Em jerked her hand back and her mouth tightened briefly. “No,” she said.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow."
He slammed into the car, pulling the door shut behind him. “Put on your seatbelt,” he ordered Sarah.
"Maybe I don't want—"
"Put on the f**king seatbelt or I'll do it for you, and we both know I can."
Sarah stuck her tongue out at him and shoved the buckle closed, sitting silently, arms crossed, as Raj roared away from the blood house, his tires spitting dirt from the roadside.
Chapter Forty
Raj was going too fast when he pulled into the narrow garage. His tires spun on the slick surface as he hit the brakes and the bumper kissed the far wall. His blood was still boiling, adrenaline still racing through his system. It was hard enough to come down from the rush of a combat high after a confrontation like the one at the blood house, but it was even harder with Sarah's slender hands roaming all over him as he raced through the Buffalo streets.
"Stop it, Sarah,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. Her response was the same, too—a soft, purring laugh that made his c*ck hard and his fangs ache.
He opened his car door with a snarled oath and marched around to her side. She hadn't moved, hadn't even unbuckled her seat belt. Gritting his teeth against what he knew was going to happen, he reached across and mashed the release on the belt, not evening surprised when he felt her fingers run down his belly and between his legs.
"Ooooooh,” she cooed. “Is this for me?"
"Jesus Christ.” Raj lifted her out of the car, propped her up long enough to enter his security code, then threw her over his shoulder and shoved roughly through the door. He waited until he heard the lock snap shut behind him, punched in the second code on the interior panel and carried her downstairs, opening the vault door before setting her down inside.
Amazingly, she seemed to have run out of steam at last, leaning against him with a small sigh and resting her head against his chest, her arms draped loosely around his waist beneath his jacket. Raj glanced down at her golden blond head against the black of his sweater, her face hidden behind the fall of her hair. “Sarah?” he said softly.
"Mmmm?"
"You still with me?"
She laughed softly and did a little twisting motion with her hips, reminding him he was still hard as a rock against her belly. He put her aside and activated his daytime security system, turning to find her watching him, her smoky hazel eyes smoldering with emotion, their gold flecks bright in the warm glow of his lamps. She dropped her jacket to the floor and for the first time he noticed what she was wearing. Faded denims clung to her legs and h*ps like a second skin, showing off firm thighs and that wonderful heart-shaped ass. Her br**sts were showcased by a strapless top, red satin against her pale skin, tight enough that the full mounds plumped out invitingly. He wanted to close his eyes against the temptation, but couldn't quite convince himself to do so.
Sarah saw him watching and ran a teasing finger along the top of the red satin, stroking her hand down in a caressing motion until it rested at her waist. She smiled. “At last we meet, Raj."
"Don't, Sarah,” he said softly.
"Why not?” she inquired sweetly. “I know you want to. Come on, sweetheart. Let's f**k."
His anger returned in a rush. He was furious that she'd put herself in that kind of danger, furious that she'd forced him to show his hand before he was ready. “When I f**k you,” he snarled. “It won't be because you're acting like a bitch in heat over the scent of a bunch of mongrel dogs."
Sarah jerked as if he'd slapped her, her eyes filling with tears, hurt written over every inch of her face. “That was cruel,” she whispered, “even for you."
It was cruel. Cruel and unfair. He knew it, but he'd be damned if he'd apologize, not after she'd played that stupid trick with the blood house. She knew the other women had been taken from blood houses. She'd seen the kind of security he had in place for her protection at the warehouse, and still she'd gone haring off on her own, just to prove that she could.
"I want to go home,” she said in a small voice.
"Too bad.” She looked up at him in dismay. “It's nearly sunrise,” he explained.
"But,” she looked around, like a trapped animal seeking escape. “Just open the door. I can—"
"I don't think so,” he said dismissively. “You should shower,” he said, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I've got some clothes you can put on."
"All right,” she said in that tiny voice, like she wanted to disappear. It infuriated him because he knew he was the one who'd made her feel that way. He felt like an a**hole as he watched her walk away, watched her kick off her shoes and slip barefoot into the bathroom through the half-open door, closing it behind her with a hitch in her breath.
He had already changed by the time she came out. She was wearing the sweatshirt he'd set inside the door, but not the pants. Her legs were bare, but the shirt hung down to her knees like a nightgown. His clothes. She was wearing his clothes. And when she was forced to come closer in order to get to the bed, he could smell his soap on her skin. Em was right. If he wanted her, he needed to do something about it. And if not, he needed to let her go.
"You can have the bed,” he said gently, trying to make amends. “I'll take the couch."
"It doesn't matter,” she said, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “I probably won't sleep."