At No Man's Command. Melanie Milburne

turned and squared her gaze with his. ‘Why didn’t you wake me up? Why creep around and scare the crap out of me? I’m glad I punched you. I should’ve hit you harder.’

      He took the ice pack away from his face, frowning at her, but not in anger. There was something measuring about his gaze as it held hers. She looked away, flattening her mouth, locking him out.

      He came over to where she was standing in front of the dead fire. ‘You want to hit me again?’ he asked. ‘Come on. Put up your fists and clobber me with your best shot.’

      She crossed her arms, flashing him a cutting glare. ‘Stop making fun of me.’

      Those dark blue eyes continued to penetrate and probe. ‘I’m not joking, Aiesha. Get it out of your system. You want to hit me, then go ahead and hit me. I won’t hit you back. I can take it like a man.’

      Aiesha clenched her fists. She could hit him. She could probably knock him out cold if she put her mind to it. Trouble was, her mind was out of sync with her heart.

      She hated that she’d hurt him. She loathed violence. Violence sickened her. She’d only taken up boxing as a precaution while living in Vegas. It wasn’t called Sin City for nothing. Men with too much alcohol on board thought it their right to grope and proposition her each night as she left the club. She had never hit anyone before, just a punching bag in the gym. That punching bag had been the substitute for all the men she wished she’d been able to pummel back the way they had pummelled her mother. Hadn’t she herself copped enough hits and slaps in her time to want to eradicate all violence from the world?

      And then there was poor little Archie. He had trusted her to keep him safe from that despicable Beast Man and she had failed him. She tried to block the sound of that startled yelp inside her brain. She tried to block the sound of that fatal crack, as poor little Archie’s neck was broken. She tried to block the sight of that poor little limp body hanging from Beast Man’s horrible hand like a trophy.

      Aiesha could feel her defences crumbling like the ashes of the log she’d poked in the grate a minute ago. James had seen her off guard. Unprotected by her outer shell of hard-nosed tart. Her fight-or-flight instincts were battling it out inside her chest. She could feel every moment of the struggle like fists landing heavy blows against her heart.

      Flee.

      Fight.

      Flee.

      Fight.

      She was conscious of the silence...measured by the sound of the ticking clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. She was conscious of the dryness of her mouth and the unfamiliar hot moist prickling at the back of her eyes. She was conscious of a tight restriction as the deep well of her buried emotion bubbled up in her throat like a foul sewer.

      She. Would. Not. Cry.

      Aiesha blinked and quickly slipped her armour back on. She opened and closed her hands, testing him. Watching to see if he so much as flinched. ‘I could really hurt you,’ she said.

      ‘Undoubtedly.’

      She couldn’t make out his expression. Was he testing her? Seeing if she would take up the dare? She brought her hand up but he didn’t move a muscle. His gaze was steady on hers. She placed her hand on the side of his face, her skin catching on the graze of his stubble. Something caught in her chest. A snag. A hitch. Then a letting go...

      There was another heartbeat of silence.

      He covered her hand with his, holding it within the gentle prison of his fingers. ‘That the best you could do?’ he said.

      Aiesha looked at his mouth before flicking her gaze back to his. ‘I don’t want to ruin that pretty-boy face of yours.’

      The dark blue of his eyes intensified, holding hers in a lock that made something inside her belly tilt and then spill. ‘You’re scared.’

      She sent her tongue out in a quick darting movement to moisten her lips. ‘Let me go, James.’

      ‘I have a little forfeit to collect first.’

      Something dropped off a shelf in her stomach. ‘Forfeit?’

      He spread his hands through the mane of her hair, his gaze moving from her eyes to her mouth in a slow and mesmerising fashion. ‘You punched me in the nose. I get to kiss you. Fair’s fair.’

      She affected a sneer but was pretty sure it was wide off the mark. ‘Is that meant to be a punishment?’

      ‘Why don’t we find out?’ he said and, tugging her against him, his mouth came down over hers.

      His lips were warm and firm, slow and deliberate. Purposeful. His tongue stroked against her top lip and then her lower lip without deepening the kiss. It sent every one of Aiesha’s nerves into a frenzied clamour of want. She wound her arms around his neck, leaning into him to give more of herself to the kiss. She opened her mouth, inviting him in, teasing him with the flicker of her tongue against his lips.