Saturday, April 12, 2008

Devil's Night by Meg Winston

"I love you," he said, and Cat Harrison fucking laughed. Because really, what else was she supposed to do? An exiled best friend making big, foolish, emotional declarations he couldn't possibly mean ... No, laughter was the best of her choices. The worst involved thumping him hard and telling him what he could do with himself.

Then, miraculously, there were handcuffs. A scowl that suited his gorgeous face but shouldn't have, a lunge that could have been for kissing or tickling or wrestling for the remote a year ago but, instead, turned out to be for pinning. Then her arms were behind her, wrists caught in his hand, and a pair of rather ominous clicks that didn't worry her until he'd pulled away.

She tried to follow, to sit upright again and regain some poise in the face of Demon Drew Benedict and his big declaration, and found she couldn't. Because ... handcuffs. He'd cuffed her to her coffee table. This was awkward.

God, she should never have let him in.

* * * *

Plan A, just telling her and hoping she'd be reasonable, died a quick and painful death when she laughed, taking with it his ability to get through plans B and C without lashing out. Love fucking hurt no matter what he did, and Drew Benedict wasn't much for pain.

Hence the cuffs. Captain Nasty's Fuzz Cuffs of Fury probably weren't ideal romantic props, but theirs wasn't an ideal romance. It had taken him too long to realize how he felt, and there was too much history of being scared shitless at giving up his overactive sex life, even if it was for her. Being with Cat the way she deserved meant responsibility. Commitment. Passing up hot blondes and adventurous redheads for the rest of his life in favor of the best friend who'd cut him out of hers. Better, he'd decided, to leave her be and hope it went away.

He'd been an idiot.

God, she was gorgeous cuffed and furious. Must be some measure of his oft-cited depravity. Watching her fight with the fuzz cuffs was turning him on so much. Fire in her eyes, venom on her lips, curves dancing as she writhed.

He shifted in his seat, already atrociously hard at the thought of what she'd hidden beneath those hideous sweats. At what he planned to do to her sweet, lush body.

"Cat," he said. She tried to kill him with her glare. "Wild Cat, if you don't quit that, I'll have to strip you."

She hissed at him, proof positive she'd more than earned her nickname despite her sweetness-and-light persona. Twenty years of friendship had given him the inside track. No, not just friendship. Best friendship. Forever.

And in an hour or so--provided he could keep his pants on that long--lovers.

He meant that forever, too.

Given how long he'd wanted to get to this moment, Drew thought he could be patient.

"Didn't I tell you never to darken my door again?"

He shrugged like her pronouncement two months earlier hadn't fucked him up but good.

"Knew you didn't mean that." He dismissed the death promised in her eyes.

She snorted. Indelicate and, he imagined, indicative. No sweet little kitten as everyone assumed--she was nothing so domesticated. A right hellcat.

"The hell I didn't."

"Then why'd you let me in?"

She twitched, so cool and calculated his heart flipped again.

"Maybe I wanted to keep you here until Luke showed up for another swing at you." She trailed off, letting him imagine her standing by while that slick drip she'd dated broke his nose.

Fair was fair, he supposed. Though it was hardly his fault the drip had been a bleeder.

"And if I'm attached to my nose as is?"

"Then you shouldn't have come."

He raised one brow. Knew it was cocky and arrogant and simply didn't care.

"It's Devil's Night, Wild Cat. Where else would I be?"