Page 17 of Irrevocably

That’s true. And you don’t fuck a target, no matter how interesting she’s turning out to be or how soft she feels.

So, I ignore the heat and my hardening cock and get back to the plan that I’ve been turning over for the past few minutes.

Whatever understanding is between the police and the club, it’s not on paper, and getting the details direct from the chief himself is problematic when we’re not supposed to be drawing attention to ourselves. Which means I’m going to have to take the indirect approach, and that involves Astrid.

“In that case,” I murmur, pressing down on her bottom lip. “I’m going to need you to try harder.”

She’s shivering now, looking up at me from underneath those lashes. I’ve got my hand on her throat again and she should be scared. She should be giving me everything I want.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she opens her mouth and bites down hard on my thumb.

Chapter Nine

ASTRID

His skin tastes salty and I’m sure I managed to draw blood, because there’s also the faint tang of copper in my mouth, but he jerks his hand away before I can tell for sure. His eyes aren’t cold any longer, they’re blazing gas-flame-blue, every line of his beautiful face drawn tight.

Shit. That was a stupid move.

I tense, expecting some kind of show of anger, a blow even, but his expression changes, his mouth curving in a hint of a smile that this time seems completely natural. As if he’s genuinely amused that I bit him.

“Tinkerbell has some claws I see,” he says, a note in his dark, deep voice that I don’t recognise.

It takes me off-guard, that and his smile, and I’m already off-guard. No, scratch that, I’m not off-guard, I’m entirely destabilised. As if the world has shifted on its axis and is now spinning on a completely new rotation.

He was right, it was stupid to hide here, but when I left the bar, I knew he’d follow me, I just knew it, and I didn’t have the time to hide anywhere else but this damn alley.

It’s not the alley that’s the problem, though. It’s him.

It’s him backing me up against the bricks, his fingers wrapped around my throat, how he pressed them into my skin. Making those bruises hurt. How he stroked the side of my neck, then brushed his thumb across my bottom lip.

He was standing so close, and he was so hot, and he smelled like woodsmoke and dark spice, and his fingers were so warm, and my body got so confused. The pain felt good, felt right, felt like the knife against my skin, cutting me open and letting all the fear out.

I’ve never had sex before. Yeah, I’m a virgin at twenty-one, so sue me. It’s not because I don’t want it, either, I’ve just never met anyone I wanted enough to have it with. Or rather, no one has ever actively wanted to have it with me.

I thought attraction would be warm, fuzzy feelings and shy smiles and a growing need to kiss someone. I thought it would be for some nice guy with floppy hair, who was maybe studying to be a doctor like me. Who was quiet like me, and who maybe wanted to hold my hand.

I didn’t think it would be this sudden hot rush between my legs when the rough pad of his thumb brushed over my bottom lip, or the weird, almost desperate need for his fingers to press harder, make it hurt so all my fears disappear.

It was wrong to feel that way, though. So desperately wrong, and there’s already too much wrongness in my life. I don’t have the space for any more.

His thumb was right there, and I was angry, and he was being a dick, so yeah, I bit him. I should have thought more about the consequences of that, but I acted on instinct, yet now he’s staring at me as if I’ve done something interesting.

“Not claws,” I say, pushing myself away from the wall and straight into him, because fuck him. “Teeth, asshole.”

He doesn’t move an inch, so I’m pressed against him. He’s very hard and very hot, and this was another stupid move. But I’m not going to let him bully me. I’m not going to let him intimidate or cow me, just because he’s physically stronger and bigger than I am.

“You’re a very interesting woman, Astrid Starling,” he says, his gaze still blazing.

“And you’re a prick, Lucien whoever you are,” I fire back.

“Frost,” he says unexpectedly. “Lucien Frost.”

“You could be James Bond and you’d still be a prick.”

He studies me intently and then, with a certain amount of deliberation, he lifts his thumb to his mouth and licks the place where I bit it. And I can’t help but watch, because he has the most perfect mouth, and when his tongue licks his skin, I feel another rush of liquid heat somewhere inside me.