer or Bran might have walked in rather than me?”

Another nudge. “First, I’m covered. Second, you’re the only one who’d walk in without knocking. Sit,” she repeated.

“I didn’t come in here to have sex.” But he sat on the side of the bed.

“Life’s full of surprises.” She pulled off his boots, smiled as she unhooked his belt. “Surprise.”

“I can have sex and still be pissed at you.”

“Handy for both of us.” She gave him a shove to push him onto his back. Moving quickly, she tugged his jeans down, kicked them across the room.

Then climbed on to straddle him.

“What do you say we talk later?”

He gripped her hair, none too gently, to haul her down. As her mouth met his, he flipped her onto her back.

She expected him to simply take her, just pound away—and wouldn’t have objected. Instead he changed his grip from her hair to her wrists, yanked her arms over her head.

Instinct had her trying to tug free. “Hey.”

“Shut up.”

He ravaged her mouth, spinning her system into overdrive. She struggled—not in protest, but in the desire to get her hands on him.

She’d have to say no, tell him outright to stop, or she’d take what he gave her. Temper still burned in him, and burning with it was a scorching lust. She thought she could play him—and by God she had—but she’d know the full force of what he wanted from her before he was done.

He liked her helpless, for once, pinned under him, her hands cuffed by his. Her body quivering and bucking when he closed his mouth over her breast. When he used his teeth to hint at pain.

She could tie him into knots with those eyes. Now she’d know what it was to feel choice dissolve in outrageous desire.