House Rules - Chloe Neill Page 0,96

House knows we were fighting, but not what we were fighting about. Ditto Mallory.”

Ethan narrowed his gaze.

“What? I needed to talk to a girlfriend.”

“And what did she have to say?”

“She was irritated on your behalf.”

He looked smug. “Do try not to tell anyone else about your top secret affiliation, if you can manage it.”

“I’ll do my best. And consider this—if I forget and put an ad in the Sun-Times, at least we have each other.”

“So we do. I will accept your membership in the RG. But should you ever share blood with him again, you will answer to me.”

His eyes had silvered, and he stared at me intensely.

The heady mix of fear and lust in the air made my head spin. “You said you weren’t jealous,” I countered, stepping backward. “You said you and I were inevitable.”

“That was before I knew that you’d blood-bonded yourself to a man of another House, Sentinel.”

Without warning, and before I could correct him, he reached out, gripped the edges of my jacket, and kissed me fiercely. “You are mine and mine alone, and it appears you need reminding. I suggest you return to our apartment; otherwise you’ll be ravished here and now where you stand, and the door is open.”

I stared at him, all rationality leaving me, any objections I might have made to his attitude completely slipping from my mind. I was grateful to be alive, and this was Ethan in his prime—vampire, alpha, predator. And it was intoxicating. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to challenge the attitude. I knew my eyes had silvered—and that he’d seen it, too, but ignored it.

“You wouldn’t.”

He dropped his head, his lips at my ear. Instinctively, my blood singing, I dropped my head back, giving him access to my neck. “Try me, Sentinel.”

“Ethan,” I muttered, the sound pushing him over the edge.

“Too late,” he said, moving to the office door, slamming it shut, and locking it behind him.

Before I could object, he’d reached me again, and his mouth was on mine, feasting, his hands claiming every inch of my body as he pulled away my jacket and dropped it to the floor.

“You’re ravenous,” I said lightly.

He stepped forward to keep our bodies aligned, and took my chin in his hand. “I will have you. Body, mind, and soul. And I won’t share you with anyone else.”

He was in full alpha mode, playing out some part about possession and ownership.

I was a smart woman. Well educated and plenty schooled. But that didn’t lessen the effect of his primal, predatory desire. If he’d asked me to drop to my knees and crawl toward him, I might have done it.

Fortunately, there was no need.

I gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it upward and over his head, taking a long moment to enjoy the view: smooth, eternally golden skin over lean muscle. I slid my hands from his waist to his chest, reveled in the feel of him. He stepped back and raised both arms, then ran his hands through his golden hair. The motion pulled his obliques into view and tightened his flat stomach. “Show-off.”

Ethan grinned and crooked a finger at me.

“I don’t perform on command,” I reminded him.

He unsnapped the top button on his jeans.

My eyes widened. “Sneaky bastard.”

I gnawed my lip in pleasure, watching the past, present, and future Master of Cadogan House in a state of utter abandon: shirt on the floor, jeans unbuttoned, his arousal obvious.

Without bashfulness, he took my hand and guided it to his erection. With rhythmic motions, he moved my hand back and forth across denim-clad steel, eyes closed as he tilted his head back, teeth clenched, breath hitching. His hips canted against my hand.

I watched him for a moment, utterly entranced, his expression wrenched with the sensation, the sensuality. And then his eyes opened, his lips curled, and he watched my face as I moved him, rocked him, brought him close to the edge of his passion.

When he decided he’d had enough, he found my mouth again, then wrapped my legs around his waist and maneuvered me backward until my thighs hit the back of his desk, and I was perched on the edge, my legs wrapped around his hips.

“You want me,” he said.

“I don’t stop wanting you. Not since the moment I walked into this House all those months ago.”

He momentarily stilled—maybe shocked by the admission—but his eyes flattened again.

“Take off your shirt,” he said.

But I hadn’t won Ethan Sullivan—and he hadn’t won me—by my playing the