"Mary Janice Davidson - Wyndham Werewolves 01 - Love's Prisoner" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

"The moon's coming. I can feel her." She heard him swallow hard. "There isn't much time."

"Boy, have you gotthat right." She put her arms out in front of her, feeling in the dark, then stepped
forward and banged on the elevator door. "Hello!" she shouted. "Anybody up there? A nice girl and a
raving lunatic are trapped in here!"

"You're ovulating," he said directly in her ear, and she shrieked and flung herself away from him, so hard
that she bounced off the far wall and would have fallen had he not caught her. Even in her startlement, she
was conscious of the easy strength of his hand, in his scent, a crisp, clean, utterly masculine smell that she
liked very much, despite her sudden fear.

"You—" Her mouth was dry; she swallowed to force moisture and finished her rant. "You scared the
hell out of me!Don't sneak up on me like that, for the love of—and you can let go of me, too." She
yanked her arm out of his grip, her heart yammering so loudly she felt certain he could hear it. And what
was that absurd thing he had said? Had he really said—

"It's too late. You're ovulating," he said, his voice a low rumble in the dark. "You're . . . in heat, to put it
a little more crudely. And I'm too close to my change."

"Then empty your pockets," she said rudely. "Let your change out."

"You don't want me to do that," he said softly. "Oh, no."

She supposed some women would be reduced to panic at this turn of events, but this weirdo with the
sexy voice and strong hands had no idea who he was dealing with. She had a black belt in karate, could
drill a dime at fifty yards, and had once put a would-be mugger in the hospital with cracked ribs. If this
guy tried anything with her, he was going to have a very bad day.
"Look, I'm sorry you're feeling . . . uh . . . unwell, but if you just stay calm, they'll have us out of here in
no ti—"

With that same shocking suddenness, his hand was behind her neck, tilting her face up, and she could
feel his mouth near her temple, heard him inhale deeply. "You're in heat," he murmured in her ear, "and
the moon's coming up." He inhaled again, greedily. Frozen by his actions, she waited for his next words.
"I'm very sorry."

Then his mouth was on hers. Pressed against the far wall of the elevator, she could feel his long, hard
length against her body, could feel his hands on her, could hear his rasping breath. She had the absurd
sense he was wallowing in her scent, glorying in it. And she came absurdly close to relaxing in his
embrace, to kissing him back. Instead, moving independently of her brain, her hands struggled up and
pressed against his chest, hard, but it was like trying to move a tree.

"Oh, Christ," he groaned into her hair.

"Don't—"

"I'm sorry."

"—stop it—"

"I'm very sorry."