he tried to act as much as a patriarch to the Crew as a leader. Sometimes Vadim’s protective nature warmed her. Other times, like now, it left her with the urge to roll her eyes and stamp her feet like a teenager reminded over and over again to “drive carefully.” Monica kept her expression bland.
“Don’t give me that look,” he said.
She raised both brows, innocence personified. Vadim sighed. Monica raised her whiskey glass. After a moment, he shook his head.
“Something that can haul away a tiger could certainly do a lot of damage to you, Monica.”
She had, for a period after losing Carl, done many reckless things. But time had passed and her life had gone on, whether she liked it or not, because that was what life did. “I know. And believe me, I’m not... I’m not trying to get myself killed. I’m here to study and assess, and then the team will come in and we’ll catch this thing.”
“If we’re lucky,” Vadim said.
They both knew how infrequently the Crew got lucky. There was a reason why people kept repeating that monsters weren’t real, after all, and it mostly had to do with how hard it was to find proof. Monica raised her glass again, draining it, and this time, Vadim signed off.
Ten guesthouses, and DiNero put the woman in the one closest to his. Jordan fumed, though it was pointless. DiNero would do whatever he wanted. And, Jordan grudgingly admitted, it made sense to have Monica closer to him, if only because she’d be walking the zoo with him for the next few days.
He’d seen her out on the terrace earlier. Sipping a glass of whiskey he could smell across the lawn and through his open windows. He could smell her, too. The soap she’d used, the laundry detergent seeping from her clothes. Those were good, clean scents. So was the lingering scent of wine she’d had with dinner. She’d be mortified to know he could smell the meat she’d eaten still on her breath, though she’d covered it with toothpaste.
She made him hungry.
Damn it.
Dinner for him had been some pasta with olive oil and some fresh-baked bread. A salad. The food filled him up but didn’t sate him. That was why, he told himself, he was up at nearly two in the morning to rustle around in his fridge for some scrambled tofu and cheese when he really wanted to gorge himself to bursting on a thick slab of beef still dripping with blood... Jordan shook himself. He shoveled the food in his mouth, barely tasting it, trying to fill the emptiness. When he’d finished, he rinsed his plate and looked out the kitchen window to the guest bungalow where Monica was staying.
Her lights were off, which made sense at this time of night. The bedroom window was open, though, like his own. He could hear her inside. The slide of limbs on the bedsheets, the whisper of her hair on the pillow. She murmured something sleepy.
He needed to stop being a freaking creep about it. Jordan shook himself and put the plate in the drainer, then froze, head going up, ears straining at the change in her voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone had changed.
Carefully, slowly, he put the knife and fork he’d been using in the drainer, too. Still listening. He closed his eyes, opening his senses.
Her scent had changed, becoming bitter. The low mutter of her voice rose, edging toward hysteria. Not quite screaming, but definitely in distress.
Jordan didn’t think twice. He was out the back door and heading for the guest bungalow in seconds. He leaped the low brick wall of his back patio and landed hard on the other side, bare feet slapping at the grass DiNero paid so much to keep looking nice. He hit the guesthouse’s back patio in three strides after that. She’d locked the door. One hit with his shoulder and the door frame splintered.
She was in the bedroom, and Jordan barreled through the door ready to battle whatever was attacking her. He’d been unable to save the animals, but there was no way he was going to let something hurt anyone or anything else. He skidded on the hard floor, moving too fast to stop himself when he saw the woman was alone.
She sat up in bed at the sound of him coming into the room. Her hands punched at the air. Her low cry changed as her eyes opened and she focused on him.
He’d been moving so fast that he’d ended up next to the bed. Breathing hard, he stared down at her. He looked everywhere, trying to make sure nothing was there ready to pounce on them both.
“Am I still dreaming?” she asked in a totally clear, absolutely calm voice that sounded nothing like the terrified cries he’d been hearing earlier. “Because if I am, goddamn, please get over here and fuck me.”
She wasn’t still dreaming. Monica hadn’t ever been able to control what happened while she was—she had friends who could lucid-dream, and there was a whole squad of people in the Crew who dealt with the monsters that lurked in the realm of the subconscious. The words had tumbled out of her before she was fully awake, though, and she wasn’t going to take them back.
The man in front of her had grumbled his way through their earlier introductions. He wasn’t someone she’d ever have considered in a romantic way. She was here on a job, not to get laid. Yet of course right now, after the nightmare, which had been even more intense than ever, all she could think about was getting fucked right through the mattress. It didn’t matter much who did it.
“Shit,” Jordan said.
Shirtless, jeans hanging low on lean hips, bare feet. If she’d ordered him from a catalog, he couldn’t have arrived in more perfect condition or with better timing. And, she realized as she took in the heave of his chest and the way his fists were clenched, he’d burst in here to...save her?
She was naked. The covers had come down. He could see her completely, and was he looking? Oh, yeah. He definitely was.
The dream was fading but her hands were still shaking. Now not just from terror. Her nipples had gone hard, and without thinking, Monica cupped her breasts. Not necessarily to hide herself from his gaze. More to draw his attention.
“Jordan,” she whispered. “Come here.”
He did, two hesitant steps until his knees brushed the edge of the blankets. He licked his lower lip, looking her over. His breathing had slowed, but only a little.
“Did you come here to save me?” Monica asked in a low, rough voice.
He nodded. “I thought whatever killed the animals was in here with you.”
“Do you still want to save me?” She shuddered, closing her eyes for a moment to push away the memories. Without opening them, she added, “I need you.”
The bed dipped beneath his weight. When his rough hands skimmed up her bare sides, Monica let out a small gasp and allowed herself to arch back onto the pillows. His breath gusted over her cheek and she turned her face, lips parting, waiting for him to kiss her. She thought he wouldn’t.
But he did, oh, he did. Hard and fierce and sharp, the way she liked it. The way she needed it. His tongue stabbed into her mouth as his hand slipped to cradle the back of her head. Then his mouth was moving down her throat to nip and nibble and then, yes, oh God, yes, to scrape along her flesh in that beautiful burst of pleasure-pain she craved.
When his lips closed over one nipple, Monica threaded her hands through his thick dark hair, fingers tangling. “There. Yes.”
She still hadn’t opened her eyes again. She wanted to be lost in this, all the sensations sweeping over her. She gave up to him.
When Jordan’s mouth moved lower, though, she tensed. His lips tickled the scars on her ribs and belly. She waited for the questions, but all he did was kiss her softly and then move lower to nip at her hip bone. When he parted her thighs, again she tensed, though this time not out of trepidation.
At his first slow, long lick, she cried out. She lifted herself to his mouth, but Jordan had moved to slide his hands