Page 97 of American Hellhound
“But you listened to me, all those years ago. My sob story.”
“That’s because I wanted to get in your pants.”
She smoothed her hand across his chest – worn cotton over hard muscle – until she found a nipple, and twisted it, hard.
He laughed quietly into her hair.
“You can be sweet,” Maggie said. “You can be really sweet.” But he could be cruel, too. And he had been. So cruel, sometimes – she thought of Holly, of the way he’d been willing to throw her to the wolves – that he was starting to doubt his emotional instincts. Over twenty years ago, things had ended badly with Roman; she didn’t want Ghost to worry about making amends now of all times. “Just don’t betoosweet.”
He nodded, bristle on his chin scratching against her forehead.
“I’m serious. He killed a dog, Ghost.”
“I know.”
“Roman doesn’t love anybody but Roman.”
“I know,” he repeated, harder. She felt his arms tense.
She bit her tongue and didn’t say what she wanted to: theLean Bitchon her wall wasn’t just a message to Ghost. It was a warning toher.
Twenty-One
Then
Maggie woke up warm. So very warm. She had a habit from home that had carried over to her stay at Ghost’s apartment – to Ghost’s bed. Sometime during her last, deepest dream – usually some nightmare involving bloody-mouthed girls in cotillion gowns – she rolled over onto her side, curled in on herself, and shivered awake, too-cold and already anxious about the day ahead. She always woke before the alarm, and she was always,alwayschilled.
But this morning she was warm. And loose, her legs stretched out, toes flexing dreamily in sheets worn down to a pulpy-paper texture.
Ghost’s bed; the warmth was Ghost himself, naked behind her, his arm around her waist.
She was naked too.
They were both naked.
They’d had whiskey last night, but only a little. She couldn’t claim to have been drunk; couldn’t say she hadn’t known what she was doing.
The memories unfolded in her mind, one after the next, each more colorful than the last. She had one horrible, heart-stopping moment of clammy fear – what now, what now, what now?
And then his fingers twitched against her belly, and sheknew.
She burrowed deeper into the pillow and pressed back against him.
His arm tightened.
“Hi,” she whispered.
His voice was just as unsteady when he said “hi” back.
She felt her chest expand as his did; her body mimicked the rhythms of his, just as it had last night. Slowly, lightly, the pads of his fingers slid up her belly, up, and touched the underside of her breast. He touched her like a rose petal he was afraid to bruise, like a baby bird. Like jailbait. Something he wanted but couldn’t have.
But Maggieknew.
She curved her hand around the back of his and guided it up to cover her breast. Her nipple hardened against his palm.
Ghost resisted for one tense second, then buried a groan in the back of her neck andsqueezed. He curled his hips forward and his erection brushed up against the back of her thigh. “Jesus,” he whispered, tortured-sounding, circling her nipple with his thumb. The sheets rustled as he shifted, rutting against her.
There was electricity under his skin, little shockwaves that traveled through his hand and to her breast, her stomach, her hip when he clamped on there. It felt different from last night, not cataclysmic and careful, a transgression that demanded restraint. No, now, the morning after, rules had already been smashed to pieces. There was nothing left to lose. In the glimmer of first light, it was onlywanting, andfeeling, andknowing.
