upstairs in his room, Rhage was having trouble concentrating. The hum was roaring in full force, worse than ever before. And he was totally aroused, his body so hot he felt like his blood was going to dry out in his veins.
As Mary went over to the bed and settled in, he took a quick shower and wondered if he shouldn't give his erection a release before he came back out. The damn thing was hard, stiff, aching like a bitch, and the water rushing down his body made him think of Mary's hands on his skin. He palmed himself and remembered the feel of her moving against his mouth as he pleasured her soft secrets. He lasted, like, less than a minute.
When it was over, the empty orgasm just juiced him up more. It was like his body knew the real thing was out in the bedroom and had no intention of being diverted.
Cursing, he stepped out and toweled off, then headed for his closet. With a prayer for Fritz's attention to detail, he hunted around until he found—thank you, God—a set of pajamas he'd never put on before. He shrugged into them and then threw on the matching robe for good measure.
Rhage grimaced, feeling like he was wearing half the damn closet. But that was the point.
“Is the room too warm for you?” he asked, as he willed a candle to light and turned off the lamp.
“It's perfect.”
Personally, he thought he was in the flipping tropics. And the temperature jacked higher as he approached the bed and sat on the opposite side from her.
“Listen, Mary, in about an hour, at four forty-five, you're going to hear the shutters closing for the day. They slide down on tracks over the windows. It's not that loud, but I don't want you to be startled.”
“Thanks.”
Rhage lay down on top of the comforter and crossed his feet at the ankles. Everything irritated him, the hot room, the PJs, the robe. Now he knew what presents felt like, all trussed up in paper and ribbons: itchy.
“Do you normally wear all that to bed?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Then why's the tag still on that robe?”
“In case I want another, I'll know what it is.”
He turned on his side, away from her. Rolled back over so he stared at the ceiling again. A minute later, he tried his stomach.
“Rhage.” Her voice was lovely in the dim quiet.
“What?”
“You sleep in the nude, right?”
“Ah, usually.”
“Look, you can lose the clothes. It's not going to bother me.”
“I didn't want you to feel… uncomfortable.”
“What's making me uncomfortable is you flopping around on that side of the bed. I feel like a tossed salad over here.”
He would have chuckled at her reasonable tone, but the hot pump between his legs sucked the humor right out of him.
Ah, hell, if he thought the getup he had on was going to keep him in check, he was out of his mind. He wanted her so badly that short of chain mail, what he was or was not wearing wasn't going to make a lick of difference.
Keeping his back to her, he stood up and stripped. With some finessing, he managed to get himself under the covers without flashing her a glimpse of what the front of him was up to. That monstrous arousal was nothing she needed to know about.
He faced away from her, lying on his side.
“Can I touch it?” she asked.
His erection jerked, as if volunteering to be the “it.” “Touch what?”
“The tattoo. I'd like to… touch it.”
God, she was so close to him, and that voice of hers—that sweet, beautiful voice—was magic. But the hum in his body made him feel like he had a paint mixer in his belly.
When he stayed quiet, she murmured, “Never mind. I don't—”
“No. It's just…” Shit. He hated the distance in her tone. “Mary, it's okay. Do whatever you like.”
He heard sheets brushing against sheets. Felt the mattress move a little. And then her fingertips brushed his shoulder. He kept his flinch to himself as best he could.
“Where did you get it done?” she whispered, tracing the curse's outline. “The artwork is extraordinary.”
His whole body tensed as he felt precisely where she was on the beast. She was going across its left foreleg now, and he knew it because he felt the corresponding tingle in his own limb.
Rhage closed his eyes, getting trapped between the pleasure of having her hand on him and the reality that he was flirting with disaster. The vibration, the burning—it