He tore his lips from hers to drag his mouth down her neck. His teeth clamped gently on her nipple through her shirt. She shrieked, bucking against him. Through the thin cotton of her shirt he continued to bite and suck her nipples into turgid pebbles, drawing each deep into his mouth. She brought her hands to his head, tangling them in the long, thick strands of hair. The roll of his tongue over the wet cotton created a delicious friction, drawing mewling, animal-like cries from deep in her throat.

Wild for the taste of him, she shoved at his chest and rolled him over, straddling him with a strength and speed that surprised even her. Something other than desire flickered in his gaze as he looked up at her, but she did not give him—or herself—time to think. Scooting low on his hips, she ran her hands down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. Unzipping him, she found him through the opening in his boxers. Closing her hand around the hard length of him, she gently squeezed. The blood burned through her veins as he pulsed in her hand. She traced her thumb over the silken tip of him, rubbing the bead of moisture that appeared there.

Groaning, he clamped hard hands around her arms and rolled her under him. Slamming his mouth over hers, he kissed her with a savagery that should have shocked her. A growl swelled deep from her throat. He thrust himself against her, driving her into the floor.

Panting, she tore her lips from his. “Please,” she begged, writhing beneath him.

She was lost. Mindless. She had to have him. Now. On the floor. She didn’t care as long as he was inside her.

“I know,” he murmured, hands sliding down her arms to her wrists in an almost gentle hold.

The soft, grinding click did not immediately register. Not until he pulled back. Not until it was too late.

Staring up at him, she blinked in bewilderment, bereft without his hands and mouth on her.

Then it hit her.

“You bastard!”

She tugged her wrists apart, but the steel handcuffs imprisoned her hands together. Fury exploded inside her—and with it an irrational sense of betrayal. He hadn’t wanted her at all. Her heart clenched in pain. He had only wanted to distract her. So he could kill her. With a bellow of rage she swung her cuffed wrists toward his head with all the strength she possessed and made contact with a satisfying whack.

Flat on her belly, cuffed to the leg of her mother’s antique woodstove, Claire wondered why he hadn’t simply killed her. Especially after the murderous look he gave her after she struck him.