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“Professor here issued a challenge. I’m taking her up on it.”
    Nael spat a low, masculine curse, and the female flinched but didn’t back down. Instead, her hands came up between them and shoved.
    “That’s not a challenge, you idiot,” she hissed. “That’s legal fact. Stop the damn car right now.”
    He savored the warmth of those small hands. No rings, he noted. Good. A permanent lover would merely be another obstacle to overcome. The possessive swell of emotion that thought aroused was unfamiliar, so he brought the conversation back to known territory.
    Deliberately, he wrapped a hand around her thigh. The too-thin, soft fabric of her nylons slid along his palm in an erotic tease. The woman pinned beneath him had dedicated a lifetime to genetic profiling. Her research had been brilliant, identifying paranormals as if they were some kind of disease, handing Zer’s enemies an easy means for uncovering the Fallen’s vulnerability. He didn’t like her. Didn’t like what she’d chosen to do. He damn sure wouldn’t underestimate what that clever mind of hers was capable of imagining. How did she like it, he wondered, now that the shoe was on the other foot? Oh, she’d never spoken out publicly about the paranormals, had never joined in the public debates about what rights non-humans should—or should not—be granted. Of course, he’d never waited around for anyone to grant him anything. He’d taken what he needed, what he wanted, and he’d never questioned that decision.
    “Don’t touch me,” she ordered, but not before he caught the hesitation. Scented sweet, heated welcome. His professor was curious.
    “No,” he repeated in a soft rasp. “I don’t think you mean no at all, baby.”
    “I do.” He didn’t miss her continuing hesitation. His female hadn’t moved. Was frozen on his leather seat while her fingers fluttered against his chest, over his heart. He lowered his head slowly, giving her time to protest, but all she did was chew on that too-delectable lower lip, so he closed the distance, bracing her between the soft cushion of leather and his body. Surrounding her with his heat and hardness.
    What would she taste like? Would she push him away—or pull him closer? His lips met hers, and he was lost.
     
    Her hard-eyed dom had her pinned to the seat of a car that cost more than she made in a year. She should have been shrieking protests. Kicking. Clawing at him. So why were her fingers curling into the butter-soft leather of his coat, stroking the fabric as if it was his bare skin and he was her lover?
    Stockholm syndrome, Nessa decided. Stockholm syndrome was the only logical answer.
    Because it had nothing to do with curiosity. Or the hot, needy aching spreading through her, until her pussy wept with desire .
    Desire was a chemical reaction. She didn’t truly want the Goblin slowly wrapping her in his arms and lowering the hot weight of his large body onto hers. She definitely didn’t want the delicious press of skin against skin, pinning her into the luscious depths of the seat.
    God, she didn’t want any of this.
    And yet it was happening, and she wasn’t doing anything to stop it.
    Closing her eyes, she dragged his scent deep into her lungs. Bayberry and cedar, smoky, woody notes as rugged and wild as the man himself. He pulled her closer, his growl of masculine approval sending goose bumps skittering over her exposed skin as the thick, delicious heat of his large body surrounded her. The car swayed gently, taking a corner faster than it should have, rocking her body against his. The reason for the speed was lost in the sudden, erotic silence of the car, the hard breathing of its occupants.
    “Is your answer still no?” He growled the challenge against her mouth.
    “Yes,” she whispered, because she didn’t know what she meant, and, God, she was tired of thinking. She deserved something after her hellish day, and he was far sweeter than the pint of ice cream she’d planned