Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(88)

He held up a hand and kept reading, only to curse again seconds later. '"Any human who hears the skinwalker whisper in the time of the red moon is chosen.'"

Our eyes met. We'd both seen the moon. It was very red indeed.

"Let me guess, 'red moon' is another name for 'sturgeon moon.'"

He nodded. "Most werewolf lore is attached to the full moon."

"For obvious reasons. When is it?"

"Tomorrow night."

Terrific.

"What does 'chosen' mean?"

"Not sure. But when dealing with monsters, I've never found 'chosen' to be a good thing."

"Better and better," I muttered.

Philips continued to read. " 'In the month of the red moon, the skinwalker roams the land of the Glittering World. Murder and mayhem give him strength for the task ahead.'"

"What task?"

" 'When the full, red moon rises over the Canyon of the Dead the skinwalker will reveal himself to the chosen one, and the world will tremble before him.'"

"Also not good."

He clapped the book closed and walked the length of the table, his fingers brushing the skins.

"That's all?"

"A lot of these Indian legends are… vague."

"To hell with vague. I want to know why I'm chosen. What that means. Where the hell is the Canyon of the Dead and how far away from it can I get?"

"Maya," he said softly. "I won't let him touch you."

"I'm sorry if your assurances don't make me feel all warm and cuddly."

"Don't you trust me?"

"You break into my house, scare me to death, let a lunatic blow up everything I own in the world, then kidnap me. You say he's after me. Mr. Philips, I think you're crazy."

I headed for the door; he snagged my arm and dragged me back. My momentum was such that I slammed into his chest, stumbled and nearly fell. He caught me around the waist and hauled me flush with his body.

"I'll take care of you," he ground out. "I swear."

"I can take care of myself."

I meant to say so with strength and courage. Instead my voice came out a breathy, girlie whisper.

His gaze dropped to my breasts. His eyes heated; so did my skin. I had a flash of him and me entwined on black silk sheets. He'd be both gentle and rough. Needy, desperate, unbelievably skilled.

What was it about this man that made me think of such things at the most inappropriate times? I shouldn't even like him. He reminded me of my brothers—overconfident, overmuscled, oversexed.

My cheeks flamed—the curse of being a redhead. I blushed far too often and too well.

His eyes narrowed. I waited for him to shove me aside and tell me to fend for myself. Instead, his arm tightened and his mouth crushed down on mine.

I'd been trained to fight, to claw and scratch and bite if I had to, anything to keep a man from overpowering me. Right now every trick I'd been taught fled as blinding lust rocketed through my body.

His mouth was hard; his tongue soft. He bit my lip, yanked my shirt from my pants and scraped his nails across my back. I gasped, bowed, rubbed the front of me all over the front of him.

My hands dived under his shirt, touching his skin, gauging his muscles, skimming his ribs.

He groaned into my mouth, the vibration against both my lips and fingertips a dual sensation that set my pulse pounding. He skated his teeth across my jaw, then latched on to my neck and suckled.

I arched, and he buried his face in my breasts, filled his hands with my ass and lifted me so I could wrap my legs around his hips and ride his erection along another pulsing, pounding, mindless part of me.

The door slammed and we both froze. His breath brushed the damp spots made by his mouth. My nipples tightened. My body throbbed.

"Just the wind," he murmured. "We're okay."

Funny, I didn't feel okay at all.

He let me go, and my legs slid down his. My feet touched the floor, and my cheeks flooded crimson again. I tried to turn away, but he hauled me back into his arms, leaning down and pressing his forehead to mine.

"Maya," he whispered in a shaky voice. "What was that?"

"A kiss?"

Clay let out a harsh bark of laughter that tapped our heads together hard enough to make me blink. "That's like calling dynamite a firecracker."

He ran a hand over my hair, then kissed my cheek. "Bad idea. I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me, except—"

"Except?"

"I've wanted to kiss you since you walked out of the shower and tried to beat the crap out of me."

I smiled. "You get off on that, huh?"

"Looks that way."

"I suppose you'll come if I kick you where it counts."

He lifted a pale brow. "Let's not find out."

I'd lived too many years in a household of males not to be blunt in both my language and my behavior. Probably one of the many reasons I was still alone. Most men found me too much like one of the guys. None had ever found me as intriguing as Clay appeared to.

My gaze lowered to the bulge in his jeans. Yep, he really, really liked me.

I took a step toward him and he stumbled back. "Bad idea, remember?"