Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell #3)(54)

“Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, tossing the jacket in the corner on the dark gray slate bathroom tile. Using his forearm to bolster me across my stomach, he crouched long enough to take off my shoes and socks. Cool porcelain touched my back when he pulled my shirt over my head. I watched his long fingers unhook the front closure of my bra. Kar Yee was right: they were awfully nice hands. Good hands. Lean and muscular, like the rest of him. He made a small noise in response to those thoughts and freed my breasts.

My screwy brain thought of Hajo’s comments.

Lon grunted. “The next time I see that dowser, I’m going to bloody his nose.”

I was pretty sure I’d enjoy seeing that.

My jeans were trashed. I had a million pairs, so it didn’t matter. But as he tossed them in the pile with the rest of my clothes, I once again remembered the surreal feeling of the tail—a goddamn tail!—and felt panic rising again.

“Shh,” he said, reaching over his shoulder to pull off his T-shirt. Then he picked me up around the waist and walked me four steps to the shower.

Lon’s shower. Nothing better. Standing separate from the big tub in the corner, it was a spacious walk-in tiled in unpolished gray and brown stone, open on one end, no door. Hot water sprayed from both sides and above, the pattern and angles changeable into a billion configurations, but Lon kept it on a no-nonsense setting: steady streams from all directions. A low stone bench was built into the far end, and the alcoves above were always stocked with sandalwood soap and expensive shampoo.

If I could declare my undying allegiance to one shower for the rest of my life, it would be this one.

Lon held me under the jets and began bathing me with efficient precision. I melted against one wall, giving him free reign. He shampooed my hair. Soaped me down with those nice, strong hands of his, foregoing the washcloth, on my face and shoulders and arms. The flat of my stomach, the curve of my hips. When his palms cupped my breasts, I whimpered. He wasn’t trying to seduce me, but it felt like possession of a sort. I closed my eyes and allowed it.

“Lon,” I murmured. “Please. I need you.”

His hand slipped between my thighs. “This?”

Yes. Please just . . . ground me, I thought to him as he methodically went back over the trail of soap he’d left, rinsing it all away. Bring me back to earth.

The jets squawked off. He lifted me out of the shower and toweled me dry. It was only then that I stood without help. I heard drip-drip-dripping on the slate floor and saw the drops falling off his horns. Heard more dripping and looked down to find that he was still in his jeans, and they were soaked through, sticking to his thighs. Water ran in rivulets down the hard lines of his chest, rippled over the ridges and valleys of his stomach—down that fine line of honey hair that dipped into the waist of his jeans. I tentatively touched the nasty scar over his ribs, the one Yvonne left. It looked angrier somehow, as if now that I’d seen Yvonne’s face and talked to her in person, it was so much more real.

Yvonne. My mother. My magick. My body . . . nothing was within my control anymore.

I felt so lost.

Promise me everything will be all right, I thought to him.

“I promise,” he murmured, kissing me gently. It was soft and sweet, but I didn’t want tenderness. Tender was weak, and I wanted strength. Wanted a guarantee, not an airy assurance.

I shoved his shoulder, an angry challenge. “Make me believe you. Show me you mean it.”

Steely arms pulled me tight against his body. His mouth covered mine, and he kissed me hard. Shockingly hard. I resisted, but he cupped the back of my head with a firm grip and held me in place. He was brutal. Unyielding.

It was the most perfect thing he could’ve done, and I absolutely, wholly relented. My mouth opened. His tongue slipped inside, and I kissed him back, just as rough. Just as needy. He moaned into me, and I loved it. It made me feel alive.

He hauled me out of the bathroom and to the bed. Flung me down so hard I bounced on the mattress. A terrible thrill went through me as I watched him peel off the shower-soaked jeans. His thick erection proudly jutted out, curving upward from an impossibly dense patch of hair. And the dark way he was looking at me made me lose whatever was left of my magick-fried mind. My legs fell open.

In a flash, he had my hands pinned over my head with one of his. Opened his mouth and bit me firmly on my cheek. I cried out, and he bit me again on my neck. My shoulder. His skin was damp and hot. I shoved my hips against his as he rolled one of my nipples between his thumb and finger, then pinched. I pushed against him again and whimpered. He butted his forehead against mine, horns brushing against my ears, fingers still holding my nipple hostage, and demanded, “Tell me you’re mine.”

I’m yours, I thought.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours.”

As he released my nipple, he sank himself into me, and I nearly came. But he wrestled one of my legs up, as high and wide as it could go. The angle threw me off balance, but it gave him better access. He pushed deeper and held himself inside me, unmoving, until my eyes watered. Then he began thrusting in long, excruciatingly slow strokes.

I made terrible noises. Far worse than my usual loud moans and barked commands. I made sounds that had me worried for myself. Like there was something seriously wrong with me. But a few thrusts more, and it didn’t matter. His in-laws could walk in on us, and I wouldn’t blink an eye. I’d reached that point of madness, the dangerous headspace where nothing else mattered but his breath, hot on my cheek.