an aardvark. Then his face cleared, understanding dawning.
Or maybe not, since he waved the blanket aside with lordly unconcern. “No need. Am fine. Not cold now.”
“Yeah, that’s, uh, really obvious, big guy.” And boy, was that nickname even more apt than she’d realized.
Face flaming, she wrapped the blanket around his waist, knotting it like a sarong. Fenrir watched her with an air of mild incomprehension, but didn’t object.
“There. That’ll keep you decent.” Darcy wasn’t quite sure whether to be relieved or disappointed by that fact. “Long enough to get you to the bedroom, at least. It’s not far, and thankfully there aren’t any stairs. Think you can make it?”
“Yes,” Fenrir said, with confidence. He lifted a foot—and toppled.
He fell like a tree trunk, back straight, arms by his sides, making no attempt to catch himself. If Darcy hadn’t lunged to intercept him, she was certain he would have crashed straight to the floor.
The impact made her knees buckle. She lost her own balance, stumbling. Fenrir’s hand shot out, catching her in return. For a dizzying moment, Darcy thought they were both about to fall together.
Her back hit a wall. Fenrir’s torso pressed against her cheek. She gasped, and got a powerful hit of pure, intoxicating man.
Forget all the pretty euphemisms used by fancy colognes. Fenrir definitely did not smell like wood smoke, or exotic spices, or a leather-bound first edition of Shakespeare in an oak-paneled study. He smelled exactly like himself—sweat and dirt and sex.
Her knees went weak. Under the circumstances, this was less than helpful.
Fenrir’s arm tightened around her shoulders. His other hand was braced against the wall at least a foot over her head. “All right?”
“Oh yeah,” she gasped, from somewhere south of his nipples. “You?”
“Think so.” This close, his voice rumbled through her own chest. She wondered if he could feel how hard her heart was beating. “Not sure can move, though.”
Despite his words, his muscles bunched against her cheek. He pushed himself away—but only an inch, just enough to allow her to lift her head.
She looked up, into his eyes. They’d gone dark, irises just bright rings of copper around wide, black pupils.
His voice lowered even further. “Not sure want to move.”
Darcy swallowed. Her hands were flat against his hard, ridged abs. For all his looming closeness, he wasn’t putting any weight on her. He’d let go of her waist. She could feel the tension in his body, how he was poised to move back. It would have been easy to push him away.
“Yeah,” she whispered, not moving herself. “Same here.”
Slowly, as though to give her time to change her mind, Fenrir lowered his head. For a wild, wonderful second she thought he was going to kiss her—but he just dipped his face into the hollow of her neck.
His massive thighs pinned her hips. They were pressed together so tightly that if he’d been any closer, he would have been inside her. Yet she was most aware of where they didn’t touch. His hand, almost but not quite brushing her waist; his mouth, hovering over her skin.
He breathed in through his nose, slow and deep. He let the breath out through his mouth; paused, and did it again. It was like he was filling himself with her, making her a part of himself.
“Yes,” he whispered. He moved a little, beard brushing her shoulder, and inhaled again, right behind her ear. “Yes. Now, now can smell you.”
I shouldn’t be doing this.
She barely knew the guy—apart, of course, from having seen practically every inch of his glorious body. He didn’t know her. Plus, he was probably still half out of his mind on horse tranquilizers or whatever. Men in full possession of their wits did not huff one’s skin like a line of cocaine.
Her own wits, however, had long since left the building. Much as some distant part of her brain yammered that this was a terrible idea, her hormones had the wheel now, and were flooring the accelerator. She had never been so utterly, desperately turned on. And from the unmistakable—and increasing—hardness pressing against her stomach, Fenrir felt much the same way.
Unable to stop herself, she shifted her hips, grinding against that rigid length. Fenrir jerked, breath hissing between his teeth. She felt every muscle in his abdomen tense.
“What?” he said—and not in a sexy way. He sounded honestly shocked.
He pulled away, staring down at her. From the expression on his face, she might as well have whipped out a rubber chicken and a large bottle of