Page 41 of Blood & Snow

“Insanity is the logic of a troubled mind, little bird."

He's so close, I can smell the vodka on his breath.

"Bierce?" I ask, not realizing this man actually read those books on his bookshelves, and that's what does it for me.

He's not a ruthless, mindless killing machine.

Xander is somewhat cultured, and my gut is melting now.

When he leans down to kiss me, I don't resist.

His mouth captures mine with hungry demand, and I open to him, letting him search my mouth with his tongue.

He's greedy and strong, using his fingers hooked around the back of my neck to pin me in place.

I respond with equal fervor, my hands fisting in his shirt as I pull him closer.

Every logical objection my mind produces gets overwhelmed by physical need.

His body against mine feels right in ways that make no sense, dangerous man or not.

His kiss bruises, his tongue devours, and when I try topull back for air, his hand fists in my hair and drags me closer again.

“You fight me even now,” he mutters against my lips, breath hot.

His hand leaves my waist, drops low, and cups me through my jeans.

“But your body doesn’t lie.”

A gasp rips from my throat when his fingers press harder, dragging over the seam until I can’t stand still.

He smirks, then seizes my wrist and yanks me across the living room.

I stumble after him, sweater half undone, hair tangled, pulse hammering as he hauls me down the hallway.

“Xander—”

“Bedroom,” he snaps, pushing the door open and shoving me inside.

The room is stark but enormous, windows revealing the river lights, bed dressed in black sheets.

He kicks the door shut behind him, slams me against it, and pins me there with his weight.

My back hits the wood, his thigh wedges between mine, and I grind down without thinking, desperate for friction.

“You see?” His voice is a growl, gray eyes feral.

“You’d sell me hate with your mouth, but your cunt is begging.”

His mouth takes mine again savagely, while his hands rip at my sweater until it comes free.

The bra goes next, straps tugged down, fabric yanked until the cups collapse and my breasts spill into his palms.

He groans, bites my nipple, and I cry out, clutching at his shirt.

“On the bed,” he orders.

My legs move before my brain catches up, dragging me toward the mattress.