Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(70)

She rubbed her legs up against his hard ones, reveling in the sensation as she slid one delicate foot over the tight steel of his buttocks. She watched new tears form in his eyes as he closed them and allowed his head to hang back. There was so much that she needed to tell him, so much truth she'd already told him that he just hadn't heard.

"When you look at me like that, it just runs all through me. You have no idea…" His voice had come out on a ragged murmur as he began moving against her again. "Just one more time."

She let her body answer his request. She could feel his soul bound so tightly with her own that she couldn't speak. They had shared the same dreams; he was inside her mind and heart as deeply as he was inside her body. They had lived a similar life, being different, gifted with something special, misunderstood and feared, yet this man with a good heart had found her. They were opposites in so many ways, but so much the same. He was tall, she was short; she was dark, he was light; they were both on the run, had no family to speak of, were protecting each other, wanted a better life. Respect was the common glue, and she tried to siphon away all the hurt and pain and misery his life had been before her through her touch and her bites, without breaking his skin.

He'd tasted every part of her, had revered every inch of her skin, the heat of his mouth searing her. Every one of his shudders was hers. Every sensation traveling down his spinal cord, she felt. Every time he'd orgasm, he'd send her hurtling into a multiple spasm of ecstasy of her own. How was she going to disappear one night and leave this, leave him? They had to find a cure. Time was speeding up, and he was slowing it down as though he could stop it just for them.

Yet, as his hand covered one of her breasts and his lips found the other and he moved against her, the issue of time slid from her mind…

He blanketed her again and thrust hard. She gasped his name. He responded with a hard bite at her throat and she saw colors behind her lids. He moved against her smooth, controlled, slow, then he lost that control, his voice disintegrating into grunting chants of passion.

She couldn't stop her own panting, couldn't catch her breath, and couldn't stop the release that she was edging toward. She felt her incisors lower.

She arched hard, the crown of her head digging into the mattress, and she ran her tongue over her incisors to send them away, the razor edge of them cutting her tongue and drawing blood. Oh, no… It was starting, but she couldn't stop. He felt so good, her hands were shaking as she clutched at his back. Warm, salty blood filled her mouth. She screamed and he heaved in jerking spasms, then dropped on her like a dead weight.

It took her a moment to extricate herself from beneath him. She had to get out before he came back to himself completely. She needed to feed and she refused to feed from him.



Rider stirred, and blindly reached out for Tara, but drew his hand back, wanting. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was after checkout time. He pushed himself up slowly, yawned, and listened for her. Water was running. He relaxed and leaned forward on both forearms as his feet hit the floor. It felt like he had a hangover. Every inch of him was sore and reminded him of how much he'd abused his body. If he felt like that, then he could only imagine how Tara felt. Guilt swept through him. She was only a little, bitty thing, too. But heaven knew there was no way to control this wild relationship they had going.

He indulged his senses and pulled a deep inhale… The whole room smelled like her and sex.

The scent was staggering. It would always draw him to her like a bloodhound. He laughed—oh, yeah, he was whipped. She owned him. He'd heard about getting zapped with feminine mojo, but he'd never known it could be like this. He just hoped she felt the same way. Damn if he wasn't falling in love.

It took him two attempts to stand, and he squinted at the bright sunrays that were trying to push past the edges of the drapes. Yeah, he could understand her sensitivity to light.

He crossed the room and tapped on the door lightly. He rested his head against it, needing something sturdy to help hold him upright. "Tara, baby, I know this is a little strange, but I really need to get in there for a minute."

He waited, but she didn't answer. He knew women had delicate sensibilities about things like this, so he walked in a circle and tried her again.

"Honey, this is an emergency. Seriously."

"Okay," she said, her voice frail. "I'm in the shower."

Without hesitation he went into the dark room, not questioning the fact that the bathroom lights were out. That was a godsend, because his eyes couldn't take it, either. He put the seat up and stood before the porcelain throne holding the wall with one outstretched hand and holding himself as gingerly as he could, sighing with relief. There were some things a man could do blind, and he'd had plenty of practice taking dead aim the morning after a long night in a bar. He almost laughed at the thought; she was way better than Jack Daniel's, or anything else.

"If I flush, am I gonna mess up your water?" He'd even put down the lid. Oh, yeah, he was whipped.

"No, go ahead," she said quietly and turned off the tap.

"Good," he murmured, completing the task, then moving to the sink to wash his hands. Some breakfast, a cup of joe… more sweet lovemaking.

"Oh, what a night…" He almost fell asleep standing up at the sink with the water running. "I don't know if I can ride this morning; it's already past checkout, too." He leaned his forehead against the mirror, hoping that she'd understand his double meaning.