be satisfied with a candy bar or a carton of ice cream—
though either one was moderately appealing. She
wanted blood. More than a tiny taste. A whole vat of
it, red and dark. She wanted to take a fucking bath in
it.
With a snarl, she rolled onto her back and willed
herself to sleep.
Dowhen you can. Sleep when there is nothing you
can do.
Ten years of training to live by that motto let her
close her eyes and drift off almost immediately. And
she dreamed. The same damned dream she’d had again
and again over the years.
At first, there was only sensation. Warmth against
her cheek and her breasts. The feel and scent of skin.
Male skin.
She stroked her tongue along the curve of hip
bone, tasted salt and man. Hunger surged. She wanted
to lick him, taste him, sink her teeth into his flesh.
Savor him. Mark him.
Opening her eyes, she saw that she was kneeling,
naked. Only then did she register the sensation of
126
SINS OF THE HEART
carpet against her shins and knees. Her arms were
wrapped around a man’s muscled thighs, her wrists
bound by yellow nylon rope—his ropes binding her,
her arms binding him. Her cheek brushed his hip; his
skin was smooth and hot. The fine hairs on his legs
teased her nipples with each breath she took. And it felt
