Page 55 of Taken By The Wolves (Blackwood Forest #2)

GOLDIE

I follow Mr. Bjorn through a long hallway, gazing into opulently decorated rooms as we pass until we reach a surprisingly modern kitchen.

Dark shaker-style cabinets are topped with slabs of oak, complete with the rough bark edge.

Copper pots hang from hooks, and a colossal stove dominates one corner.

This isn’t an incompetent bachelor’s kitchen.

It’s a space designed by someone who enjoys cooking or at least understands the importance of tasty, nutritious food.

A large old-fashioned wooden trunk rests in front of the back door, holding it closed, and the drilled-out locks are noticeable gashes.

“So, this is where they broke in?”

“Yes.”

He hauls the trunk out of the way with his giant hands, making the heavy work look so easy, I shiver.

His huge biceps bulge beneath his sweater, and his back muscles ripple.

I look him over, finding thick, muscular thighs straining against his pants and an ass capable of driving his slim hips in a punishing rhythm.

His back muscles are so densely packed that they’re visible through his sweater.

Suddenly dry-mouthed, I clear my throat.

Stepping forward, I rest my tools on the floor and inspect the damage. My cheeks are hot, but the under-cupboard lighting is dim enough to cover any evidence of my arousal.

Mr. Bjorn stays close enough that his scent settles around me, fogging my mind. Jesus. Am I so hard up for sex that just smelling a man gets me hot under the collar?

Yes, Goldie. Yes, you are!

He inhales deeply which I take to be the precursor to a sigh rather than an attempt to sniff me, too.

It looks like a relatively straightforward job, and I tell him as much. Mr. Bjorn nods, so I start to work. After I’ve been laboring for about five minutes with his serious eyes resting on my back like fingertips, he asks me if I want a cup of coffee.

“Small, medium, or large cup?” he asks when I accept, which is odd, but I ask for a small one with cream and sugar. It’s the middle of the night, after all.

“I have honey,” he says.

“That’ll be fine.” Who the hell doesn’t have sugar in the house?

I don’t watch him grinding the beans or brewing the coffee, but the sound of him moving languidly and quietly behind me in his cavernous kitchen sets the hairs rising on the back of my neck.

He rests the drink on the floor beside me, and I take two grateful sips before continuing.

He sits at the kitchen counter, sipping his drink and watching me like a looming bear with his dark, shaggy hair and beard.

I don’t feel the need to make conversation, which is strange.

Usually, under the circumstances, I’d be babbling away about the price of things, the rise in crime, and the weather.

All the topics that strangers wheel out to keep the space between them comfortable.

Around me, the air becomes warm, so warm that my eyes droop as I work diligently to finish the job.

I stifle a yawn behind my hand and reach for more coffee.

I’m going to need the full caffeine pep if I’m going to make it home in one piece, but I’m suddenly so tired.

When the last screw is turned, I swivel to face Mr. Bjorn, finding his face impassive.

His eyes drift over me, from my messy blonde hair to my face, then my body clad in work overalls to my sneakered feet.

It’s impossible to discern his feelings about my appearance.

Still, his gaze is like a heavy stroke over my heated skin.

I push a stray curl from my eyes, wishing I’d made a little more effort.

“I’ve finished here, but I still have some other locks that you requested left in my bag. Did the intruders break into another room?”

He rubs his right hand over his bulging arm, shifting the soft fabric over his left bicep. The effect is mesmerizing.

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Lead the way. Is it downstairs or a bedroom door?”

“Bedroom,” he says, “but I should warn you—”

“Yes?”

“It’s… it’s not what you’d expect.”

Mr. Bjorn stands and turns, walking toward the hallway, and I grab my toolbox and bag, following as he climbs the stairs.

God, he has a sexy walk; a slow panther-like gait.

He seems filled with coiled power, so restrained and quiet on the outside but with a boiling intensity behind his eyes that I feel in my bones.

It’s like standing near a generator; you just know if you tapped into it right, the results would be electric.

He slows as we reach the top, and we begin to make our way down yet another long hallway.

The eyes on the portraits seem to follow my progress.

The door at the end is ajar, and when we’re five paces or so from the room, Mr. Bjorn turns suddenly and stops dead.

It’s so abrupt, I almost run right into him.

“The room behind this door is very private,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “I would ask that you keep the knowledge of it to yourself.”

“Of course.” Images flood my mind. Is it set up as a shrine to his long-dead mother? Or maybe it’s full of women’s clothing that he wears when he’s alone? I can’t imagine where he’d get the stuff to fit his looming large frame, but it looks as though he has the money to commission a tailor.

“They broke into the bedroom because I keep it locked up, and they must have thought valuables were inside.”

“But there weren’t?”

“No.”

Neither of us moves, and his solemn brown eyes bore into my confused baby blues.

“So… I guess I should work on the locks, then?”

“Okay.” Mr. Bjorn takes a deep breath and steps aside, allowing me to pass, before he follows slowly behind.

I push on the door so I can inspect the damage, but as it swings open, my breath catches in my throat.