Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

He should model for a pinup calendar. Hot Historical Heroes. Sir September. The Duke of December. Marquess of May—or May Not. Reynard could have starred on every page.

His gaze stayed on her face as the slowly slipping bedcovers revealed his lean abdomen, each set of muscles cleanly defined. Nothing like daily battles for a few centuries to develop the old six-pack.

His hand caught hers before the coverlet could descend those last critical inches. A dare burned in his eyes. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a man when he’s down?”

“Sure I would.” She grinned. “Without apology. And, y’know, you’re not entirely down.”

“You witch.”

“Guilty.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “And what am I going to do with you now that you’re in one piece?”

His gaze made suggestions. “You mean now that I’m not half in a clay pot?”

“A nice pot, though.” She lifted her eyebrows, her expression pleased. “Not that you’ll need it anymore.” She looked over at the urn, sitting on the stand that held his washbasin.

He squinted. “I haven’t seen it for hundreds of years.”

“I caught it just as the place exploded. When you forced the demon back into the Castle.”

“Then you saved my life.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “Maybe.”

He squinted harder. “Is that duct tape stuck to my urn?”

Ashe looked a bit sheepish. “I caught it before it smashed, but I think the blast cracked it a bit. I didn’t want your soul leaking out. Tape was the only thing I could find fast enough to do any good.”

Reynard began to chuckle. “Witches, werewolves, vampires, and a castle full of guardsmen on hand, not to mention police, firefighters, paramedics, and the media—and the only thing that could save my soul was a roll of duct tape.”

The chuckle turned into a guffaw.

Ashe looked down at him with a mixture of shock—she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him really laugh—and pique. “I was doing the best I could. It was all chaos and demon bits!”

He touched her cheek, his fingers threading through her hair. Reynard was giving her that smoking look again, the one that made it feel as if her insides were turning to chocolate syrup. He cupped her head, pulling her mouth down to his. The kiss was urgent and vulnerable, as if he were making up for the centuries of emotion that he’d missed.

When they broke apart, he still held her, his breath warm against her ear.

“How did Prince Miru-kai get your life out of the urn and back into you?” she asked. “You were gone for three whole days before they put you back in your chamber.”

“I’m not sure. I was unconscious.”

“I waited for you here as much as I could.”

He kissed Ashe again, and she completely lost verbal skills.

“Three days,” he murmured. “Three whole days. I only have another forty years or so. I don’t have time to waste.”

“Forty years is a long time.”

“I’ve been alive for nearly three hundred, and I’m not sure I’ve made good use of my time. I have some catching up to do.”

There was real regret in his words. He sat up, the sheet pooling around his hips. Swallowing hard, Ashe rested her hands on his shoulders. There was a lot of naked Reynard right there in front of her. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

He suddenly laughed, his gray eyes alight with humor.

She unbuckled her holster, setting it on the chair beside the bed. Reynard’s laugh faded. One by one, she shed her knives, the stakes, the second handgun at the small of her back. She made a show of it, taking her time. By the time she got to the wrist sheaths, he looked deadly serious.

“Do you want to help me with the rest?” she asked.

He slid out of the bed and knelt at her feet, the motion graceful and fluid. And without a sheet.

Oh, Goddess. He was clearly feeling hunky-dory.

“Allow me.” He lifted her foot in his hands and drew off her right boot, then her left. The stone floor was cold through her socks, worse than an unheated basement, but all she let herself notice was him. It wasn’t difficult. His full lips curved in that bad-boy smile.

She reached down and picked up one of the stakes she’d dropped, running the tip along her thigh as she straightened. “Want to play hunter and vampire?”

Reynard quirked his eyebrow. “Madam, I came equipped with my own stake.”

“Whoa! Points to the old guy.”

He sprang up, snatching Ashe off her feet in the same motion, proving that he’d lost none of his amazing strength. “You consider me old?”

Ashe yipped with horror. “You toss me over your shoulder and I’ll stake your butt, mister!”

With a grunt, Reynard dumped her onto the bed, making the springs squeak. He was breathing hard, but not from exertion.

She grabbed his arms and pulled him down, devouring his mouth. He tasted spicy, like sin melting on her tongue.

Her clothes were off in moments. Their lips met again, starved by the few seconds it took to undress her. Ashe could feel the magic of the fey still clinging to him as they bonded skin to skin. It was far subtler than a witch’s power, as gossamer silk was to heavy wool. It hung like smoke around them, filling her senses with the impossible: rainbows that shone only at night, music that fell like a shower of daydreams.

As Reynard ran his hands over her, she saw a stately home dusted with snow. His old house, back in the day? The scene shivered to a storm of color as the needs of her body pushed away the thrall of magic. The house was gone, and he was touching her, testing her wetness as she clenched around his probing fingers. Salty skin, the musk of man surrounded her. Ashe arched into him, letting pleasure ride her to the first crest of release.

Then she was back in the vision, riding a horse at breakneck speed through a field, the sunset glittering on rain caught in the grass. “Memories. I’m seeing your memories.”

“It’s my life coming back to me, one moment at a time.”

Then they were lost in the heat, finding sweet release. Mouths met again, nurturing, nourishing. She slid down, the length of her body stroking his as they curled beneath the covers of his narrow bed. His hand found her hair, fingers weaving through it. Ashe pressed next to him, glad of his warmth in the cool room.

She turned his hand in hers, feeling the weight of it, the calluses where he held his sword. His fingers were long, but the tips were blunt and his palm square.

“What do you see in the lines of my hand, Madam Gypsy?” he asked. His voice was deep and intimate in the tiny room.

“If I’d looked at your hands first, I might have understood you better.”

He folded his other arm behind his head so that he could see her better. Amusement played around his lips. “How is that?”

“You work hard.”

“I always have.”

“Really?”

“You thought I didn’t?”

“I wouldn’t have assumed . . .”

The lines around his eyes crinkled. “I had my fun, but I was a second son, love. I had to make my way in the world. Either that, or marry an heiress.”

Ashe laughed. “Well, we still have a few of those around.”

“I never could bring myself to wed for money. Now, for that motorcycle of yours, I might make an exception.”

His hand explored beneath the covers, stroking her waist and hip in a long, possessive sweep. “I seem to be recovering my strength.”

“You’re just thinking about my bike.”

“No.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I’m wondering how a man courts a woman in these times. Are there still balls?”

“Nightclubs and coffee shops. A lot less formal.”

“What do you like to do?” His smile was wicked, bad boy present and accounted for. “You have such a poor opinion of my aristocratic kind that I ought to show you how a gentleman born can make a woman happy.”