It is a passionate, possessive, fiery woman 'thing'

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, Megan's going to be here in about forty five minutes, and I don't want another awkward interruption like last night. So you'd only have half an hour, and, honestly, how many points would that even be worth?"

"Points?" Hans asked in clear confusion.

I gave him my best "don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about" glare because I was perfectly aware of the national nightly pastime of whatever nation men like Hans come from, and I was too embarrassed about going all hot and cold on him to let him play innocent. Besides, I was pretty sure if he didn't put in his best effort for at least three hours then a horde of his countrymen would start shouting at my window. I've seen frat boys in the lounge during football season -- I know how sports fanatics work. When someone drops the ball they always think they could do better.

But there was no way I was going to let them try, even if Hans needed an object lesson in better lovemaking. Because, let's face it: I am not ready for a barbarian gangbang. I can't even handle one remarkably considerate werewolf. And if we tried to do anything else in the time remaining, some referee in a black and white striped kilt would probably show up and penalize Hans for being shut down three times in the same twenty-four hours by the same wench. They might revoke his right to use that sexy accent. I couldn't be responsible for that! It was too much pressure. And besides.....

"Oh my God," I shouted as my thoughts completely derailed. "Hans, your arm!"

Hans' confusion pivoted to match my alarm -- then dissolved in a chuckle as he saw what I was staring at.

"This isn't funny," I protested. I pushed him back until I could sit up and then grabbed his arm and held it so I could look closer. There was a nasty series of long red abrasions running down his bicep. "What..." I started to say. Then: "When...? How?!"

Hans chuckled again and caught my hand by the palm. He pressed my fingers against his arm so that they splayed out along the lines. Then he pulled my hand down over his biceps; my fingertips trailed perfectly over the scratches as though they were paths meant for my hand.

Oh.

Or: paths placed by my hand. Was I a scratcher? I risked a glance at Hans' side. According to the long, angry red lines running from the bottom of his pec and down along his waist: yes, yes I was.

Oh.

"I am so sorry," I cried, and Hans seemed taken aback.

"Why?" he asked.

I frowned, nonplussed. "Well... Doesn't it hurt?"

His lips curved in a cheerful grin. "Yes. Pleasantly." His grin widened. "And I take heart from the fact that despite our rather rough start last night you seem to have felt the urge to stake a claim."

"What?" I asked.

Hans let go of my hand and brushed his fingers over the scratches I'd given him. "Yes," he said, "and quite a clear one. I think if any would-be rival -- because I assure you, I am not currently courting anyone else -- were to see these she would think twice about making a bid for your territory."

I stared. In my enthusiasm... I mean, in my panic -- I'd hurt him, and he was acting like that was something for him to be proud of. His grin was certainly smug. My eyes narrowed. "This isn't some sort of weird werewolf thing, is it?"

Hans laughed. "In my experience," he said while leaning forward, "it is a passionate, possessive, fiery woman 'thing.'"

I found myself being borne backward by his proximity until I was somehow stretched out across the bed again with Hans leaning over me. He kissed me with a fervent desire that made my toes curl. I think I whimpered somewhere in the back of my throat, and that just encouraged him.

I raised my hands with the intention of pushing him away, but somehow they ended up wrapped around him, running over his shoulder blades and pulling him closer. Except he was propped up on his elbows so as not to crush me, and I ended up lifting myself up instead; clinging to him and kissing him back until I was desperate for breath and my arms were trembling and I had to let go.

I plopped back down against the bed with a gasp. I felt a little tingly in my extremities. Probably because of all the kissing instead of breathing. Right? But at least I knew Hans' type now. Too bad he was such a bad judge of character: passionate, possessive, and fiery did not describe me. I was more the spastic, neurotic, freakish type if you wanted to be accurate.

This time I did manage to put my hands on his chest. "You need to go," I said with a push. It was a feeble one; I was still shaky. There were pins and needles in my fingers and toes, and I felt a little light headed. Definitely the after-effects of kissing-induced asphyxiation.

Hans grunted and rolled off of me. "You're probably right," he said huskily -- and I wondered if my lack of control was finally wearing at his. He sat up and reclaimed his shirt, then pulled it on. My scratches stretched down below his sleeve. While he was getting his shoes I hastily redid the buttons that my blouse hadn't lost -- all of them, all the way up to the top. I was missing three; I would have to change after I chased Hans out. But I could probably convince Fumiko to repair the garment -- Fumiko had worked on costumes when she and Megan had worked at the theatre in college, and she was still big into cosplay. So that was okay, at least.

When I was done I joined Hans at the door and did my best to ignore the gaping opening in my blouse. Then I undid the front locks. Hans stopped me before I could open the door, though. He caught my chin and tilted my mouth up for a kiss. His teeth scraped teasingly over the swell of my lower lip when he finished. "I do hope to see you at tonight's festivities, Abigail," he said. "And at tomorrow's breakfast, as well."

I stared and tried to figure out what to say to turn him down. 'No' is pretty definitive, I thought. "I'm out of pancakes," I said instead.

Hans leaned forward. "I'll stop at the store," he promised. My heart felt like it was doing flip-flops. How could the man make a promise to buy toaster pancakes sexy?

It had to be the accent.

Or the implications of how the preceding night would proceed.

But probably the accent.

I opened the door and hustled Hans out of it before I could demand he also get strawberry jam, syrup, whipped cream and condoms. That would be bad: I liked what Hans' accent seemed to be promising about tomorrow morning's preceding night, but if I really went for it and didn't want to screw things up I'd probably have to add rope and a gag to that list, too. Because as long as I was mobile and audible, I would find a way to end up with my foot in my mouth.

"Go," I said, and Hans went. I closed the door behind him, locked it, and then collapsed against it while I tried to get a grip on myself, the fact that reality was upside-down, and that my sexy new boss was not just a Viking werewolf. No, he had somehow been deluded into thinking I was his type, too.

At least Megan would be here soon. I was in it way over my head and really need her advice... if only I could figure out how to get it without giving away the whole 'paranormal shadow war' and 'Hans is a werewolf' and 'Mr. Salvatore is a vampire' thing and dragging her into this mess with me.

Well, Damn.