Free Some Kind of Magic by Theresa Weir Page A

tucked her feet under her bottom as he spun the bed around so the head was near the door.
    “I see it,” he said. “Give me that blanket.” Keeping a grip on one corner of the blanket, he gave it a toss, dragging the quilt across the floor and back to him.
    On the fourth try, Claire heard the soft ping of metal. Dylan pulled the blanket closer, then bent and picked up the key.
    He unlocked his cuff, then looked up at Claire, who was kneeling on the edge of the bed waiting.
    She held out her hand. “The key.”
    His eyebrows lifted.
    “Come on,” she said in disbelief. “You’re not going to leave me here. You can’t.”
    “It might be fun.”
    “For you.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Give me the key.”
    “I’ll brush your teeth. I’ll shave you. Do you have any places that need to be shaved?” His gaze traveled slowly down her body, then back up to make sensual contact with her eyes.
    “Yeah, my back.”
    His mouth dropped open, then he let out a shout of laughter. Hand to his stomach, he doubled over, unable to stop laughing.
    She frowned. Her intent had been to disgust him, not set him off in an orgasm of mirth. “You can stop laughing now.”
    He finally started to wind down, actually reaching that period where you stop laughing completely, then start again, then stop until the whole thing finally fizzles out.
    A shiver ran through her. It was so cold! The temperature in the room had to have dropped twenty degrees during their little intimacy session.
    With a smile still hovering at the edges of his mouth, he reached over—and unlocked the cuff.
    Her hand fell away from the bed rail, her arm too weak to do anything but drop to the mattress. With her other hand, she rubbed her wrist, trying to get some of the feeling back in it. Then she scrambled off the bed and ran for the bathroom. The lock was broken so she only pretended to secure the door behind her, hoping he would leave her alone.

Chapter 13
    Back to square one, she thought, peeling off clothes that were almost dry. Not bothering with a bra, she grabbed a flannel shirt from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on. But when she tried to button it, she couldn’t make her left hand work.
    Two minutes later she was still struggling. Dylan knocked on the door. “Hurry up.”
    “I am.”
    She was still working on button number two. Damn. It was next to impossible with only one hand.
    The doorknob turned and he walked right in. “Here. Move your hands.”
    “I can do it.”
    “I'm standing right here.”
    “I don't want your help.”
    “For chrissake.” He brushed her hand away. She watched as he buttoned her shirt, all the while aware of her nakedness under the soft flannel. There had been a moment back there when she had wanted him to kiss her. And even now, the thought of such a kiss scared her. But it also intrigued her. She kept wondering what his mouth would feel like pressed to hers.
    “What’s a girl like you doing with a set of handcuffs?” he asked, his head bent in studious concentration.
    “You mean someone who smells like mothballs and drinks castor oil?”
    “No, I mean someone who lives in the mountains by herself and chops her own firewood.” He actually sounded curious about her, wonder of wonders. Maybe she wasn’t quite as boring as she thought.
    “They were a present.”
    “From Anton?”
    “Maybe.” It was none of his business.
    Was it her imagination, or did his hands linger over the last button?
    When he was finished, he ran his fingers down the entire row, starting just below her chin and ending above her belly. “There,” he said looking up, his hand still on her stomach.
    “Thanks.”
    “Anytime.”
    They were standing in the tiny bathroom, face-to-face, toe-to-toe.
    She inched past him, her heart racing. She didn't look back, but she knew he was watching her. In the living room, she discovered that he'd loaded the stove with wood. From the bathroom came the sound of the shower.
    Still cold, Claire