She intoxicated him.
Her ferocity called to something inside of him.
Because he knew it for what it was. Both an attack and a defense. He’d cornered her, and so she would make certain she was in control by claiming the kiss.
And he didn’t want that.
What he wanted was her to enjoy it.
Bracketing her face with his hands, Raphael brushed tender thumbs over the downy curve of her cheekbones as he fought back the savage lust that hardened his body. He longed to take her. To possess and invade her, to thrust into her with the same abandon she showed now.
Images tormented him. Of her bent over things, tied to other things, writhing at the wickedness he could wreak upon her.
It tantalized him to the brink of madness.
And yet.
Some foreign sort of affection welled within him. While his body was hard, inside his rib cage, something loosened.
Softened.
This was not a moment to conquer.
But to seduce.
He brushed his thumbs to where their lips met, and nudged at the corner of her mouth, drawing it open and slack. He broke the seal, unhooking their tongues. Instead, he dragged his slick lips over hers in languid, gliding motions. Once. And again. Coaxing her to respond.
She reacted just how he’d hoped, her arms more embracing than clutching. Her hands kneading rather than clawing.
God, he could live to make this kitten purr.
Had there ever been a woman so perfectly rendered for kissing?
Her curves were more pronounced next to the hard planes of his own body, her breasts straining against his chest, her hips flaring dramatically when his hands charted the indent of her waist to rest there.
Somewhere in the distance, a lion roared. A child squealed.
The sounds broke her of whatever thrall he might have held.
Small hands flattened against his chest before she gave a mighty shove.
Raphael allowed it, retreating several steps.
Glowering in his direction, she wiped at her lips with the back her gloves, as if scrubbing the taste of him away. “You must stop doing that,” she commanded. “It’s—It’s—”
“Delicious?” he supplied helpfully.
“Disgusting,” she spat.
“You did not seem disgusted to me,” he taunted. “What I think you are, is afraid.”
“I am not afraid of you.” She circled him like he might be a predator about to attack, inching toward the entrance to their intimate alley.
Raphael tried not to examine why he felt the small distance between them in the very essence of himself. The pads of his fingers, the fine hairs of his body. They seemed tuned to her by some magnetic force, drawing him forward.
“Are you afraid you’ll like me?” he challenged. “That you’ll want more?”
“N-no.” Her eyes darted this way and that as she took two more steps backwards.
“Why are you retreating, then?”
She froze. Blinked. Then squared her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full—if less than impressive—height.
“I’m not retreating, I’m—I’m leaving. There’s a difference.” Spinning on her bootheel, she hurried until she reached the end of the alley, and flounced around the corner.
When Raphael caught up, she was strolling toward the entrance, quite obviously doing her level best to keep her footsteps steady so not to appear as though she fled.
He should let her go.
He should turn around and put her behind him. Focus on the task at hand and not give in to the strange and unmistakable lure.
It was as if she had his heart affixed to a spool of string like a kite, and he trailed after her—above her—in quivering anticipation of the moment she would pull him out of the wind.
No good could come of this. He...should...just...
“I’ll squire you out.” The offer slipped from his lips before he could pull it back.
She rewarded his chivalry with a sharp glare. “I hardly need a squire, and don’t require your company.”
“Evidently not, but in order to quit the zoo, I also need use of the gate.”
“There’s the other entrance.” She pointed toward the back where he’d left Marco.
“Alas, this one is the one I prefer.” He offered a gesture of regret that conveyed there’s nothing to be done, and sauntered after her.
She made an exceedingly unladylike sound of exasperation and quickened her pace. “Just keep your hands and your lips to yourself.”
Raphael lengthened his strides, having no issue keeping up with her. He breathed in the frigid air tinged with her singular scent, and didn’t even lament the clouds as they drifted toward the sun in a threatening manner.
Even at the bitter end of winter, when all tended to be grey and gloomy, she smelled of sweet herbs and sunshine, evoking memories of sipping pastis on sun-drenched verandas of the Mediterranean.
The shadows could not touch her. The grey couldn’t dim her, no matter how it might try.
And he was a moth mesmerized by her flame.
A vendor called to her, holding out paper wrapped around candied nuts.
“No, thank you,” she said as she bustled on by.
He trotted to catch up. “You’re a lady of taste, surely you can spare a coin for—”
Raphael maneuvered himself closer and it only took a censuring look to send the man scampering in the other direction.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered beneath an irate breath.
“You’re welcome.” He flashed her a winsome smile as if he’d not caught the sarcasm in her voice, and clasped his hands behind his back to make himself seem more casual.
She whirled on him, thrusting a finger at his chest. “What is the matter with you? Do you enjoy throwing your strength and malice into the faces of those less powerful? Do you prefer it when people fear you? Does it lend you some perverted sort of thrill?”
“Of course not,” he defended, running the tip of his tongue over lips that still tasted of her. “I get my perverted thrills elsewhere.”
“Bah!” She threw her hands up in an ironically violent gesture of defeat and stomped away, abandoning all pretense of composure.
Thoroughly amused, Raphael fell into step with her. “I shouldn’t like you to fear me,” he explained.
“As I said, I do not, but you just intimidated that poor man back there.”
“I didn’t want him to hassle you.”
“No, of course not, when you’re doing such an excellent job of it.”
He sighed, hating that he felt the need to explain himself to her as he had no one else in his entire lifetime. “Fear isn’t something I find enticing, merely...useful.”
“Useful?” She wrinkled her forehead in puzzlement as if she couldn’t fathom how or why anyone would use such an awful, powerful phenomenon. “You mean, in your criminal enterprise?”
“Yes.”
“You make men fear you so that you may control them.” She said this with conviction, as if she had experience in the matter.
Keeping his hands distinctly clasped behind him—so as not to give in to the overpowering urge to once again pull her against his body—Raphael surprised himself by telling her the truth. “There is a difference between leading men and controlling them. Again, I prefer people not fear me.”