The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

cappuccino colour. She hobbled into the room. Paint tins were neatly placed on a folded drop cloth, roller trays washed and stacked. And there was a high-power light in the corner, switched to “Off, but still plugged into the outlet. Plugged in. Which meant it needed electricity to work. This couldn’t be the blue light Lina Peteri had seen in the woods.
    With a sigh of relief, Jen turned back towards the bedroom door. Her heart twitched and stopped.
    The wall was still covered in her grandmother’s paper, but it looked fresh and new. No dirt, smears or tears. Somehow Daemon had cleaned and restored it. Moving closer, she placed her hand on the wall, feeling her world tip and tilt. What sort of man did something like this? Something so selflessly kind?
    From outside came the slam of a car door, the roar of an engine, and a moment later Daemon was there, framed in the doorway, his dark hair falling across his brow. His lips curved in a small smile.
    “Sheriff Hale left?” Jen asked, feeling inexplicably awkward.
    “Yeah.” Daemon closed the space between them. “Do you like it? The paper?”
    “I love it.” I could love you, if I let myself. Oh God, where had that thought come from? This man was not for her. He could never be for her. She had known for her whole life that she was different, that no man could be her future. And for the first time, that reality made her unbearably sad.
    “I’m sorry I couldn’t save it all, but I managed to strip away enough bits from the three most damaged walls and use them to patch the fourth. Then I restored it with an eraser and a little brush—” he gestured at a couple of small paint tins “—after I matched the colour of the flowers.”
    Again, her world tilted. The amount of work he’d done. For her. He’d done this for her.
    “Thank you. You have no idea—”
    “But I do. That’s why I did it.”
    His blue eyes were bright and clear against the fringe of dark lashes. They were beautiful, deep, and glittering with something she was afraid to acknowledge. She felt the heat of him as he stepped closer. Catching her wrist, he drew her hand to his face, turning to rest his jaw against her palm. He drew a shallow breath and held very still, careful, cautious, as though it had been a long while since anyone had touched him this way.
    The contact scorched her, made her ache and yearn.
    Her crutches limited her movements and she cursed them silently. She wanted to rise up on her toes, press her mouth to his.
    “Kiss me,” she whispered. It was both an order and a plea.
    He slid his fingers to the base of her skull, threading them through the strands of her hair. Her eyes flew open, then fluttered closed as he kissed her, lips hard on hers. He wanted her and he let her know that, his kiss spinning through her, touching every part of her like a live wire. With a moan, she arched into him, her crutches clattering to the floor, her weight held in his arms.
    Heat and need spiralled through her. She wanted him, needed him, here, now. She opened beneath his kiss, tongues twining, teeth scraping. With one hand, he slammed the bedroom door shut, then pressed her back against it, his mouth hungry on hers. He bulged against his jeans as she fumbled with the zipper, freeing him, closing her hand around his hot skin. Desire scoured her, leaving her panting.
    One hand slid under her buttocks, his other hand curving under the splint that guarded her injured knee. With a moan, she let her head fall back against the door, and she gave herself over to him, to the promise that his tightly corded muscles could hold her there.
    He kissed her, open-mouthed, deep. Sensation spiked, her hips rocking in time with his, her moans and cries swallowed by his kiss. He made a raw sound: hard-edged pleasure and animal lust. She unravelled, her body clenched tight around him. Ecstasy rode her senses, blurring her thoughts, her awareness.
    Finally, panting, he dropped his head, nuzzling the curve of her neck, still holding her up against the door. She felt weightless, boneless. Wonderfully alive. Then he shifted her so she was cradled in his arms and he carried her to her bed. There, he stripped off her clothes and kissed her - her neck, her belly, her breasts - taking his time, teasing her. He took her again, driving them both over the edge.
    “Sleep,” he whispered, cradling her in his arms. “Sleep, love.”
    And she did, her lids drifting shut, her body replete.
    When she woke, he was