The lean lines of his body were stretched taut on display, muscles bunching, sinew pulling. He was a fine specimen. She told herself this was only a clinical observation, that she was not admiring him in a licentious way even if she was feeling the telltale signs of arousal herself. Even if she was suffering from shortness of breath. Even if she was imagining putting her hands on him. That was simply a physiological response. As a scientist she could appreciate that.

Nora took a bracing gulp of breath. This was not about her. She was not under the influence of various elements. She was a healer and he required healing. It was as simple as that.

She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat.

She could help him. That was what she did, after all. Where she excelled. She owed him that much.

She approached tentatively, stopping at the edge of the bed.

His dark eyes fastened on her as a spasm rolled through his body. He still gripped his member, pulling and tugging on it in a way that made her cringe. “Go away, Nora.” Then quieter, “Please.”

“I can’t do that.” She eased down on the bed. “Let me help. I owe you that.”

His nostrils flared as though the sudden nearness of her was too much.

“Mr. Sin—” She stopped, catching herself. At this point it was just silly to address him so formally. “Constantine—”

He moved then, sprang to life like an unleashed jungle animal.

She gasped as he snatched her up and flung her back on the mattress as though she was weightless, a feather, a bit of fluff to be tossed and maneuvered for the pleasure of his big, unrestrained body.

He came over her, his nose deeply inhaling before descending and finding her throat, rubbing against her suddenly sensitized skin.

Heavens. He was . . . feral.

She should struggle. Protest.

Open her mouth and scream for help.

And yet as his nose buried in the crook of her neck, she turned her head and arched her throat, exposing more flesh for him. Offering him more. All. Everything.

Her gaze landed on one of his arms, braced taut and quivering beside her head. His nose and lips moved, grazing the line of her neck and she couldn’t stop herself. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his arm, curling her hand around his warm bicep, gasping at the singe of his flesh under her fingers, at the reciprocity of touch between them.

He jerked at the sensation of her hand on him, pulling his head back with a hiss and looking down at her with a mixture of astonishment and anguish. “No,” he croaked.

“Constan—”

“No,” he said louder, firmer. He shook his head once, twice, side to side. “No. Don’t touch me. I can’t if you . . . just put hands on me.”