“Well don’t,” Isabeau advised.

But he could tell his hands were already working magic. He could see the evidence of her desire, her receptiveness gleaming between her legs. He worked his hand down the curve of her butt to the crease between her thigh and buttocks and rubbed as well, inserting his hand to force her legs farther apart.

She softened more, became pliant for him. He bent his head to nip at the soft flesh, several little love bites, all the while continuing his massage. She moaned softly when his fingers slid through damp heat. Her stomach muscles bunched and her body flushed.

“Does this feel good, baby?” he asked, spearing two fingers into her hot core.

Her body shuddered, inner muscles tightening around him. She was so responsive, so open to him, always indulging him and any fantasy he had. He hadn’t started out thinking this was going to be anything but accomplishing an end, but now he couldn’t have stopped his explorations if he wanted.

His hands moved over her possessively, paying attention to her thighs and buttocks, and then plunging his fingers deep. He found her most sensitive spot and teased and circled until she was lifting her bottom and riding his hand.

“Does it feel good, Isabeau?” His fingers stroked and caressed, exploring every hidden secret recess and shadowed hollow of her body. “Tell me.”

Isabeau’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Yes. Everything you do always feels good.” She was truthful. The more she let him know what she liked, the better each time together was. She could never resist him. When he touched her, she felt alive. She’d thought to fall on the bed and just go to sleep for as long as she could, but the moment his hands touched her body, all she could do was want.

She never expected there would be something terribly erotic in lying over his lap with his hand holding her down and her buttocks being massaged and fondled, but there was a guilty thrill, a pleasure she had never considered. She could feel his heavy erection, hotter than a brand against her stomach. She knew this new position was arousing to him as well.

She wasn’t surprised when his hand lifted and came down experimentally on her bottom. The sting sent warmth coursing through her. The smack wasn’t hard, and she knew he’d test her response. She was as shocked as he was at the flood of liquid heat bathing his fingers. Every inner muscle clamped down around his fingers. His hand rubbed and caressed over the heat.

“What does it feel like?” He whispered the words, his voice a sinful temptation. “You have to tell me everything.”

“Hot. The nerves spread straight to my clit. I can’t explain it exactly, but there’s so much heat, like a fire building that I can’t stop.”

“Do you like it?”

“As long as it’s not really painful. I wouldn’t like that.” But she loved the massage and the way his fingers moved in and out of her—the way he explored her body without reservation, with his hands and mouth. He was cat, and it showed in his oral need to lap at her skin, to tease with the edge of his teeth and massage tactilely.

“Then I’m sorry, baby, but I have to do this.” He withdrew his fingers, reached behind him to get the syringe. He pulled the cap with his teeth, put the syringe in his mouth and brought down his hand a little harder, hoping the sting would momentarily numb her skin. He plunged the needle in and pushed the plunger to dispense the antibiotic.

She hissed, a long, slow promise of retaliation. He wasn’t a male leopard for nothing. He recognized a female cat’s displeasure and he wasn’t about to let her up until he soothed her and made her forget such an indignity.

“I’m sorry, beloved, but you refused even the doctor.”

She turned her head to glare at him. Her eyes had gone cat, taking on the fiery glow of the night. In the moonlight she looked incredibly exotic, her pale skin soft and enticing, the perfect globes of her butt tempting and her red hair tumbling around her furious little face. His entire body tightened, his shaft painful and full.

“There was a reason for that, you dimwit. It’s called a needle phobia.”

“You told him you weren’t allergic when he asked you,” he pointed out. His hand began a circular massage to ease the ache and, if he was lucky, start a new one.

“A phobia isn’t an allergy,” she explained. “Now let me up.”

She was becoming receptive to his attentions again but her voice said she didn’t like it, she wanted to keep her “mad.” He stroked his tongue across the sore spot and slid his fingers deep inside her again.

“You’re so wet, honey.” He withdrew his fingers just as she was pushing back against his hand to draw him deeper. “See?” He held them, gleaming with moisture, in front of her face. “Like nectar.” His hand was back, massaging and rubbing. “I want you, Isabeau, are you going to tell me no?”

She shivered at the dark promise in his voice. The hand on her back eased and he allowed her to slide off his lap. She sat on the floor gingerly, afraid of sitting squarely on the offending sting. She looked up at him. The moonlight spilled across his face, giving him a softer edge in spite of the scars. She lifted her hand and cupped the side of his face, her thumb sliding along the groove of the deepest scar.

“Rio told me you got an infection.”

His hand covered hers, and then he turned his head and pressed kisses into the center of her palm. “I’ve gotten them before and will again.” His golden gaze burned into hers. “I took my shot of antibiotics without whining.”