Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(31)

His tongue dragged over both her nipple and the cut and then his lips formed a seal and he suckled on her, taking her dark flavor down his throat and into his gut. The communion with her was all he'd ever wanted, and now that he was feeding from her, joy overtook him along with the nuclear energy that came to him from her blood.

Wanting to give her something back, he shifted his arm down so that

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his hand swept over her hip and between her thighs. Tracing the taut muscles he found her core. . . . Oh, God, she was slippery smooth and hella hot, ready and aching to receive him. And although he didn't know a shitload about female anatomy, he let her moans and thrashes tell him where his fingers should go and what they should be doing.

It didn't take long before what he was touching her with was as wet as what he was stroking and it was then that he slid his middle finger in deep.

Using his thumb, he massaged the top of her and found a rhythm to match the pulls he was making at her breast.

He was bringing her to the edge, taking her with him, giving back as

much as he was getting, when he knew he needed more. He wanted to be in her when she came. Then he would be completed in some ethereal way,

made whole inside his skin.

It was a bonded male's drive and necessity. What he had to have in

order to feel at peace.

Lifting his lips from her breast, he dragged his hand from her sex and repositioned himself so that his glossy cock was poised over her open legs.

Meeting her eyes in the incendiary moment, he brushed the short hair around her face. Slowly, he dropped his mouth downward--

"No," she said. "That's not what this is about."

John Matthew shot upright, the fantasy of the dream shattered, his

chest banding in frigid cords of pain.

With disgust, he let go of his arousal--not that he was hard anymore.

His cock had positively shriveled up, in spite of the orgasm that had been on its way out of the thing's head.

That's not what this is about.

Unlike the dream, which had been a total hypothetical, those words

were ones she'd actually said to him--and in precisely that sexual context.

As he looked down at his naked body, the releases he'd had, the ones

he'd imagined he'd had on her, were all over his belly and the sheets.

Why the hell did that spell out alone like nothing else could.

Glancing at the clock, he saw he'd slept through his alarm. Or more

likely he hadn't bothered to set it. One bene to insomnia was that you didn't need to recharge your phone from all the snooze buttons you hit.

In the shower, he washed himself quickly and started with his cock.

He hated what he'd done in that odd half-asleep zone. It felt totally wrong to jerk off, considering the situation, and from now on, he was going to sleep in his jeans if he had to.

Although knowing his hand, the damn thing would have probably

ended up behind the fly anyway.

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Fuck it, he was gonna chain his wrists to the frickin' headboard.

After he shaved, which like tooth maintenance was out of habit rather than pride in his appearance, he braced his palms on the marble and leaned into the main spray nozzle, letting the water sweep over him.

Lessers were impotent. Lessers . . . were impotent.

Hanging his head, he felt the hot rush over the back of his skull.

Sex kicked up all kinds of bad shit for him, and as the image of a

grungy stairwell bloomed like a stain on his brain, he popped his lids and dragged himself back to the present. Not that it was an improvement.

He'd have gone through what had happened to him a thousand times

to save Xhex from being mistreated that way once.

Oh . . . God . . .

Lessers were impotent. Always had been.

Moving like a zombie, he stepped out, dried himself, and headed for

the bedroom to get dressed. Just as he was pulling on his leathers, his phone went off and he reached over to his jacket to fish the thing out.

Flipping it open . . . he found a text from Trez.

All it said was: 189 st. francis ave 10 2nite.

Clipping the phone closed, his heart beat with brutal intent. Any crack in the foundation . . . he was just looking for one little crack in Lash's world, a fissure, something he could wedge himself into and blow the whole f*cking thing to pieces.

Xhex might well be dead, and this new reality without her might be

his forever more, but that didn't mean he couldn't avenge her.

In the bathroom, he strapped on his chest holster, weaponed up, and

after grabbing his jacket, he went out into the hall. Pausing, he thought of all the people who would be gathering downstairs . . . as well as the time.

Shutters were still down.

Instead of going left toward the grand staircase and the foyer, he went right . . . and walked silently in spite of his shitkickers.

Blaylock left his room a little before six because he wanted to check in on John. Usually the guy gave a knock around mealtime, but there had been none. Which meant he was either dead or dead drunk.

At his buddy's door, he paused and leaned in. Nothing doing on the

other side that he could hear.

After a soft knock wasn't answered, he pulled a f*ck-it and opened the thing in. Man, the place looked ransacked, with clothes everywhere and a bed that might possibly have been used as a demolition derby site.