A part of John had already been skinned. Blue barely contained his roar. “Where is the auction being held?”
She rattled off the details.
No one—no one!—was going to own a piece of John. Blue would make sure of it. “Do you know where your father is keeping the Rakan?”
“No.”
No. Then she was of no more use to him. For now. Before he destroyed anything else, Blue pushed to his feet. “I’m going to send you an invitation to a postgame party, and you are going to accept and do whatever’s necessary to attend. Say yes.”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”
Blue leaned down, saying, “You will forget the questions about the Rakan, Tiffany, but remember the invitation and your acceptance. You will also speak to your father about me. You will tell him you are interested in me romantically, and you’d like him to meet me.”
“Yes,” she said of her own accord. “If he refuses—”
“You’ll tell him again.” Blue confiscated her phone and programmed in his number. “Call me when your father issues his invitation.” He tossed the device on the tabletop and stalked away—before giving in to the urge to kill her.
* * *
Blue drove to Evie’s house, careful not to be seen, his temper only escalating. By the time he found her in the office, every muscle in his body was locked tight on bone. Looking at her didn’t help. Anger morphed into dangerous lust.
She sat at her desk, dark waves cascading down her back. Perfect white teeth nibbled suggestively at the end of a stylus. A red tank top displayed toned arms with small but definite ropes of strength. She was fit. He remembered how good she felt pressed against him.
Power seeped from him, the desk and chair lifting several inches above the floor. Gasping, she turned to face him. As she took in his battle-hardened stance, her eyes hooded . . . with desire?
“Blue,” she said, her voice husky with, yes, desire. She dropped to her feet with the grace of a cat and slowly approached him. The sway of her hips transfixed him. “I know you’re furious and frustrated, but you can’t go to the auction this way. So take your emotions out on me. I can handle anything you’ve got.”
An invitation.
One he would not decline.
Forget Michael and the job. He had to have this woman.
He grabbed her by the waist and spun her, slamming her face-first against the wall. He braced her hands over her head and kicked her legs apart, the need to dominate her overwhelming everything else.
“Yes,” she hissed.
With his free hand, he tore away her top, but didn’t bother removing her jeans or undergarments. Just ripped at the fastenings. Her bra gaped open, freeing her br**sts. The jeans bagged on her hips.
Not sex, some part of his brain screamed. Not yet. Not like this.
Rational thought.
He heard and accepted—barely.
Needing flesh-to-flesh contact, he let her go to wrench off his shirt and meld his chest to her back; the heat of her skin drove him toward the best kind of mindlessness. When she rubbed her taut little ass against him, he pushed her jeans below the curve and his throbbing erection found its way between the cleft. He hissed at the pleasure. She squeezed at him and, oh, hell. He bit the cord of her neck. Have to have my mouth on her. Her groan of rapture filled the small enclosure.
His hands moved to her br**sts, cupping and kneading, causing her ni**les to harden into perfect little points. Points he pinched.
“Blue!”
He kissed and licked at the sting he’d caused in her neck, still rubbing . . . rubbing into her ass, unable to stop. Felt so good. His fingers glided down her belly . . . slid under her panties, and played for a moment at her small tuft of hair, before sinking lower.
He almost blew. “So warm and wet, baby.”
“Always that way for you.”
Killing me. “Shouldn’t have told me. May not be able to keep myself off you now.” He circled . . . circled . . . where she needed him most, and as she trembled, she followed him with her hips.
“Do it.” A command she expected to be obeyed. “Please.”
Always begs so prettily. He pressed the heel of his hand against her and thrust a finger in deep.
“Yes!” She groaned, her head falling onto his shoulder. “More.”
As he fed her a second finger, she reached back and wound her arms around him, her nails digging into his ass. She urged him to move against her harder, faster, until he was practically grinding her through the wall.
“Kiss me.” She turned her head and he angled his, their mouths meeting in a scorching tangle of tongues and need, possession and domination.
There was aggression in the kiss. His. Hers. He loved it. It was a claim. A branding. On both their parts. He’d never felt so . . . desired, so necessary, and it was a heady thing. He knew he’d need it again and again.
Would need this honey in his mouth, down his throat, intoxicating him. No one else had ever tasted as sweet, or wine-rich. It was as if she had been made for him, and him alone. A sweet little puzzle piece for his life . . . his bed.
She climaxed with the hard thrust of a third finger, clenching around him, and it wasn’t long before he joined her, emptying his body of the fury and frustration, and filling it back up with unending satisfaction.
And fear.
He wanted her too much, and the craving wasn’t going away. Wasn’t even muting. He was falling for her.
Falling hard.
Fifteen
BLUE AND EVIE CROUCHED in the rafters of the old barn where the auction for ribbons of John’s skin was to be held. They’d been here for almost an hour, still, quiet, waiting, hidden by thick wooden beams and moldy hay.
He held at bay memories of the aftermath of their explosive encounter . . . until the second hour, when they knocked on the door of his mind, demanding entry.
Uncomfortable silence as they’d dressed.
Evie unable to meet his gaze.
A murmured “Well, that was fun, thanks” from her before she strode from the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. She hadn’t claimed him, after all.
Didn’t matter. He’d claimed her.
The time before, he’d felt horror that he’d betrayed Michael, and guilt. That time, he’d felt resolve. He wanted more. And so, more he would have. He couldn’t resist her. Fighting the attraction had done no good.
Now he would go after her. Win her.
Finally, the back doors of the barn creaked, signaling they were being opened. A short, wiry human with thinning hair, a great-white-shark tattoo coming up the collar of his shirt, and a man-baby belly, strutted inside with two armed men at his sides. One had a rifle. The other had a pyre-gun. Both were human.