Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (17 page)

The broad head that she'd once briefly stroked grew slick, and the sight called forth an answering clenching between her thighs, so powerful she nearly cried out. . . .

She knew what was happening—she was suffering from the immortal phenomenon of
overstimulation
.

The transition from mortal to immortal was a time of uncomfortable adjustment. Eyesight and sense of smell improved exponentially, and even tactile awareness increased, yet it took time for transitioning mortals to get accustomed to the difference.

In short, her senses were bombarding her, and that was a problem.

Because superhuman senses meant superhuman lust.

“Gods, Mariketa,” he rasped, “I can
feel
your eyes on it.”

She finally forced herself to drag her gaze away. As soon as she turned from him, she heard him enter the water. With a gasp, she lunged for the side to get out, but he caught her with an arm looped around her waist.

“Let me go!” she demanded, struggling against him, briefly stunned by the rock hardness prodding her.

“I'm enjoying your squirming, but no' your kicking so much. Ach, watch that you doona hit me in the ballocks! We're both going to need those in working order.”

Galling! “You bastard—stop poking me with . . . with
that
!”

“You keep squirming, witch, and I'm no' goin' to be able to keep my hips still either.”

She froze, out of breath and realizing she couldn't fight him anyway. He was breathing hard, too, but not from
exertion. She felt his warm exhalations on her neck and ear and shivered, her nipples hardening against his arm.

“You need my help in here—even if you doona want to admit it.”

“You think I can't clean myself?”

“You brushed your teeth for a good ten minutes, and you've washed your hair twice and you'd probably do it again for good measure, but your arms are likely getting tired.”

“They're not!” They
were
. “I'm fine.”

“Oh? Then let me see your hands.”

She rolled her eyes and raised her hands. At his tsking sound, she glanced down. Her nails were dirty! Her face flushed wildly.
Damn him!

When he spun her around, she draped her arm over her breasts. Glaring at the ceiling, she allowed him to wash one hand at a time. Using the lather, he massaged each finger from base to tip.

Her eyelids began to grow heavy as he firmly pressed his thumbs into her palms, one then the other. “Your hands are so small,” he said, his voice pleasingly low and rumbly. “But pretty.” She just stifled a shiver.

He finally let her go, and embarrassingly, she swayed. Once she opened her eyes, mustering up the energy to lay into him again, she found him running his thumb claw against the limestone. “What are you doing that for?”

“Dulling the verra edges. Give me those wee hands again.” More massaging followed until the fight in her was blissed away. When he began carefully running his dulled claw under each of her nails, she watched his face. His brows were drawn in concentration while he painstakingly went about the task, as if this was very important for him.

“There,” he said when finished. “Now for all that hair of yours.” He eased her around again.

Still rendered relaxed and cooperating, she let him tend to her. With his claws retracted, he massaged her head thoroughly until she felt she was the consistency of a puddle. And she knew he was wearing that look of concentration as he did it, because he wanted to get this right. What she didn't know was why.

If this was meant to torture her and make her miserable enough to remove the spell, then he was doing a shoddy job of it.

But MacRieve couldn't truly believe she was his. Could he?

A
s he worked shampoo into her long hair, he said, “See, Mariketa, this is no' so bad. If you'd known you'd be treated like this, I probably would no' even have had to blackmail you.”

“You had no right to go through my things like that.”

“I'd warned you that you'd find me overbearing. Strange, though, when I investigated your belongings, more questions were raised than answered. What is the patch for, the one in your bag?”

She shrugged. “Birth control.”

“A
contraceptive
?” he hastily asked. Bloody perfect.

“Yeah, so?” She stiffened. “Do you think I'm easy now?”

“Sensitive about this, Mariketa?”

“Most guys my age would look at the tattoo on my back and the patch on my arm as tramp stamps.”

“Tramp . . . ? Oh, I see.”

“I'm not. A tramp.”

“O' course no',” he agreed, trying to keep amusement out of his tone. “Most ‘guys your age' just
hope
that you are one. And would no' know what to do with you even if you were.”

“And exactly how old are you, MacRieve?”

“Twelve hundred, give or take.”

She glanced back at him, as though gauging if he was jesting. When he raised his brows, she said, “Great Hekate, you're a
relic
. Don't you have a museum exhibit to be in somewhere?”

He ignored her comments. “Another mystery—I dinna find a razor in your bag, but your legs and under your arms are smooth.”

“I was lasered,” she said, then added, “I can
hear
your frown, Father Time,” surprising him because he was.

She didn't explain more, but he didn't miss a beat. “Makes a man recall where else you're so well groomed.” She shivered from a mere murmur in her ear. “I'm lookin' forward tae touchin' you there again.”

“Ha! Why would you think that I would
ever
let you?”

“I happen to ken that you're a lusty one. And I've taken away your wee alternative. Tossed it into a river.” As she gasped, he said, “Took me a minute to figure out what it was—a minute more to believe you actually had it. Then imagining you using it? Had me in such a state, I could scarcely run without tripping over my own feet.”

“You're trying to embarrass me again. Give it up. I'm not going to be ashamed because I'm like every other girl my age.”

“I doona want you to be ashamed—never in matters like that. And I ken you're to turn immortal soon, know the need must be overwhelming. In fact, most females get confused by all their new lustiness,” he said. “Best to have a firm hand to guide them into immortal sex.”

“And I'll just bet that you're happy to volunteer.”

Making his tone aggrieved, he sighed, “If I must . . . Now lean back so I can rinse your hair.”

She hesitated, then finally did. He rewarded her by
using the water he'd warmed in his canteen. “
Ooh,
” she softly moaned, making his shaft throb harder.

“So responsive.” Once he'd rinsed her hair clean, he lowered his voice to say, “If you were no' so tired, I'd make you come a few times.”

She jerked upright, her hair whipping across her chin and neck. “That won't happen! I learned my lesson about you.” She backed away from him. “The bloom is definitely off that rose.”

“How's that?”

“Got lost in a kiss—got locked in a tomb with an ancient evil bent on making me drink blood. It's all about causality. The bottom line is that you are bad news.”

“I'll make you believe differently in the time you've given me.”

“And how do you expect to do that?” she asked, her tone scoffing. “By bathing me really, really good?”

“No, I plan to use my roguish charm to seduce you.”

“But you're not charming.”

He gave an arrogant half laugh, though he had been worried on that exact score. “I've no' even begun to try with you. Now come back here—you're to bathe me.”

*  *  *

Mari frowned at him. She didn't like this new flirty side of MacRieve because, damn him, he did have a certain rough charm. “Like that's going to happen. I'm getting out, and I don't want you to look.”

He gave her a brows-drawn look of disappointment, as if she'd taken away a toy—and for no good reason.

“It really is the least you could do.”

When he finally turned his broad back to her, she found herself again getting caught up staring at the damp skin
and muscles. With a hard shake of her head, she hurried from the water, then bent for the towel he'd laid out, covering herself.

Kneeling beside her bag, she rifled through it, searching for something to sleep in. She'd had a roomy T-shirt in there. Where was it?
Wait . . .
She narrowed her eyes in his direction and found him running a shaking hand over his face, his eyelids heavy.

“You watched me get out, didn't you?” she asked absently, realizing that she could not see his right hand below the water—and that the muscles in that arm were moving.

“
O' course,
I did,” he replied with no shame. “And I'd describe the sight as life changing. It's also made me ponder if a male can have a cockstand that's so hard, it canna be tamed.”

She glared at the ceiling, irritated that he was getting to her like this. “Did you take the sleep shirt from my bag?”

“Aye. Found some silks in there that I want you to wear for me.” Shameless, tricksy wolf.

Mari bit her lip as she surveyed the three underwear sets he'd seen—and probably felt, and who knew what else:
recovering nymphomaniac, hooker,
and
playful hooker
. Just ducky. The last time she'd
ever
go lingerie shopping with Carrow.

She stood, marched over to his bag, and rummaged inside for the largest shirt she could find. When she pulled one out, she spied a folded letter with a broken wax seal. The script had faintly bled through and was feminine.

What female was writing him letters? And why was it so special that he would bring it with him on this trip?

She thought he was climbing out, so she closed his bag.
Behind her, she heard him shaking his hair out, wolflike, and felt a few drops of water hit her as she stood.

With her back to him, she maneuvered the towel, endeavoring to dress without revealing anything.

“Though I could watch this all night, you should no' bother with it, witchling. I've seen every inch of you by now.”

She glanced over her shoulder, not knowing if she was pleased or disappointed that he'd slung on his jeans. “How's that?”

“I'm tall enough that when I was behind you, I could see straight over you. And my eyesight's strong enough to easily see through the water.”

She wasn't modest, and this hiding her body like a blushing virgin wasn't her front anyway. “In that case . . .” she said, dropping the towel.

He hissed in a breath. As she set about dressing as usual, he grated, “
No' a bashful one, then?
”

Bashful? She and her friends made
Girls Gone Wild
look like a quilting circle. “Just being charitable to aging werewolves.”

P
ert, plump arse, smooth thighs, slim back and waist . . .

Bowe had never seen such a tantalizing figure in all his life. And he'd lived a long, long time. He was well aware that he'd been rendered speechless by the body of a twenty-three-year-old witch.

And when she'd bent over naked for her towel? If he hadn't been braced for what he'd known was going to be a heart-stopping vision, he'd have drowned, thunderstruck.

Now, as he watched her slip into her wicked silk underwear and bra, he just stifled a groan and instead observed, “I never thought the saying ‘bounce a quarter off her arse' could be literal.”

“I didn't think you cared for my ass. I believe you said I was scrawny where it counts.”

“You said the same about me.
Obviously,
we were both mistaken. And I care for your arse verra much. My affection for it grows by the minute.”