Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(93)

I sensed him above me, like a great dark bird—hovering, hunting, waiting to swoop.

I liked the not-knowing, the aura of danger that clung to him like cologne, the possibility of death just beyond the realm of our cave.

What had happened to safety girl? She'd died in the flames that had consumed everything that was left of her life.

I wanted to run naked through the trees, skinny-dip in the ocean, make love on the beach, the grass, the desert floor. I wanted to do every one of those things with him.

Was I experiencing kidnap dementia? Bonding to my tormented? Falling in love with a man who could never be any more than a one-cave stand? Maybe. But I'd worry about that after he made me come.

I hunted for the zipper of his camouflage pants and couldn't find one. I did find an impressive erection, which I explored through the coarse material.

His guns weren't in their holsters. He'd no doubt held them while the wolves prowled outside and left them… Lord knows where. Oh well, one less thing to remove.

I slipped my hand into the waistband of his pants, filled my palm with smooth, hard flesh, then stroked and kneaded him to greater heights.

I wanted to feel all of his skin against all of mine, so I tried to locate that zipper again but had no better luck.

"Are these locked?" I murmured into his mouth.

He reached between us, fumbled a bit and the waistband gave way in my hands. Seconds later he was naked, too, but instead of letting me run my fingers all over his toned, tanned skin, he traced his lips down my neck, over my breasts, along my belly, then my hip, performing amazing, innovative tricks with his tongue and his teeth.

My fingers toyed with what was left of his hair. His tongue swept across me once, then dodged back and lingered. I arched, and the rocks of the cave floor scraped my back. I couldn't focus, didn't care. He pushed me harder and harder, faster and faster, until I was moaning, begging for release.

As I flew over the edge, the first contractions of my orgasm making my insides clench and spasm, he slid into me. Like a surfer catching the wave, he rode mine, drawing out the pleasure. Slowing down, then speeding up, playing me until I was limp, satisfied, exhausted. Only when he kissed my eyelids, nibbled my nose, did I realize he was still hard and hot, still ready to go.

Aching, sensitive, I didn't think I had another round in me, but I was wrong. He laid his head on my chest and his breath chilled my sweat-slicked skin. My nipples hardened as he nuzzled the underside of my breasts.

He licked one tight bud in a lazy, possessive swirl, then bit the edge lightly before drawing me into his mouth to suckle in a copycat rhythm to the slide of our bodies—in and out, shallow to deep, tip then full hilt.

The friction began again. With skillful manipulation he brought me to a second climax, and this time he followed me there. The pulse of his ejaculation made my own release linger. By the time my body stopped dancing, his movements were languid as he rolled to the side, tugged me off the ground and into his arms.

I was almost asleep when Clay shifted, reaching for something. The scrape of metal on stone, he drew his gun closer, holding the weapon in one hand and me in the other. I liked the sense of safety in that image, and I drifted off.

Sometime later, I was jerked awake. Disoriented, I tried to sit up, but Clay held me too tightly.

The cave was still dark. I couldn't see a thing. But I felt him trembling.





CHAPTER 7


? ^ ?

"What's the matter?" I whispered, placing my hand on Clay's chest. His heartbeat raced beneath my palm.

"Nothing," he said harshly. "Go on back to sleep."

As if I could when he was so upset.

His voice had slid south, the accent he'd lost found again. I lifted my fingers to his face, stroked his temple, played with his hair. Inch by inch he relaxed, but he didn't fall asleep.

"Nightmare?" I asked.

He snorted.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"So you can have nightmares too?"

Just like that, his voice had returned to the flat, cultured tones that told no one where he'd come from, gave no hint of where he'd been.

"Like I don't already have them?"

He shifted, as if to see my face, but he couldn't in this darkest hour that always preceded dawn.

"What do you dream, Maya Alexander?"

He was asking about the bad dreams—the times when I awoke gasping and panicked, the nights I relived my mother's death, I'd added twenty years to my age, but those dreams of a little girl left alone had never gone away.

I'd be damned if I'd share past nightmares while we were fashioning new ones. Here, in the dark, in his arms, was the time for sharing happy dreams.

"I dream of the New York Times!"

"You want to own a newspaper?"

"The list. Books? My job?"

"Ah," he said, though I could tell he didn't understand. Non-writers rarely did.

The New York Times Bestseller List was a rare accolade aspired to by every author who put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. Not only did the list mean prestige and fame, it meant money. While I enjoyed the writing, I enjoyed the food, the clothes, the shelter too. Or I had until they'd gone boom.

On any other day I'd have been worried sick over the loss of everything I owned. Since I'd be lucky to get out of this alive, and would therefore have no further need of stuff, I experienced a sense of freedom I couldn't recall having since long before my mother had died.