"Eve has a unique sense of humor that tickles my funny-bone every time! Her brand of funny is twisted throughout her tales and in no way distracts from the hottness. Because those sex scenes are smokin!!!" - says Close Encounters With The Night Kind
From the Author
She sneezed behind him. "Ever hear of a Swiffer?"
Flinging open a cupboard, he grabbed at the linen stuffed inside, almost threadbare but dry. "Dusting is woman's work."
"Showing your age again, old man."
He'd show her old. Whirling, he tossed a dry cloth at her and, as she caught it, undid the fastening to his soaked plaid. With a shrug, he dropped it to the floor.
She ogled him, probably because he gave her something to ogle. Hands on his hips, erection jutting forth--a mighty one he'd not experienced in centuries--he smirked at her. "Does this look old to you?"
"Ack! I'm blind. Old man dick alert. Cover it up." She protested with her mouth, yet her eyes remained locked on his bare body. He swelled to an even mightier size. "Good grief. Just how big does that thing get? Should I duck and cover before it explodes?"
"Do ye never stop talking? I swear, lass. Ye chatter enough to drive a man insane. If I were your husband, I'd gag you." A subtle thrust of his hips let her know with what.
She clamped her lips shut, but interestingly enough, she didn't turn away. Nor did she blush. Brazen wench. Still naked, he strutted past her, feeling more than seeing her turn to watch as he knelt before the cold fireplace and tossed a few dry logs in. A strike of flint and he coaxed a flame to life.
While he'd taunted her into silence, he found he missed the dulcet mockery of her voice. He also wondered what she did behind his back. Did she rub the coarse linen over her delicate-skinned body? Did she stand naked in his home, still damp? Her mouth still defiant? Wearing only those decadent snakeskin boots?
If he swelled any further, it would probably explode like she jested. Attempting to act casual, he turned around and almost groaned in regret as he noted the threadbare linen covering her, sarong style. The wet lump of her toga hit him in the chest.
"Hang that by the fire, would you? I didn't bring a spare, and I refuse to escort you back wearing a rag." Head held high, her imperious tone and attitude begged an answer.
"I am not your servant." He flung her robe into the snapping flames at his back then smirked at her screech of rage as her toga sizzled.
"What did you do that for?"
"What part of I don't have anything to wear did you not grasp, Scot?"
"My name, lass, is Niall."
"And mine is Aella, not lass. Use it or--"
"I'll rip your tongue out and feed it to the carrion birds."
"I'd like to see ye try." He dared her. Purposely. She growled, and her eyes narrowed to the merest slits. Her whole body vibrated with irritation.
He'd never been so turned on.
With nothing to lose, he decided to see how far he could go. He tread toward her on bare feet, entering her personal space, crowding her. She held her ground, glaring, lips tight. He saw her hands tense at her sides, ready to respond to whatever threat he planned.
But he had a different kind of assault in mind. One of his hands darted forward and clasped her by the wet ponytail hanging over her shoulder, and he yanked her to his bare chest before slanting his mouth over hers.
For a moment, she held herself rigid as he let his lips slide over hers. Then, she bit him, hard enough to draw blood. He chuckled softly. "So ye like it rough? Lucky for both of us, so do I."