Master of Smoke

look at him. “I tawt I taw a puddy tat.”
    He blinked. “I do not understand.”
    “You’re staring at me like a cartoon cat watching something in a cage. Cut it out.”
    He contemplated her, frustration replacing hunger. “Sometimes you make no sense at all.”
    Eva snorted. “You’re not the first man to tell me that, Fang.”
    “My name is Cat.” He took a step closer, forcing her to look up at him. She was acutely aware of his hands, his heat, his strong, hard body. And his eyes, so very, very blue. “Fang is a joke. I am not a joke.” His hand caught her behind the back of her neck and drew her against him. And his mouth swept down to cover hers.
    He was right. There was nothing at all funny about his kiss. His mouth moved over hers, slow and hot and tempting. He caught her lower lip between his teeth in a gentle bite until she opened her mouth to gasp. His tongue swept inside in a bold, licking stroke.
    By the time he took a lazy step back, she was left staring at him with her heart pounding in deep lunges that vibrated her sternum.
    Cat picked up a pot holder, opened the oven, and pulled out the broiler pan. The steaks sizzled loudly as he put the pan on the stove.
    “Oh,” Eva muttered. “I thought that sound was me.”
    One corner of his mouth quirking upward, he took the flatware and wineglasses and sauntered to the kitchen table. He had really broad shoulders.
    Told you, Fluffy said.
    Shut up. Eva started plating the food. Maybe if I stuff him full of meat, he won’t be able to molest me.
    Fluffy hooted. You want something stuffed full of meat, but it’s not him.
    You’ve got a trashy streak, furball.
    Yeah, and you talk to yourself.

    Eva was uncomfortably conscious of Cat the whole time they ate. The slide of muscle in his strong forearms when he cut his steak with neat efficiency, the crow-wing gleam of his long hair, tucked back to reveal the elegant curve of one pointed ear. The way his sensual lips closed over a bite of steak and drew it off his fork. His hungry gaze watched her over the rim of his wineglass whenever he took a sip. As aware of her as she was of him.
    Her nipples hardened. Eva crossed her legs under the table and looked away from the precise angles of his face.
    Feeling the need for a little more distance, she got up and started clearing the table as soon as they were finished eating. The tactic backfired when Cat rose to help her, his big hands brushing hers as he collected knives, forks, and salad bowls.
    They loaded the dishwasher, Eva showing him where the different items went. By the time they finished, her senses were thrumming with awareness of his size, his masculinity, his sheer heat.
    Collecting the wine bottle and her glass, Eva retreated to the living room couch. Which was a tactical mistake. Cat sauntered after her lazily, his own glass cupped in long fingers.
    She looked up at him as he sank down next to her. “Cat, I really ...”
    Before she could finish her sentence, his mouth covered hers again, hot and demanding, his fingers brushing her jaw, trailing fire along her skin. She made a little sound, a tiny, helpless moan.
    God, he tasted good. Wine and masculinity and a trace of something wild. His hand slipped down the line of her throat, a teasing dance that made her shiver in anticipation.
    Fluffy started purring.
    Heat raced over Eva’s skin as fierce desire ignited, the feral need blazing high. His fingers closed over her breast, squeezing and stroking as he kissed her, his tongue swirling inside her mouth in hot demand.
    Bending her back against the arm of the couch, he reached down, grabbed the hem of her Comix Cave T-shirt, and pulled it high to reveal the pale curves of her breasts cupped in rose lace. He lowered his head, took the lace between his teeth, and dragged it down until he could reach her nipple. Then he began raking it with his teeth and swirling his tongue over the peak until she twisted in need.
    Drowning in a rising tide of heat, it took her a few minutes to realize something was missing. He looked like David, but he didn’t make love like her lover. His hands were just the slightest bit rougher in the way they handled her, the rake of his teeth a fraction harder. Not enough to hurt, but more ruthless, more demanding. The tenderness David had shown her just wasn’t there. Cat made love as if he was demanding her surrender.
    And she wanted to surrender. She really did. But she couldn’t.
    Don’t you dare bail, hissed