Page 29 of Taming the Beast (Fairy Tales of New York)

“No.”

She tilted her head and looked at him closely. “Do you have any friends at all, Seb?”

“One or two.”

Or none, she thought, something deep inside her aching. Muscles she’d never known she had which had been put to use extremely thoroughly, most likely. “What about Ty?”

“What about him?”

“Have you met him?”

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

“You should. I think you’d like him. He has integrity. Intelligence. Loyalty. He’d be a good friend, I think, if you got to know him and let him get to know you.”

“I’ll bear

it in mind,” he said, but something in his tone made her doubt he would.

“Don’t you get lonely?” She would, without her friends, without hi-. No.

Seb’s smile faded and a taut stillness came over him. “Now that is a personal question,” he said carefully.

Yes, it was. Way too personal, actually, and what did it matter to her whether he got lonely or not? All she was interested in was the things he could do to her body, talking of which…

“So distract me,” she said, lying back and shooting him a do-me-now look, whereupon Seb did – at length and very effectively.

And when he left her apartment later that afternoon, and she checked her responses against her scenarios, she was pleased to learn that despite their earlier conversation, this thing between them was still just sex.

Chapter Seven

‡

The next Saturday Seb rolled off Mercy and flopped back on the pillows, his heart pumping like a steam train and his breathing all over the place in the aftermath of what had to have been the most exhilarating sexual experience of his life – which was saying something given how hard they’d been going at it over the last few weekends – and wished he’d never started with the whole conversation thing, because, apparently, if he gave it an inch it took a mile.

The point he’d made last week had been perfectly valid. He and Mercy had to talk about something while they caught their breath, and the cautious small talk they’d been engaging in up to then had been driving him nuts.

But still.

Why had he told her about his medal? Why had he done that? He hadn’t told anyone. And why, when she’d asked if he ever got lonely had he been tempted to confess that he did, on occasion? The medal was no big deal and of course he wasn’t lonely. There weren’t enough hours in the day for him to do all the things he needed to do as it was. He certainly didn’t have time to be lonely.

It had occurred to him that controlling their conversation was a lot harder than controlling the sex. That was easy because Mercy seemed quite happy to let him take the lead and he was hardly going to object when it so greatly appealed to the alpha male in him.

However, she had a quick, perceptive mind and didn’t miss a trick. With very little effort on her part, she could have him spilling out things he’d really rather not. So he had to take care. Greater care. Although that ought to present little problem since he’d had half a lifetime of taking extremely great care.

“For someone who hasn’t has sex for five years,” he murmured, figuring she’d now be expecting the conversation he’d told her was a good idea and deciding it wouldn’t hurt to emphasize exactly what they were doing here, “you’re very good at it.”

Mercy looked at him, startled, as well she might because perhaps that was a bit personal. And perhaps just a little bit insulting.

“Thanks,” she muttered, levering herself up, leaning back against the headboard of her bed and drawing her knees up. Something flickered in her eyes and her chin came up in a way that never failed to thrill – no, amuse – him. “Before you came along and messed things up, I’d had plenty of practice.”

The amusement faded. Oh. Right. Well. He had asked. “Not all that busy with the vineyard, then.”

“I made time.”

But not now. Not for him. Which was fine. Just the way he wanted it. “How many boyfriends have you had?”

“Three.”

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