He’d noticed the dark sheen of lust in her eyes from a simple wrist stroke. She was so transparent, her hunger unfettered and refreshingly obvious, why not exploit their chemistry? Especially if it would help divert him from the many things he had no desire to think about—namely Xander’s new baby, the festive season he had always hated, and the below-freezing temperatures—when he had always been a hot-blooded man…
The tightness in his chest softened at the thought of letting Freya discover just how hot his blood was. For her.
He lifted his coffee cup but paused when he heard a strangled sound coming from the bedroom Freya had waltzed off to.
He placed the cup on the armrest, when he heard the sound again. Whatwasthat? Because it had to be Freya, but it sounded more like a small, hunted creature—scared and threatened and alone.
The hostess appeared in the lounge.
‘Would you like me to check on Her Highness?’ the woman asked, because she’d obviously heard the noise, too.
He frowned at the use of her title. When had she stopped being a princess to him?
He should let the hostess see to her comfort. He was hardly the best man to deal with a woman in distress. Especially as he was probably the cause of her nightmares. But the strange feeling of kinship echoed in his chest, and he rose to his feet.
‘I’ll check on her,’ he said, then marched towards the plaintive cries still coming from the bedroom.
He knocked on the closed door.
‘Freya, are you okay?’ he asked. Another cry came, more distressed than the last.
Ignoring the unsettled feeling in his gut, and the twist of anxiety, he opened the cabin door and entered the room.
She lay on the bed, her slender body tangled in the bedsheets, the red light from the rising dawn through the jet’s windows casting her face into shadows. She tossed and turned, her knees tucked against her chest as she curled into a foetal position.
That she was having a nightmare was obvious when a vicious shudder wracked her body and she cried out again, unintelligible words, full of anguish and fear.
Whatwasthis? And what should he do?
He had no idea, as he had never comforted or cared for a woman before. After the sex was done, he employed easy charm and empty flattery to send his bed partners on their way. He didn’t fall asleep with them, hated anything resembling intimacy. All he required of a woman—and all he was willing to give in return—was the endorphin rush of satisfying sex.
Freya moaned again and turned towards him. Her face was screwed up into a ball of anguish. He hesitated, caught in two minds whether to do something or leave her to it. No one had ever died of a nightmare. He ought to know, he had had enough of the damn things as a boy, the night terrors waking him in that squalid apartment, his phantoms far more real than anything a princess could conjure.
‘Please, don’t leave me.’
The cry—so full of pain—shocked him out of his indecision, her distress too much for even him to bear.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he placed a hand on her arm, shook her gently. ‘Freya, wake up, you’re having a nightmare,’ he managed, his gut knotting with confusion… And panic.
But then her eyes flew open, and those emerald orbs trapped him in their depths. She blinked twice, her gaze dazed, then wary, her breathing ragged.
And suddenly his own gaze dropped to the T-shirt she wore, which was one of his, the neckline drooping to reveal the dewy skin of her cleavage. The buds of her nipples stood proud against the thin fabric. Heat flared, racing across his skin, and pounding hard in his groin.
‘Theo, why are you in my bedroom?’ she asked, but there was no panic in her voice, only curiosity and that husky note he had heard before, when he was about to devour her.
The heat rose like a wave, torching everything it touched, including the dumb notion that he would ever be able to comfort her… And leaving in its wake one clear, concise and all-consuming objective.
Lifting his other hand while keeping a firm grasp on her arm, he threaded his fingers through the loose waves of her hair, enjoying her vicious shudder of reaction. Her eyes widened, arousal dilating her pupils to black. He cradled her head, caressing her scalp as she leaned into his touch, her breathing becoming thready, her expression no longer wary but full of need.
‘It’s my bedroom, Freya, remember,’ he murmured, leaning closer. He inhaled her scent as she let out an unsteady breath. Roses infused with the delicate musk of her, the same scent that had driven him wild once before.
‘Now tell me to leave, if you don’t want me to kiss you…’ he demanded.
Freya had woken groggy and confused, the vague echoes of an old nightmare disappearing into the shadows of sleep. But as Theo’s face came into focus, his expression in the half-light—part concern, part need—yanked away the hazy dreams of her mother…
Had he said he wished to kiss her?
The prospect was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. He pressed his lips to the pounding pulse point on her neck, licked the sensitive skin. Another vicious shudder raked her overwrought body.
