Page 39 of Taming the Beast (Fairy Tales of New York)

“Do you really not see the problem with that?” Of course he did. He had to.

“Maybe I like having a garage full of cars I never drive,” he said, his eyes glittering with resolve and behind that, something bleak and sad and infinitely more distressing. “Like I like having these.” He pointed to the scars from the accident that marred his torso. “Maybe I like having the reminders, Mercedes. Maybe I need them. Ever think of that?”

No, she hadn’t. But that couldn’t be good for him. It wouldn’t be good for anybody. “So you won’t get behind this wheel?”

“No,” he said roughly. “I can’t.”

“OK, then,” she said, not entirely sure where she was going with this, although suddenly it seemed imperative that she got him to take this step, because if she could just get him to do that then maybe he might start letting go and surely that had to be a good thing. “Would you mind if I did?”

“Go ahead.”

She opened the door and slid in. “This is nice,” she said, releasing the catches of the roof, lifting it up and pushing it back. Then she sat back down and snuggled into the seat.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfy.”

“What for?”

“This car is very cool,” she said, choosing not to answer that in case he ran a mile and instead running her fingers along the shining walnut dashboard. “The leather is so soft. All this classic luxury and old glamor… it makes me feel, you know, kind of sexy.”

She shifted again and this time Seb’s dressing gown, too big for her anyway, slipped off her shoulders. She did nothing to right it, although she did pick up and replace the condom that had fallen out of a pocket because while she hadn’t known it was there, it might come in useful.

Sitting up and knowing now exactly where she was hoping to go with this, Mercy closed her eyes and let her head drop back. She breathed in deep and let hot, erotic images of Seb and the many things they’d done together drift into her head.

Desire began to sweep through her, making her tingle from her head to her toes. Her blood heated, her heart cantered, her nipples tightened, and Mercy could no more stop herself sliding her hand down, beneath the robe, to try and ease the ache that throbbed between her legs than she could stop wanting him.

Feeling how wet she was for him, she groaned. Unable to help herself she slid further down the seat and spread her legs as much as she could. As she circled her fingers around her clitoris and then dipped them inside she lifted her other hand to her heavy aching breast, pinched her nipple and moaned again at the sensational wave of pleasure that rocked through her.

“Mercy,” said Seb, and his voice was rough, tortured, anguished.

Stilling, she opened her eyes, too

k in the torment etched into the harsh lines of his face and the blazing heat in his gaze, and sent him a slumberous, smoldering look. “If you want to touch me, Seb – and I really hope you do – you’re going to have to get in.”

*

Blackmail. That was what this was, thought Seb, desire pounding through him, his erection so hard it was painful. Blackmail. Pure and simple. Except there was nothing pure or simple about what Mercy was doing. It was wild. It was wanton. It was driving him out of his mind.

He ought to turn on his heel and get the hell out of here. He didn’t want to get in the car. She had the right of it. He hadn’t sat behind the wheel of one of ‘these things’ since the night of the accident. He had no intention of doing so now.

So why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he take his eyes off her? Why the hell had he followed her down here in the first place? He could have left her to it, but he hadn’t.

Had he wanted to show her the wine cellar and now this? It was the only explanation, but it didn’t make any sense because why would he want to do that? Then again, with his blood pounding in his ears and his brain falling apart nothing made sense right now.

He wanted to touch her so badly. Desperately. He was burning up with the need for it.

Mercy moaned. She caught her lip between her teeth and her breath hitched. And then she trembled and sighed and that was as much as Seb could take. He couldn’t stand not touching her any longer, whatever came with it.

“Move up,” he growled and when she did, threw himself into the driver’s seat.

The convertible was an import. From Britain, and therefore a left-hand drive. Same as the last car he’d driven. Automatically he put his hands on the wheel. Automatically he froze. And then it was all flooding back. The conversation his parents had been having about the evening ahead, the run-down on who was going to be at the dinner and why. The stupid, stupid pride he’d felt at being able to drive them. That feeling of being oh-so-grown up, oh-so-responsible. The minute depression of the accelerator. Then the flash. The roar. The panic, the fear, and a heartbeat later, the awful, sickening silence.

His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape his chest. His stomach was twisting. Something was clawing at him, wanting to get out. His vision was blurring, greying.

And then amidst the suffocating darkness he felt a hand on his face. Two. One on each cheek. Pressure on his mouth. On his skin.

Mercy.

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