He fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans. She pushed them down her hips. He moved lower, breath hot when his mouth moved across her stomach. She thrust her hips upward again and again, wanting to come, needing to come, wanting Lars to be the instrument that gave her body release.

He swirled his fingers around her clit and then moved his hand so he could sink two fingers inside her pussy. Heat seared her. His mouth. He licked, sucked, kissed her sensitive nub, while knowing fingers plumbed her vault. Tamara writhed beneath him. A climax spooled deep in her belly. He must have sensed it from the tension in her clit and against his fingers because he moved harder, faster.

She came, squirming and shrieking as spasms shot through her, but he didn’t stop. A second orgasm crowded on the heels of the first, leaving her stunned, breathless.

Somehow, she found herself in his arms and held on like a drowning woman might to a spar. They lay like that for long moments as the world came back into focus. She remembered herself and struggled to sit. He let go and looked at her; something flickered in the backs of his eyes. Was it sadness? Regret?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Sure and you’re quite the attractive man. Everything has been so intense, I lost control of my judgment.”

“Sex and death are linked, fraulein. Never forget that.” His deep voice grated, full of strong emotion. “When one is close, the other is never far away. It is not accidental orgasm is called la petite mort. The little death. We never come so close to death as we do during sex.”

“I hadn’t heard that before.” Why wasn’t he saying he liked her, wanted to get to know her better? Och, and I forgot, he probably has a wife. She got unsteadily to her feet and tugged her snug pants over her hips. “I’m sorry. I’ll be keeping myself under better control.”

He looked away. “As you wish, fraulein.” He stood, gathered his trousers, zipped them, and bowed stiffly. “Thank you for a charming interlude.” He turned and left, pulling the bathroom door shut behind him.

What the hell just happened? She flipped the taps and started the tub filling. Tamara sat on the toilet and took off her lace-up boots. Next, she stripped off her clothes and got into the tub with a small bar of soap, a washcloth, and a miniature plastic bottle of shampoo. It was fortunate she had something to do that kept her rooted in the bathroom. She wanted to rush into the living room, strip him naked, and crawl all over his body. What they’d shared had been a teaser, an appetizer. She wanted more of him, much more.

“Back off,” she murmured as she soaped, rinsed, shampooed. “If he were free, he’d have said as much.” She snorted. He’d have said something. He certainly wouldn’t have come up with that hokey lecture about sex and death. Never mind the philosophical yammering about orgasm. When she replayed their post-sex interaction, her inescapable conclusion was he’d seemed wretchedly uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable. Aye, that’s the key. He wants me just as much as I want him. We caught each other at a weak moment. Now guilt’s pricking him, on account of his wife or girlfriend, and he doesn’t know quite which way to turn.

Tamara levered herself from the water using the sides of the tub, stepped out, and dried off. She wished she’d had the presence of mind to drag her suitcase into the bathroom. Now she’d have to put the same clothes she’d spent the last eight or nine hours wearing back on.

That’s the least of my problems. She opened the tub’s drain, dressed, and hunted down a hairdryer. Tamara was stalling, but she wasn’t anxious to leave the bathroom and face Lars. What on earth would they say to one another? Should she reassure him she wasn’t a threat to his marriage?

I was going to do that earlier, and I never did. She placed her hand on the doorknob and sought the same resolve that had strengthened her spine when things got dicey with Jaret. When she had her emotions well enough in hand to keep tears at bay, she took a deep breath. She’d always wanted a man just like Lars, but he was taken. Even if he wasn’t, there was still the problem of her shifter blood. She’d just have to buck up and play the ball where it lay.

•●•

Lars stumbled from the bathroom. He hadn’t meant to accost her, but he’d sensed her arousal when she stepped from the bedroom. His cock was already so hard it ached. Seeing her, knowing she struggled with wanting him, undid him. Once she’d opened the door—at his request—he’d been hit full on by the heady scent of her desire and the game had been up. Nothing shy of a tsunami crashing through the suite could have kept them out of one another’s arms.

Ja, and look what it has bought me? We grappled like animals on the bathroom floor. I did not even have the presence of mind to pick her up, carry her to the bed, make love to her like the princess she is.

Fury swept through him and he pounded his fist into the nearest object. A lamp crashed to the floor. He froze, expecting the bathroom door to burst open, but then he realized she probably couldn’t hear anything over the sound of running water. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he kneeled, picked up the broken pieces, and carried them to the kitchen wastebasket.

Because he felt too hyped up to sit, he ran cold water at the kitchen sink and sluiced it over his face. The sweet taste of her pussy lingered on his tongue. His cock twitched, wanting more—much more.

Her body was amazing, even better than he’d imagined. She had full breasts with sand dollar nipples the color of burnished copper. A light dusting of freckles covered her chest, making him suspect at least one of her parents was a redhead. A slender waist flared to generous hips and a firmly muscled bottom. Tight black curls guarded the entrance to her body; they’d glistened with her fluids even before he’d closed his mouth over her. And her legs… He shut his eyes for a moment, picturing them. Long and shapely, they were banded with lean muscle. She must be a runner, or a climber, to have legs like that. Or maybe she rode a bike.

He cursed softly in German. None of it mattered. He’d always been a klutz socially. Working as an espionage agent fit his makeup perfectly because he never had to make small talk or schmooze people. That was more Garen’s job. Garen could be charming. Lars stumbled when he had to be anything less than straightforward.

He walked to a window, curled his hands around the sill, and looked out at the New York skyline. Forcing long, slow breaths, he catalogued what he knew about Tamara. It wasn’t much. Really only what Garen had told him. Maybe if they got to know one another first… He shook his head. That wouldn’t work. Not until the shifter stumbling block had been addressed. With that still standing in the way, the best they could tell each other would be half-truths.

He was three hundred sixty-seven years old, a few years older than Garen. Any history he shared with Tamara would be a sham unless he could admit that. He sensed she was much younger, but these things were difficult to assess.

Maybe I should not do anything until after we get to Seattle. He winced. Definitely the coward’s way out, but it seemed easier than any of the alternatives. What if she’d used some sort of Celtic witchcraft to heal herself and she wasn’t a shifter after all? Garen’s intel was good, but it wasn’t foolproof. He hadn’t gotten a look at her wound while they’d clawed at one another, ripe with need, because he’d never gotten her top off. All he’d done was shove it north of her breasts. If he’d seen her bare shoulder, he’d have recognized shifter healing. As it was, he could only guess.

I was little better than an animal in rut. He let go of the windowsill, doubled his hand into a fist, and slammed it into his thigh. His muscles bunched like they did when he found himself in life-and-death situations; he forced himself to relax, to breathe. He wouldn’t do anyone any good if he was this spun out.