Page 31 of Angel's Temper

“Need. Yes,” he breathed against her skin, pulling goose bumps up to taut attention. “You’re exactly what I need, Molly Resnick. You always have been. With you, I can fight it. With you . . .” Brass bracketed her hips with his hands and dragged her impossibly closer against him.

Whatever good sense that usually took up residence in Molly’s head had wisely chosen to question the hell out of her current circumstances. This was most definitely not the Brass she’d left fifteen minutes ago, despite the tantalizingly sexy resemblance. She focused on the mounds of lean muscle in front of her and, for a moment, allowed herself to entertain the idea that, just maybe, could she be whoever he thought she was?

Heat. Everywhere. Scorching, searing heat. Every part of his body on hers emitted the kind of temperatures responsible for volcanic eruptions and liquefying rare metals. And her body responded. Oh, did it respond. It was kind of hard not to after her sexual ice age, and if there had ever been a man to respond to, well, Brass checked all the boxes front and back, including the extra credit sheet. Like a damn marionette having her strings pulled, she arched farther against him and sighed as his tongue found the hollow behind her ear. Her nipples tightened when her damp clothing was quickly warmed by his skin.

This wasn’t happening. Where did all this come from? A smarter woman would be railing against his shoulders, giving him a good swift kick in the huevos, and bolting for the nearest device with 911-calling capabilities.

Instead, a dizzying desire too long leashed flooded her faculties, shooing off any remaining residents of the Logical Thoughts Club, and leaving her with one pervasive question.

Would it really be so bad?

Brass snaked searching fingers beneath her shirt, and they both sucked in a sharp breath at the contact. “Oh, little witch,” he growled against her neck in a voice and tone she further melted for, “I love how responsive you are. I can see your pulse leaping against your throat every time I touch you. Where shall I touch you next, hmm? What will make your magic sing?”

“No-nowhere. There’s no magic,” Molly rasped out. “Is this one of your flare-ups?” It had to be. He had mentioned how he wasn’t himself when they came on. What was the term he used? Feral? That definitely fit the damn bill. “I don’t think you want this, Brass, and I’m not sure you’re fully?—”

“Oh, you’re sure, all right.” He pulled back slightly, giving Molly an opportunity to catch her first full breath since she’d entered the apartment, and she immediately wished she hadn’t. Instead of the toasted citrine she expected to see in his eyes, which always reminded her of a crème brûlée’s crust, whirlpools of roiling ochre overtook the simmering heat. They appeared almost like flames trapped within blown glass, writhing and kicking in golden spasms against delicate shells.

The effect startled her, and she gasped, inching back as far against the wall as she could go. “Your eyes!”

Coiled muscles twitched beneath her hands at her sharp intake of breath. That finely stubbled jaw stood locked in rigid repose an inch from her lips, both crowding her and giving her the air she desperately needed. He waited, almost frozen in a spell of indecision, with eyes foggy and far away.

“Brass,” she whispered, this time trusting her voice a little more. “Are you all right? Please, answer me. I know this isn’t you.”

He didn’t say anything, nor did he drop his hands from where they rested against her quivering belly. They just settled there, as if coasting to a stop on fumes. A mask of confusion began to smooth over his heated features. Molly watched in worried fascination as the fire fled from his eyes, and the realization of what he’d almost just done crashed over his consciousness in abject horror.

Brass wrenched free from her body and dropped his head down. “I-I’m so, so very . . . Molly, I?—”

Never had she known him to be at a loss for words. In their brief time together, he’d never had very many words to begin with, but they’d always been the right ones. The perfect ones, actually. To see him now, stricken and ashamed, shoulders shaking and fingers balled into fists, it broke something within her.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. No.” She hurried to reassure him, but he shook his head and retreated another step.

“I can’t be near you. I’m not safe to be around, Molly, do you understand me? You need to be safe, protected, cherished, and I almost fucking?—”

Molly flew the two steps to him and grabbed his face between her palms. Without giving herself time to question the whys and why-nots, she brought her mouth to his and silenced any further objections.

Chapter 16

A punch of pain reverberated in Brass’s gut, until even his teeth chattered against the force of it. Terror seized his muscles as he looked upon the aftermath of his worst nightmare. Molly, plastered against the wall before him, her dark hair mussed and falling out of her low knot. Her delicate brows, which always gave away more than they concealed, were pinched in confused fear, and shadowed eyes were so wide, the whites nearly eclipsed the irises, except for the pinpoint pupil narrowed directly at him.

Him.

His recollection returned, floating to the surface in sluggish pulls, and that was when his fire responded.

Heat.

The perfect curvature of smooth, scorching skin molded to his hands. With each fingertip he dragged along the delicate expanse, mapping every dip and divot, his fire roiled in symbiotic stimulation. A tumult of energy coursed through him, and he had no clue who was driving the bus. His curse? His celestial fire? All of it could duke it out over dominion as far as he was concerned, as long as this intoxication never left him. It was a drug, an elixir of pure magic that lived in Molly’s tantalizing essence and commanded him so thoroughly, he’d stay there until all the realms imploded while he tried to consume all he could of her.

Molly.

Molly . . . who was currently trapped beneath him, scared and struggling.

Shit!

With celestial reflexes, Brass flung himself off her. Breaths sawed out of him as he leashed his curse back down. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t risk seeing any more of the pain and horror in her eyes after all the broken promises he’d made. Sorry wasn’t enough. Her sweet and insistent words of protest weren’t enough. And that was just it, wasn’t it? She was so damn sweet all the time, even to pricks who didn’t deserve to breathe her recycled air, let alone the food she fed them or the smiles she offered.

Molly was innocent, pure, a beacon of perpetual goodness that his fucking fire recognized with more intensity than was safe for either of them.

Brass fisted his hands at his sides and still refused to look at anything but the tips of his boots, knowing full well the steel-toed shitkickers wouldn’t offer him any other explanations than what his brain matter was coming up with. A whole lot of nada.

---