He skimmed a finger along her cheekbone, drawing her attention to moisture she’d not noticed. “The hell you are you.”

      Wincing, she lifted a hand to her face, feeling the warmth of his fingers and the stickiness of blood. “Just a cut.” So much less than what could have happened. “There’s glass—”

      He didn’t let her finish. He had her against his body before her heart could beat, his mouth on hers before she could pull away. The kiss was hot and hard and demanding, completely without finesse. He had one hand against the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair. Whiskers scraped her jaw.