Page 5 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.”
The words are rough, and when I risk a glance at his face, his eyes are intense in a way that makes my pulse skip.
“Almost done,” I say shakily, though I have no idea how much longer this will take, and the feel of his body against my hands is doing things to my concentration that definitely aren’t professional.
The worst part—or maybe the best part—is the cluster of bees around his horns. I have to stretch up onto my toes to reach them, my body pressed against his as I carefully work my fingers around the sensitive base where the horn meets his skull.
The moment I touch him there, he goes completely still.
“Is this okay?” I ask, my fingertips brushing along the ridge where the smooth horn meets the soft fur of his temple.
He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Yes.”
I work carefully around the curve of his horns, fascinated despite myself by the texture. It’s warm and smooth like polished stone, and the bees clustered here seem particularly reluctant to leave. I have to stroke my fingers along the horn’s length to encourage them toward the hive.
Each touch makes him shudder, and I’m starting to realize that horns might be more sensitive than I thought. I half-wonder if what I’m doing might be considered inappropriate where he comes from.
Hell, I’m pretty sure it’d be inappropriate anywhere.
“There,” I say finally, stepping back as the last of the bees disappear into their new home. “All settled.”
We’re both breathing harder than we should be, and Raphael studies me as if he can read every inappropriate thought I’ve been having.
“Interesting morning,” he finally offers.
“That’s one way to put it.” I can feel my hair sticking to my damp neck, the flush spreading down from my face, and the restless energy thrumming through my body—all telltale signs that someone with enhanced senses would detect in an instant.
Not to mention certain sensations somewhere else that had been dormant for ages…
Can he smell my excitement? The thought makes me want to bury my face in shame, but judging by the way his nostrils flare slightly, I think I have my answer.
Oh God.
“Dinner,” he says suddenly. “Tonight.”
I forget how to breathe for a second. “Dinner? Like, to eat?” I ask, then immediately want to kick myself.
He smiles slightly. “Yes. And to talk.”
“T-talk about what?”
He takes a step closer, and I’m reminded all over again of just how massive he is. How easily those strange, hooved fingers could overpower me if he wanted.
“You’ll have to come to find out,” he says, his tone suggesting plans are already forming behind those calculating eyes. “Seven tonight.”
I think of the foreclosure notice sitting on my kitchen table, of how he somehow knew about my financial troubles. There’s something in his gaze that makes me wonder if this dinner invitation has more to do with business than pleasure.
Or maybe both.
He’s a stranger, a monster. Except looking at him now, watching the careful way he moves to avoid disturbing the settling hive, I’m having trouble remembering why I should be afraid.
“Seven o’clock,” I hear myself saying.
“And don’t feel the need to dress up,” he adds, already turning toward the gap in the fence. “I like you exactly as you are. A woman who works with her hands.”
I’m at a loss for words.
