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Hero, my ass.
His hands tightened around her hips. His steps stopped. He’d reached his destination. The foot of the stairs.
Jaw locked, body aching, he lifted her up—
And put her down on the second step.
“Hunter?” A little line appeared between her eyebrows.
When he was sure she was steady, he let her go. “Good night, Shelby.”
Her lips were swollen from his mouth. Red. Her eyes deep and wide and gorgeous. Then she shook her head. “Good night?”
He took a step back. “If I don’t say good night right now…” Which he’d just done. “Then I’ll be fucking you.” He’d thought those words might send her fleeing up the stairs.
They did not.
Sweet hell.
They. Did. Not.
“Okay,” Shelby said.
Every muscle in his body seemed to clench. “No.” It physically hurt to say that one word.
She sucked in a breath. “You don’t want me?”
“I want you so badly that it is taking all of my self-control not to pounce.” It had taken all of his strength to not fuck her in the den, right where they’d stood. “You were shot today.” He’d tried to be careful with her arm.
“Grazed.”
“You’re riding adrenaline. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re—”
“I’d rather be riding you.”
His mouth hung open. “You—you just said—”
“Surprised you, did I?” A nod. “That’s the thing. People see me and think I’m so fragile. Glass.” Her hand lifted, and she pointed over his shoulder. “Glass doesn’t always break, you know. When heat gets to it, it stretches. It bends. It reshapes. It can become something absolutely beautiful.”
Curious, he looked over his shoulder, and he noticed the glasswork in her den. Beautiful, gorgeous glass on the shelves beside her TV. Glass flowers. Glass pumpkins with twisting stems—black pumpkins. Blue stems. Wide glass vases with deep, etched designs. A tall, glass sculpture that appeared to have a dozen different colors trapped inside of it.
“You feel like glass long enough,” she said, her words slipping over him, “and you decide that you’ll see just what glass can do.”
He swung back to face her. “You did those? You made them?”
“Glass is my art. Got to make a living somehow. Can’t earn money forever simply by being the girl who didn’t die.” A nod. “I have a full glass studio just outside of town. I have my own furnace and blowpipe. I can handle heat. I can handle a great many things without shattering.” Her stare remained on him. “I can handle you.”
He wanted to pounce. His hands reached out, but instead of grabbing her, he locked each hand around the wooden banisters on either side of her. “Don’t be so sure.”
“Hunter?”
“You’re looking for fast and frantic. Sure, I can give you that.”
She sucked in a breath.
“But then I’ll want more. Because I don’t think one hard fuck in the dark will even come close to satisfying me. Not when it comes to you. I’ll want you again and again and again…and you were shot today, so I’m trying to be fucking good. I’m sending you to bed. No, I’m giving you the choice to walk away now, because if you don’t, I can’t say how long my self-control will last. I will have you, and once I do…” You’ll stay mine. “Be sure of what you want. Be very, very sure.” Then he held his breath. He was at his limit. She’d called him a hero. Bullshit, of course. But he was trying to do the right thing, with her. For her.
She’d been shot. You didn’t fuck a woman the way he wanted to fuck her when she’d been shot. That was damn well not the crap a hero would do. She’d called him a hero. For her, he truly wanted to become one.
