She cackled, soft but dark as she drew away. Releasing her hold, both hands scratched over his shoulders and Brenna paused only to whisper in his ear, "We'll have to see about that, now won't be?" before nipping there as well. Pleasure without pain was empty. And oh, how she wanted to hurt him. To torment him. To make him howl her name. To use him to release the tension that had been percolating in her since meeting Kane on the hill.
A little whimper escaped her throat, equal parts frustration and lust. She couldn't; couldn't allow herself to cross that barrier when she felt like a visitor in her own body. Instead, Brenna withdrew completely, returning to her chair where she crossed her legs and peered back at him like a dark queen enthroned. Forget the pulsing hear in her belly. Forget the hunger, black and red and angry. The Irish woman chose to focus instead on the picture of herself in his sketchbook, the image she saw in the mirror of her dreams. "Do you have any like this in your gallery?" Brenna asked, completely nonchalant. As if the fires in her blood hadn't raged at all. But her eyes, still heavy-lidded with desire and burning a vibrant emerald gave away her primal emotions. "Any of me?"