He was strong and sensual and certain of himself, an uninhibited hedonist, every last glorious gold-velvet inch of him. He adored sex, savored it, everything about it. He was controlling, yet in a way that fed a woman’s fantasies. He would be, she now knew, a whole lot dominant in bed and a little bit dirty. He would take her every way she’d ever imagined and, she was quite certain, a few ways she probably hadn’t.
He would be inventive and inexhaustible and utterly devoted to pleasure.
There was now no doubt in her mind that he could do as he’d said: leave her so limp, so dazedly and thoroughly sated that she’d not even be able to summon up the strength to feed herself, to lift her head from the pillow, or the floor, or wherever else he chose to leave her when he was done with her.
A woman could hurt herself on Adam Black in bed.
And out of it, O’Callaghan, that faint inner voice warned.
Oh, yes, she didn’t bother arguing. And out of it. And that was something she needed to devote careful thought to, and not while he was touching her either. And she would, just as soon as things settled down a bit.
Not that she was making excuses for herself, but as crazy as her life had gotten, she was pretty much being forced to constantly react, not getting a chance to think things through and act.
She didn’t need to dredge up one of Gram’s many pertinent adages to understand what a dangerous way that was to live.
But, heavens, she thought, with droll exasperation, it would certainly help her think more clearly if she could just figure out what her odds of survival were. When one didn’t know how much longer one might live, discipline and self-denial had a funny way of flying right out the window alongside calorie-counting.
It was quite some time before her body calmed from its wild fever-pitch arousal enough that she was able to relax in his arms while they sifted. Even then, she did it very carefully. Avoiding contact with that part of him that was still rock-hard and would only make her feel so miserably turned on again. She noticed that he, too, was trying to avoid contact for a change, and when she inadvertently brushed against him at one point, he made a harsh sound and snarled, “Don’t touch that. It hurts. Christ, I’m not made of stone.”
“Sorry,” she said instantly, though inwardly an utterly feminine part of her beamed, delighted to know she wasn’t the only one having such a hard time recovering. That she wasn’t the only one their intimacy had affected so intensely. (And he certainly felt like he was made of stone, at least there anyway.)
She was shocked, sometime later, to find they were back in the hotel room, where Adam grimly snatched up their luggage. She opened her mouth to ask what in the world was so important that he’d risked returning for it—really, clothes and toiletries were eminently replaceable—but he’d sifted place again and she’d learned her lesson about keeping her mouth shut while doing so. (Fortunately they encountered no lakes on their itinerary this time; she was grateful they weren’t near the coast, materializing in shark-infested waters would have been way worse than being dunked with tadpoles.)
They continued sifting until she’d completely lost track of time, then boarded another passenger train.
Once on the train, he took a seat and pulled her down to sit between his legs, though maintaining space between their lower bodies. He drew her shoulders to his chest, wrapped his arms around her, and rested his jaw against her hair.
She was startled to realize he was shaking. It was almost imperceptible, but there was a deep tremor running through his powerful body.
“What’s wrong, Adam?” she asked nervously. What could make Adam Black shake? Did she even want to know? Had she missed something? Were they still not safe yet, even after all their frenzied sifting?
“What’s wrong?” he growled. “What’s wrong? Bloody hell, I screwed up, that’s what’s wrong! Do you know how lucky we were that he let me see and hear him? If he hadn’t, there’s no telling what might have happened. Christ, I’m not used to this being-powerless shit; I’m no frigging good at it.” A long pause, then a muffled oath. “I should never have stopped for the night, Gabrielle. I shouldn’t have stopped until I had you in Scotland and knew you were safe. I was a bloody arrogant fool.”
Arms snug around her, he lapsed into stony silence.
Gabby blinked and fell silent herself. Her heart did a dangerous little flip-flop inside her chest. I was a bloody arrogant fool, he’d said. Not words she’d ever expected to hear from your average imperious Fae.
But then, nothing about Adam was proving to be what she’d been raised to expect from the average imperious Fae.