reached for the jeans now hanging low on his ass—and for the first time he startled her, both with the low and demanding noise in his throat and with his hands as they slid away from her hair, her shoulders, coming to rest at her waist—picking her right up off the floor with no effort at all to flip her around.
She found her balance with her hands braced against the half wall between the foyer and the great room, and she understood right away. Even in the thrill of it—the strength of him, the anticipation—she whirled back around. “No,” she protested. “I want to touch—”
Just like that, she was facing the wall again, his body pressing against her—but he leaned down, the side of his head against hers, the stiff brush of his beard against her jaw and her hair tangling between them. “Next time,” he said, and quivered up against her, restraint in the hands that tightened at her hips and the sudden gust of breath in her ear. And then he waited, no more than a heartbeat—a space for protest.
Next time.
“Hell, yes,” she said, bracing her arms against that wall.
“Protected?” he asked. Sentinels were, as a matter of course—those who couldn’t ward themselves had it done for them.
His hands ran over her belly, up to her breasts, learning them, kneading them—lightly at first, until she arched into his hand and said, “Hell, yes.”
His arm crossed her chest—supporting her, continuing to play her breast; the other dropped back to her belly—splayed there a moment, pressing them together while Mariska tipped her head back and hummed, a low and uninhibited sound. A bear sound. Her legs parted and he took full advantage, cupping her; she cried out in surprise at the sudden rush of pleasure and heat, and again as his fingers pressed into her.
“Ready?” he asked, and this time his voice came strangled, the tremble of him surrounding her.
“Hell—” she breathed, and got no further, for he lifted her hips and found his way home, his exclamation of surprised pleasure in her ear, his legs stiffening until he found his balance again.
“—yes,” she whispered, wanting so badly to touch him in return—but her arms knew better, absorbing the increased weight while she held her breath in expectation, waiting to feel the fullness and size of him in motion.
Except he just stayed there—holding her, fingers tightening around her body, his breath a convulsive gasp in her ear—while she finally realized he was grasping for control.
Who the hell wanted control?
She squirmed.
He growled, holding her tightly—so tightly, his head pressed to hers and his hips suddenly plunged against her.
Except he somehow had the wherewithal to grab back control—he played with her, little thrusting increments of sensation. She gasped in outrage and then at the spiraling, clawing sensation, drawing on the nerves from her spine to her tightly curled toes. And she gasped in delight—at the understanding that she was claimed, that she was in the hands of the strength and power she craved.
With a cry, she pushed back at him, squirming inside and out. And yes, he made a harsh, startled noise, a fierce noise—a sound of wrenching pleasure as he lost control again and pounded into her without restraint. Her own delighted whimper rose in volume as her feet came right off the floor and hooked around his legs and—
Oh, hell, YES—
He caught her as she stiffened and trembled—and then he shouted as if the moment took him completely by surprise. His knees gave way, and there they were on the floor while she sat back in his lap, clinging weakly to the half wall.
As the aftershocks of hellaciously superb sex faded away and Mariska’s stunned fog of pleasure eased, a short laugh snorted its way out. She clapped a hand over her mouth, sagging precariously close to the wall, but couldn’t help it; she did it again. And of course he felt it—the clench of her internal movement around him, her slipping position.
He pulled her upright, finger-combing the hair away from her face as he tucked his mouth in beside her ear again, and this time his voice was a growl. “What?”
“Just—” she said, and waved her hand at them, at the wall, at the foyer littered with her clothes and her shirt somehow hanging open and her breasts free. “Just—” she tried again, and gave it up and laughed right out loud.
She felt him relax slightly. “Lady bear,” he said, and nipped at her ear.
“Does that make you a gentleman bear?” she asked, twisting to look back at him, his face so close to hers.
He offered a wry smile from within that beard. “Not for a long, long time.”
“About tomorrow—” she said, not having planned it in the least.
But he shook his head. “Tonight,” he told her, “is always. No matter what happens tomorrow.”
Her heart clenched, much as her body had clenched only moments earlier. “An always night,” she whispered. No matter tomorrow.
Eventually they got past the foyer. Not before Ruger spread his shirt on the rough textured paint of the half wall, set her on it, and provided what she’d clearly wanted the first time—the chance to fondle and stroke.
He’d meant for things to go slower, then—a chance to admire the sturdy bones of her, to marvel that he hadn’t worried about crushing her or frightening her, and the certainty that she’d been able to brace herself against that wall no matter how he pounded into her. A chance to run his hands over full hips and full breasts and her curvy, flat and tight waist, and to marvel at her perfect proportions. Not tall, not long and lean and slender, not any of the things that so many men ogled.
But all the things that Ruger ogled.
And it didn’t go slow at all.
So eventually they made it past the foyer… but only as far as the sprawling couch, where they finally fell asleep. She, sated and lightly snoring… he, completely smitten.
But when he woke in the morning, covered only by a soft cotton blanket that had slipped down far enough to threaten modesty, the light streamed in the windows of the airy Southwest home and Mariska the lady bear was gone.
Chapter 2
That she’d left didn’t surprise Ruger. She was on assignment today; she’d only ever asked for the night. She, like all of his kind, was clearly wont to an independent nature, not needy on the morning after.
Besides, she’d left him out some tea makings and a protein shake.
Ruger didn’t bother to head for home—a tidy little trailer in the foothills of the Catalinas. He dug out the little overnighter kit from his truck’s half-cab storage, brushed his teeth, and helped himself to a quick shower, relieved at the neutral scents of her soap and shampoo.
But the shower did nothing to clear his head; his senses reeled in the aftermath of Mariska—and in the surreal but inescapable fact that he was about to report for field duty without his healing skills. He stared at the lightly fogged mirror and felt as though he saw someone who had been, not someone who was. Strong in body once more, a man more big than beefy or hulking, a man with strength in arms and torso and defined muscle all the way down to the towel that draped his hips.
But still only part of what he’d been.
He tugged on his shirt, stepped into his pants, grabbed the protein shake, and headed out to the truck with the heat of the early morning soaking into his shoulders. Thinking changes and forward as he started up the truck. Maybe that was why he pulled into the barbershop when he saw it. When he stepped out, his hair was only a smidge more crisp around the edges—but his bared cheeks sensed the slightest breeze, and that untanned skin tingled in the sun.
As if facing the world without a beard for the first time in his adult life would distract him from things still