Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

“Did I scare you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t have to go toe-to-toe with him.”

“Yes, I did.” Understanding dawned on him. “Wait. You were scared for me?”

“Yes!”

“I’ve seen him fight. When he armors up, he can’t sweat. He has a limited time frame before he starts overheating. The more he moves, the hotter he gets.”

“It was still dangerous.”

“I didn’t rush into the fight. It was a calculated risk,” he said.

Oh well, that makes everything better, then, doesn’t it? “You could’ve picked up a tree and smashed him with it.”

“That would take care of Dave, but not his family. House Madero doesn’t understand telekinesis. They understand brute force and broken bones. I sent a message and I made it simple enough so even they won’t misinterpret it.”

Well, he had a point. They wouldn’t misinterpret it. They wouldn’t work for Victoria Tremaine again.

“There is a difference between self-defense and torture. I understand why you broke his arms. But there was no need to break his legs.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Occasionally there will be times when I’ll be in danger,” I said.

“I know.”

“There may not always be a Dave handy.”

“I know . . . I’ll learn to deal with it. But I will protect you, Nevada, no matter what it costs me.”

He simply stated it as fact. Oh, Connor.

“I’m glad you stopped me,” he said. “I wasn’t when I was doing it. But now I’m glad.”

I was probably the only one who could. If it was one of his guys, he would’ve just kept going. And the next time, if I wasn’t there, he would break Dave’s legs.

I understood why Rynda was trying so hard to ingratiate herself to him. She was in panic mode and she knew that if Rogan cared about you, he would stop at nothing to keep you safe. If he and I ever had a family . . .

Children? Was I really thinking about having his children? I pictured what Rogan’s children might be like. Smart, and beautiful, and deadly. And impossible. They would be little demon children, getting into everything, trying everything, and not understanding the word no .

His eyes had iced over again. When Olivia Charles had killed his people, Rogan went into a grim place. There was nothing there except the absence of light, ice, and revenge. I had dragged him out of that darkness, and I would never let it have him again.

We passed the checkpoint and I parked the car in front of his HQ. He released his seat belt and studied me. The air in the car vibrated with his tension and energy, all of it dark.

“Some things I can’t help,” he said.

“I know.”

“But I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

I looked into his dark eyes and saw the edge of a storm brewing. He was focused only on me. Nothing else existed. I had the dragon’s undivided attention. Breath caught in my throat.

He leaned forward. He was going to kiss me.

Anticipation gripped me, mixed with a hint of instinctual alarm.

His lips touched mine. His kiss scorched me. I gasped and let him in. His tongue claimed my mouth and I tasted him, the unique flavor that was Rogan, male, harsh, and irresistible. His hand cradled the back of my head, his fingers sliding through my hair. He drank me in, possessive and seducing.

Magic touched the back of my neck, its velvet touch pure ecstasy on my skin. It slid down my spine, setting every sensitive nerve on fire.

My seat belt slid open. I sat there, dazed, as he got out of the car, walked to my door, and opened it. Rogan held out his hand. I took it. His fingers wrapped around mine. He led me into the building, through the downstairs, usually filled with his men, but now empty, up the stairs to the second floor, past Bug’s observation station, a crescent wall of computer screens, past his own office, to the back, where another stairway led up to the third floor. We walked up, he opened a metal door, we walked inside, and it clanged shut behind us.

An open space spread before me, a wide stretch of sealed concrete floor. A big bed stood on the left, on which someone, probably Rogan, had thrown a grey wool blanket. On the other side, to the right, a glass screen curved, probably hiding a shower and a bathroom.

The right wall was normal drywall, painted deep grey. The left wall was glass. Heavy three-foot squares of smoky glass climbed up thirty feet to meet at a sharp angle above us. I’d seen this building a dozen times and I’d never realized that the glass cap on top of it was transparent. It seemed solid black from the outside.

I walked to the window. Outside, the evening had birthed a night. The stars spread above us, glowing sparks of jewel-fire against the velvet blackness. A hoard that was the envy of any dragon.

Rogan wrapped his arms around me, my back to his chest. I heard him inhale the scent of my hair. His long hard length pressed against me. I leaned into him. He made a rough male noise that spoke of hunger and need. It made me weak in the knees. He brushed my hair aside and kissed my neck. Tiny electric shocks dashed through me. Magic danced over my skin, hot, slow, and deliberate. The muscles on his arms were tight under my fingers.

His hands slid over my breasts, caressing, teasing. A jolt of pleasure rolled through me. I gasped. I wanted more.

The zipper on my dress slid down. It fell around my ankles. His warm hand slid down over my stomach. Lower. Please.

My bra came unhooked. He slid the straps over my shoulders, eased the cups off my breasts, and I let it fall to the floor. His fingers slid over my nipples. The sudden burst of sensation was so intense, I jerked in his embrace.

He kissed me right below my right ear, setting my nerves on fire. I looked down on to his hands gliding across my stomach and saw dark smudges. Summoned creature’s blood.

“Rogan . . .”

“Yes.”

He kissed my neck again. I could barely talk.

“I’m covered in blood.”

He stopped and spun me around. “Are you hurting?”

“No. I’m just dirty.”

He looked down at the dried blood on my stomach. “I can fix that.”

He took my hand and we crossed the floor to the glass screen. A shower waited, three walls of tile bristling with faucets. He turned the knobs, and crisscrossing jets of water erupted from the walls. Steam rose. I slipped my underwear off and walked into the wall of water. It felt like heaven. Instantly I was soaked. The water dragged my hair down, plastering it against my chest and back. It ran dark, then almost immediately clear. I scrubbed my face, banishing the last traces of makeup, and turned around.

He stood in front of the shower, watching me, as if mesmerized.

I stepped through the water toward him, letting the jets spray my breasts and my stomach. Water ran down between my legs, wetting the curls of hair where they met. I was already wet inside.

Rogan swore.

“What?”

“You’re so beautiful.”

He pulled off his shirt and dropped it. He was big and golden, his body all hard muscle, honed to lethal efficiency. His broad shoulders and powerful chest slimmed down to a flat, hard stomach. I wanted to run my fingers across the hard ridges of his abs. His pants followed the shirt, revealing muscular legs. He was erect and ready, the full length of him massive and straining. He stood naked in front of me, towering, all brutal power and strength. His eyes were full of lust.

I opened my arms.

He came through the water for me. We collided. Magic whipped around me, swirling on my skin, a hot velvet pressure that flowed like liquid over my neck, my breasts, into the creases of my butt, gliding between my legs . . . He kissed me, hard and possessive, his arms around me. Our tongues tangled and I tasted him again. It was like being drunk.