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

thought—werewolf? She felt for him in the dark, sure he had to be bleeding, and her fingers encountered
his smooth cheek. She jerked her hand away. "You're completely crazy, you know that?"

"No." She sensed him step close to her and threw another punch, no more fooling around—and her fist
smacked into his open palm.

He had blocked her punch. In itself, almost impossible unless he was also a black belt. And what were
the chances of being trapped in an elevator in the Wyndham Tower with a crazy man who was also a
black belt? More worrisome, he hadseen her strike coming. Whereas she couldn't see her hand in front
of her face.

She felt his fingers curl around her small fist, felt his thumb caress the knuckle of her first finger. Her
knees wanted to buckle, either from sudden, swamping fear or the sensation his warm fingers were
calling forth. "Brave Jeannie Lawrence," he murmured, his voice so low it sounded like tearing velvet.
"What a pity you didn't wait for the next elevator."

Then he deftly swept her legs out from under her and she was falling—but he was coming down with her
and cushioned her fall and was on top of her in an instant, his mouth on her throat, his hands busy at her
blouse. She shrieked in anger and dismay, raining blows on his shoulders, his chest, his face, and he took
them all without being deterred from his task. She heard a rending tear as he ripped her blouse away,
tugged at her bra . . . then felt the shock of it to her toes as his warm mouth closed over her nipple.

She tried to lunge away from him but he pinned her easily with one hand on her shoulders, while the
other tore at her clothes. "I'm sorry," he was groaning against her breast, "don't be afraid, I won't hurt
you . . . ah, God, your scent is driving meout of my mind. " That last ended on a growl, an ominous
rumble that filled the dark elevator.

She drew in a breath to scream the building down—and sobbed instead. He was too strong for her, she
was punching him and clawing him and kicking at him and he was barely noticing. This . . . thing he meant
to do, it was really going to happen. To her. Daughter of a cop and a Special Forces veteran, a man and
woman generous with their teaching, who never wanted their daughter to be a rape or murder statistic.
Jeannie could pick a lock and knock out most men with one punch. But she couldn't stop this man from
taking her by force. Never mind the fact that her mind kept shrieking that this wasn't happening to her,
this was not, was not, wasnot. It was.

"Don't cry," he begged, and she could feel his hands shaking as he gathered her against him. "We'll be
done soon. It won't hurt. I'm so sorry to scare you."

"Please don't," she whispered, hating the way she sounded—so helpless, so frightened—but unable to
do anything about it. "Please don't do this."

He groaned again and squeezed her in a rough hug. "I have to. I'm not mated, I don't have any control
over this, just like later I won't have any control over—but you don't believe me, so we won't talk about
that." His voice was still soothing, and now his hands were beneath her, stroking her back, forcing her
chest up, and his mouth was buried in her throat, kissing and licking and even—very gently—biting.

She could hear his breathing roughen in the dark, heard another rip as her skirt was torn. She
remembered herself and struck out at him again, blindly, connecting hard but with no apparent effect. He
shredded her linen skirt like it was paper . . . Christ, he was strong! But his hands on her bare flesh were
gentle, almost languid. They were everywhere, stroking her skin, sliding across her limbs, and she felt her