Rocked by Love (Gargoyles, #4)(77)

Her soft little body wiggled atop him, making his jaw ache and his fangs intrude on his human form. Then she reached back and closed her hand around him and he forgot about human and Guardian, about hope and duty, about everything but his mate and the need to be inside her.

He growled her name and caught the white flash of her smile in the darkness. A moment later, she rearranged herself slightly and positioned the head of his shaft against her entrance. Then she sank down and he hissed at the sharp, sweet pleasure.

He both heard her sigh and felt the rush of her breath against his skin. He felt the muscles in her thighs and her belly tighten and she enveloped him in her slick heat. A shiver rushed through her from head to toe, and the feel of her shaking above him and clamping down hard around his erect cock nearly made him howl. He controlled himself, barely, if for no other reason than that he refused to share one second of this experience with anyone else. To be overheard even by their friends would steal a particle of the pleasure that he meant to hoard greedily for them alone.

Dark eyes stared down at him as she began to move, her hips twisting and rocking in a sensuous rhythm that stroked and squeezed each hard inch of him without mercy. He watched her breasts shimmy as she moved and lifted his hands to cup the soft mounds, teasing the hard nipples with flicks of his thumb and quick pinches that made her hum and gasp.

Ignoring the tingling at the base of his spine and the pressure building in his groin, he savored every soft sound she made, every shift of her body, every flush of her skin. He wanted the moment to last forever, to never have to rise from this bed, to never have to slip from her body, to never have to see her look into the face of evil and know fear.

“Dag.”

Her hoarse whisper drew at his soul, made him croon soft nonsense even as he increased the force of his hips thrusting upward to meet her. He heard her breath catch in her throat and then the change in her ragged breathing and knew her climax was close. Shifting his grip, he slid one hand between their bodies and teased her sensitive clit while his other palm cupped the back of her neck and drew her down toward him.

“You are mine, sweet Kylie,” he whispered, knowing the words sounded rough and possessive, more like a snarl than the promise he intended. “And I am yours.”

She didn’t seem to mind his tone, because she shuddered and tightened, and cried out, her breath hot and damp against his skin. “Yours,” she panted. “Mine.”

Her body strained above him, hips flexing, thighs gripping, * clenching as she fought for her pleasure. Determined to give it to her, to give her everything, he drew his finger in swift hard circles around her little bundle of nerves, then suddenly struck, pressing directly over it, hard and deep.

She cried out and shattered, the rapid spasms of her channel around his cock pulling him over his own edge. He emptied himself into her, gasping her name, but all he could hear was her raspy, beloved voice reaching out to him through the darkness.

“Dag. I love you.”





Chapter Seventeen

Der ergster sholem iz beser vi di beste milkhome.

The worst peace is better than the best war.


Kylie really thought there ought to have been a film montage, one of those scenes where the grim-faced heroes and heroines buckled themselves into tight garments of canvas and leather, and then armed themselves with unwieldy arsenals of high-tech weaponry in preparation for the ultimate battle. It would have been so cool.

Instead, she got seven ordinary-looking humans (well, as ordinary as Guardians could look in their human forms) dressed in average if casual clothing carrying nothing but their cell phones. Well, in Wynn’s case she had added a messenger bag that Kylie was convinced held not only the kitchen sink, but a bathtub and washer-dryer unit as well.

That was it. No machine guns, no big black knives with wicked blades and grips meant to stay grippy even when covered in the enemy’s blood. Not one single lousy hand grenade. How was a girl supposed to go to war without hand grenades? Honestly.

The closest she had were two small pouches Wynn had pressed into the hands of each of the Wardens on the way out the door. “Drive-away salt,” she told them. “Fil has used it before. If you get cornered by something nasty, use it. It won’t destroy anything much bigger than a hhissihh, but it will give you some room to maneuver out of a tight spot.”

Which was all well and good, and Kylie made sure to thank the witch, but it still wasn’t a grenade.

Since she had pouted about it all the way to the convention center, Dag didn’t need to read her mind to know what to say to her as they parked and climbed out of her car, followed by Wynn and Knox. Ella, Kees, Fil, and Spar had followed in a rental.

“I told you, little human, any weapons the Guardians require we will summon when the time comes,” he said, patting her hand. “Cease your worry.”

“It’s not worry,” she grumbled. “It’s disappointment. I was promised a battle royal, and now I just feel let down. You guys wouldn’t even let me dress all in black.”

Wynn sent her a look. “We need to look like all the other attendees, Kylie, not ninjas. And I mean attendees at this event, not Comic Con.”

Kylie stuck out her tongue. Childish? Yes, but satisfying.

Thinking ahead to the possibility of collateral and structural damage to the facilities, they had parked the cars not at the convention center itself, or even at the attached hotel, but at a public lot a few blocks away. No one wanted to believe it would come to that, but things happened. Either way, the parking situation meant they had to hoof it to make the meeting on time.