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reached for her hand and brought it back to the wound. He commanded her to finish with his beautiful eyes.
    "It's your funeral,” she grunted, “it's going to get infected and you're probably going to die."
    Could angels die from infection and blood loss? And if they couldn't, if he wasn't in any mortal danger, then why was he demanding that she finish the job?
    She waited for him to say something, but he remained silent. His expression, while intense, was unchanging. He didn't watch her work on him, instead she felt his gaze linger on her face, then she swore she felt it lower, straying to her breasts, which freely swayed in her damp T-shirt. His gaze, now feeling hotter, seemed to be fixated on them as they pressed and swayed against the white cotton. Conscious of how she must look, Nadira pulled her damp hair from its ponytail and let it free till it tumbled past her shoulders. It didn't conceal her breasts, but she hoped it would cover the rash of embarrassment that was creeping up her neck and into her face.
    She heard his breath, a deep intake through his nose. Heard it again and she paused, the needle in mid air, listening to his breathing. Was he ... sniffing her?
    She waited and heard it again. He was definitely smelling her hair. He inched a tiny bit closer to her. She felt his breath against the skin that was bared through the vee of her T-shirt. He sniffed again, followed by a deeper, fuller draw.
    She shivered, totally turned on. He was like an animal, sniffing around her, like he was in heat, or a lethal predator preparing to pounce. Another inhalation, another inch closer. A few strands of her hair were lifted and she saw that he brought them to his face. Inhaling the scent of her, he closed his eyes. When his black lashes lifted, his blue eyes shone like lapis. His gaze bored into her and without taking his gaze off her, he tore the needle from her hand, ripping the string from his chest. He tossed them on the table and reached for her, turning her so that she was facing him.
    Her breasts were nearly level with his gaze. She knew her nipples were clearly visible through the wet shirt. Her hips, which all her other lovers had thought too wide, were almost dwarfed in his big hands. His shoulders bunched and his biceps flexed as he came closer to her, pulling her hips forward until her belly was level with his face. From her navel he worked his way up until he was between her breasts, sniffing at her in that sexy, animalistic way of his.
    His strong fingers dug into the waistband of her jeans and with a deep breath, he moved his head so that his nose and mouth slid against her until his lips came to rest millimetres from her nipple. His breath was hot against the cold wet fabric, and she shivered, feeling her nipple furl and crinkle. He sniffed her at the same time, making her nipples tighten even more.
    Her jeans were suddenly opened and pulled down over her hips, revealing the white cotton boy shorts she wore underneath. His fingers traced her navel, then dipped lower to the lace waistband. He traced the lace edging, then gripped her hips, his palms sliding over her, then behind. She felt his finger skim the flesh of her bottom that peeked out from her panties.
    Finally, he looked up at her.
    "I want to smell you. Every inch. And not your rain soaked clothes. I want to smell you . I want to taste all this beautiful, human flesh."

Chapter Six
    He knew this woman was trouble. Had known it from the moment he'd been compelled to listen to her voice on Mary's answering machine. Had felt it the second their gazes had met through the glass of her car's windshield.
    He'd fought those feelings—the attraction—the way his body tensed when she was near him. He'd fought it all, every sensation she had provoked in him, but he could not fight this. Not the desire that was now ruling him. Not the need to feel her and explore her body, or the compulsion to feel himself deep inside her.
    God damn, Sammael for filling his