instincts kicked in anytime he sensed danger. He glanced back down to the street, only to see that his hesitation had cost him what edge he might’ve had. Shit. A lot of protection he was going to be. Shaking his head, he turned away, slid his free fingers into his hair close to his scalp and pulled.
Only then did he use the blade.
He watched Annabel look on as the hunk of hair fell to the balcony floor. She watched as he sliced off another and another until he stood there with nothing but choppy tufts on his head. He returned the knife to his pocket. She returned her gaze to his face.
If asked, he would’ve denied the pleasure that rushed through him at seeing the encouragement in her eyes. When it reached her mouth, he couldn’t help but tighten his grip on that one last remnant of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he deserved to have survived.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, and when he inclined his head in answer, she turned on her heel and motioned for him to follow. “I’ll get the clippers from my makeup case. You get the broom.”
S HE COULDN’T TEAR her gaze away. She’d tried, truly she had. But he was entirely too compelling, making the task an impossibility when she’d thought herself impervious to his physical allure.
After she’d repaired the mess he’d made of his hair, they’d made love with the lights on. For the first time since he’d bought her at auction, she’d wanted to see his face while their bodies were joined. Until now, she’d imagined him as a fantasy, a mystery, a lover that came in the night when her defenses were down and her body an open book.
Their encounters were purely sexual, a disassociation from the rest of her life, an entertainment, recreation, an indulgence. Tonight that glass bubble had broken. He was real, a man, a beautiful male specimen of whom she couldn’t get her visual fill.
Her sheets were fine white Egyptian cotton, the headboard an extravagant Victorian piece in dark wood. Patrick lay sleeping in the center of the bed, an arm beneath his head in lieu of a pillow, the barest edge of a sheet draped over his groin.
Dark hair tufted in the pit of his raised arm, ran in a line from his navel down beneath the sheet. His chest was bare, his legs lightly covered, while the thatch that cushioned his sex grew thick. Yet the lack of hair on his head was what drew her attention.
She’d clipped him close so that no more than a dark fuzz remained. That darkness served to highlight the deep bronze glow of his skin. The silver hoop in his ear matched the one piercing his nipple, and both looked as if they were simply an extension of his skin.
It was his tattoo that caused her to shudder. Not the intricate tribal art ringing his biceps. That one she’d discovered beneath more than a few white dress shirts on other men. Never in her life, however, had she seen anything like Patrick’s snake.
The design was inked in multicolors: black, blue, red and green, with sharp highlights in yellow. The snake wound its way around his right thigh—she counted four coils—before arcing over his hipbone to end above the swell of his buttocks. With Patrick lying on his back, she had to visualize the fangs and the wicked, wicked eyes.
But even the remembered image was more than enough to cause her to shiver. She reached for the comforter, which had ended up on the floor earlier, and wrapped it around her shoulders. When she glanced again at Patrick, his eyes were open, even though he remained perfectly still.
“I hate the way you do that.” His uncanny ability to come awake on full alert made her crazy. She hated the idea of him watching her while she slept, when she was vulnerable….
“Watch out or you’ll give me a complex.”
“ Give you a complex? What about the dozens you already have?”
She’d lost count of the number of times over the past seven weeks she’d tackled one or another, hoping she could offer him more than memories of great sex to take away
Only then did he use the blade.
He watched Annabel look on as the hunk of hair fell to the balcony floor. She watched as he sliced off another and another until he stood there with nothing but choppy tufts on his head. He returned the knife to his pocket. She returned her gaze to his face.
If asked, he would’ve denied the pleasure that rushed through him at seeing the encouragement in her eyes. When it reached her mouth, he couldn’t help but tighten his grip on that one last remnant of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he deserved to have survived.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, and when he inclined his head in answer, she turned on her heel and motioned for him to follow. “I’ll get the clippers from my makeup case. You get the broom.”
S HE COULDN’T TEAR her gaze away. She’d tried, truly she had. But he was entirely too compelling, making the task an impossibility when she’d thought herself impervious to his physical allure.
After she’d repaired the mess he’d made of his hair, they’d made love with the lights on. For the first time since he’d bought her at auction, she’d wanted to see his face while their bodies were joined. Until now, she’d imagined him as a fantasy, a mystery, a lover that came in the night when her defenses were down and her body an open book.
Their encounters were purely sexual, a disassociation from the rest of her life, an entertainment, recreation, an indulgence. Tonight that glass bubble had broken. He was real, a man, a beautiful male specimen of whom she couldn’t get her visual fill.
Her sheets were fine white Egyptian cotton, the headboard an extravagant Victorian piece in dark wood. Patrick lay sleeping in the center of the bed, an arm beneath his head in lieu of a pillow, the barest edge of a sheet draped over his groin.
Dark hair tufted in the pit of his raised arm, ran in a line from his navel down beneath the sheet. His chest was bare, his legs lightly covered, while the thatch that cushioned his sex grew thick. Yet the lack of hair on his head was what drew her attention.
She’d clipped him close so that no more than a dark fuzz remained. That darkness served to highlight the deep bronze glow of his skin. The silver hoop in his ear matched the one piercing his nipple, and both looked as if they were simply an extension of his skin.
It was his tattoo that caused her to shudder. Not the intricate tribal art ringing his biceps. That one she’d discovered beneath more than a few white dress shirts on other men. Never in her life, however, had she seen anything like Patrick’s snake.
The design was inked in multicolors: black, blue, red and green, with sharp highlights in yellow. The snake wound its way around his right thigh—she counted four coils—before arcing over his hipbone to end above the swell of his buttocks. With Patrick lying on his back, she had to visualize the fangs and the wicked, wicked eyes.
But even the remembered image was more than enough to cause her to shiver. She reached for the comforter, which had ended up on the floor earlier, and wrapped it around her shoulders. When she glanced again at Patrick, his eyes were open, even though he remained perfectly still.
“I hate the way you do that.” His uncanny ability to come awake on full alert made her crazy. She hated the idea of him watching her while she slept, when she was vulnerable….
“Watch out or you’ll give me a complex.”
“ Give you a complex? What about the dozens you already have?”
She’d lost count of the number of times over the past seven weeks she’d tackled one or another, hoping she could offer him more than memories of great sex to take away
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