Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Sylvia’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the chaos in her mind.

His thumb was still slowly stroking the inside of her wrist.

As if he did not know he was ruining her ability to behave like a functional citizen.

Or worse, as if he knew exactly and was trying very hard not to.

Sylvia stared at their hands, at the impossible size of his fingers around her wrist, at the way he held her without trapping her, and knew with sudden, devastating certainty that if she let this moment pass because she was embarrassed, or nervous, or afraid of wanting too much, she would regret it for the rest of her life.

”I do not want you to misunderstand,” she said.

Her voice barely made it out.

Thomas’s gaze remained steady, but now that Sylvia was looking properly, she could see the truth beneath the calm. The pulse at his throat was beating too fast for him to be calm.

”I do not want to misunderstand you either,” she added.

Thomas’s thumb stopped.

For one fragile second, the entire room seemed to hold its breath with them.

”Then tell me what you want, Sylvia.”

Sylvia inhaled, gathering every ounce of courage she possessed and several ounces she suspected Rina had shoved into her bloodstream by force before fleeing for her life.

”I want you to stay,” she said. ”Not just tonight.”

Thomas went very still.

Sylvia should have stopped there.

”Tomorrow. The day after. I want...” She swallowed, searching for the right words and finding only frighteningly honest ones. ”I want all the things Rina implied. I want you.”

The air between them changed.

The rain kept tapping faintly against the windows, the city kept breathing beyond the glass, and the apartment remained exactly as small as before.

But Thomas’s eyes darkened, his restraint frayed at the edges, and Sylvia saw enough of what waited beneath to feel her knees reconsider their professional obligations.

”Sylvia,” he breathed.

She rose onto her toes.

It was ridiculous. Truly. There was no dignified way to kiss a man almost a foot taller than her when she was already trembling, flushed, and emotionally compromised by his shoulders.

But she did it anyway.

She closed the distance between them and pressed her mouth to his.

For one heartbeat, Thomas did not move.

Sylvia almost panicked.

Then his hand slid from her wrist to her waist, and the sound he made against her mouth was low enough to turn every thought in her head into smoke.

He kissed her back.

There was still restraint in him, still that iron control she was beginning to understand was not coldness but care, but beneath it was hunger.

Sylvia felt it in the way his hand tightened at her waist.

In the way his mouth moved over hers, warm with a faint taste of black coffee.

She made a small sound and reached for him, fingers sliding over the front of his uniform again because apparently her hands had been correct from the beginning and had merely lacked official confirmation.

Thomas broke the kiss first.

His forehead hovered close to hers, his breath uneven against her lips.

”Bedroom?” Sylvia whispered.

His eyes closed for half a second, clearly suffering romantically.

”Sylvia.”

”I know,” she said quickly, because if he gave her another warning in that voice, she might either combust or propose marriage by accident. ”I know. I am sure.”

His eyes opened.

He searched her face.

Sylvia let him.

She was nervous, yes. Terrified, possibly. Her entire body felt like it had become a diplomatic incident. But there was no fear of him in her. None.

There was only desire.

That must have been what he saw, because something in his expression shifted, softening and sharpening at once.

”All right,” he said.

Then he bent, caught her beneath the thighs, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

Sylvia gasped against his mouth.

Her arms locked around his shoulders on instinct, and for one bright, absurd second, all she could think was that her earlier assessment had been tragically incomplete.

His shoulders were not alarming.

They were catastrophic.

”Tom,” she said, scandalized by her own breathlessness.

His mouth brushed the corner of hers.

”Yes?”

”You are very large.”

His eyes flickered.

”Sylvia.”

”That was not a complaint.”

The corner of his mouth moved, then a smile broke through.

The look nearly finished her.

He carried her down the short hallway with the same calm he probably used to cross battlefields, except this time the battlefield was Sylvia’s apartment, and the enemy was the doorframe he had to duck under because her home had not been designed with Thomas Lancaster in mind.

That, for some reason, nearly made her laugh again.

Then he set her down beside the bed, and the laughter vanished.

The bedroom felt smaller with him inside it.

Thomas did not touch her again at once. He stood before her, hair slightly mussed from her fingers, uniform creased because she had absolutely assaulted it no matter what he claimed, and eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her feel both exposed and impossibly safe.

”You can still change your mind,” he said.

”I know.”

”I need you to understand that.”

”I do.”

”Sylvia.”

She stepped closer before he could continue being unbearable.

”Tom,” she said, and placed her hand over his chest.

His heart was pounding.

The discovery struck her with such force that she forgot to be embarrassed.

He looked so composed. So controlled. So impossible to move. But beneath her palm, his heart was racing as badly as hers.

”Oh,” she whispered.

Thomas’s jaw tightened.

Sylvia looked up at him.

The warmth in her chest became something tender, something almost painful.

”You are nervous too.”

His mouth pressed into a line.

”I am trying very hard not to be.”

”Why?”

”Because I do not want you to carry any of it.”

That was unfair.

Deeply unfair.

Sylvia rose onto her toes again and kissed the base of his throat because she had no better answer and because he deserved to be shaken a little too.

Thomas shuddered.

The sound that left him was quiet, but Sylvia felt it beneath her hand.

”Sylvia,” he warned.

She looked up at him through her lashes, and for once, she did not stumble over the words.

”I want this.”

His hands came to her waist, large palms pressing firmly, their warmth bleeding through Sylvia’s clothes.

”I want you,” she said again as there was so much she could endure in terms of sexual frustration.

Thomas kissed her.

He kissed her until the room blurred at the edges, until Sylvia’s hands found the buttons of his uniform and failed at them because apparently formal military tailoring had been invented to protect dangerous men from impulsive women with shaking fingers.

Thomas caught her hands.

For one terrifying second, Sylvia thought he was stopping her.

Then he lifted her knuckles to his mouth and kissed them.

”Let me,” he said.

His voice was rough now, his breath brushing over her knuckles.

Sylvia nodded, unable to speak.

He removed his uniform jacket, then set it aside with far more care than Sylvia would have managed, considering she personally wanted to throw it into the nearest wall for causing delays. The shirt beneath followed, and Sylvia discovered that her imagination had been both ambitious and insufficient.

She stared.

Thomas watched her watching him, and the stern line of his mouth almost failed.

”Is something wrong?”

Sylvia opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

”You are doing this on purpose.”

His brow lifted slightly.

”Undressing?”

”Looking like that.”

This time, he laughed, the sound low.

Sylvia put a hand over her face.

”I cannot believe I said that.”

”I can.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. ”Do not become smug. I am vulnerable.”

”I noticed.”

”You are enjoying it.”

”I am trying not to.”

”You are failing.”

His gaze moved over her face, warm and dark and careful enough to make her ache.

”Yes,” he said. ”I am.”

The honesty of it stole the rest of her embarrassment.

Thomas stepped closer and touched the top button of her blouse, then paused.

Sylvia nodded.

Only then did he undo it.

One button.

Then another.

Slow enough to give her time.

Careful enough to make her feel cherished instead of rushed.

When the blouse slipped open, he stopped, his gaze lowering for only a moment before returning to her face, as if even admiring her required permission.

”You are beautiful,” he said.

The words were quiet.

Sylvia’s breath caught.

No witty answer came to rescue her. No awkward comment. No panicked joke about Rina, or sofas, or military laundry.

Only warmth, spreading through her chest until her eyes stung.

Thomas saw that too.

He lifted one hand to her cheek. ”Too much?”

Sylvia shook her head, smiled, and reached for his shoulders. ”No, but if you take more time with it, I’m going to assault you.”