The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(7)

She orgasmed—and so did he.

Duh.

God, after a dry spell of how long? At least a month—which was unheard of for them—she realized how much they both had to have this. Too much static from all the demands around them. Too much stress polluting the hours. Too much toxic crap they didn’t have time to process with each other.

Like, after he’d been shot in the neck, had they really talked about it? Sure, there had been the OMG, you’re alive, you made it stuff … but she was still flinching every time a doggen opened a bottle of wine in the dining room or the Brothers played pool after hours.

Who knew that a cue ball smacking into a rack sounded exactly like a gun going off?

She hadn’t. Not until Xcor had decided to put a bullet into Wrath’s jugular.

Hardly the kind of education she’d been looking for—

For no good reason, tears flooded her eyes and broke free, tangling in her lashes and seeping down her cheeks even as another round of pleasure flooded her body.

And then the image of Wrath’s gunshot wound billboarded her vision.

Red blood on the bulletproof vest he’d worn. Red blood on his muscle shirt. Red blood on his skin.

The dangerous times come home, the ugliness of reality no longer a hypothetical bogeyman in her mental closet, but a scream in her soul.

Red was the color of death to her.

Wrath froze for a second time and jerked his head up. “Leelan?”

Opening her eyes, she had a sudden panic that she couldn’t see him right, that that face she looked for in every room no matter the hour was gone, that that visual confirmation of his life wasn’t going to be there for the taking anymore.

Except all she had to do was blink. Blink, blink, blink … and he was back with her, clear as day.

And that made her cry more. Because her strong, beloved man was blind—and though that didn’t make him handicapped in her opinion, it did cheat him out of some fundamentals, and that just wasn’t fair.

“Oh, f*ck, I hurt you—”

“No, no…” She took his face in her hands. “Don’t stop.”

“I should have gone over to the bed—”

The sure way to get him refocused was to arch under him, and she did, undulating and rolling her hips so that her core stroked him. And Hello, big boy, the friction registered, rendering him tongue-tied and torn.

“Don’t stop,” she reiterated, trying to draw him back down to her vein. “Ever…”

But Wrath held off, stroking a piece of hair away from her face. “Don’t think like that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

There was no reason to define what “like that” meant: Treasonous plots. Wrath at that ornate desk, strangled by his position. The future unknown and not in a good way.

“I’m goin’ nowhere, leelan. You don’t worry about a goddamn thing. Understand me?”

Beth wanted to believe him. Needed to. But she feared it was a promise far harder to keep than speak.

“Beth?”

“Make love to me.” It was the only truth she could put out there that wouldn’t burst the bubble. “Please.”

He kissed her once. Twice. And then started to move again. “Always, leelan. Always.”

Best. Night. Ever.

As Wrath pushed himself off of his shellan an hour later, he couldn’t breathe, he was bleeding at the throat, and his Man of Steel cock had finally gone wet-noodle.

Although knowing the damn thing’s stamina? He had five, maybe ten minutes before Mr. Happy got to grinnin’ again.

The big bed in the center of the loft’s vast space had been upgraded since his Beth had mated him, and as he stretched out on his back, he had to admit that having sex on the thing was so much better than doing it on the floor. That said, as he recovered, its sheets were unnecessary as he could have fried an egg on his chest from the exertion. Blankets were an absolute hell-no. Pillows had been lost quickly because there was no headboard, but the advantage was leverage from any compass point.

Sometimes he liked to put a foot down and really dig in.

Beth let out a sigh that was longer and more satisfying than a Shakespearian sonnet—and talk about a hell-yeah? Wrath’s chest inflated like a hot-air balloon.

“I do you okay?” he drawled.

“God. Yes.”

More with the smiling. It was The Mask all over again, nothing but Jim Carrey, Pepsodent white over here. And she was right: The sex had been beyond fantastic. He’d f*cked her across the floor until they were in range of the mattress. Then, like the gentlemale he was, he’d put her on the bed … and had her another three times. Four?

He could do this all night—

Sure as an eclipse could wipe out the moon, his cosmic relaxation disappeared and took all warmth with it.

There was no all night for him anymore. Not when it came to kickin’ it with his female.

“Wrath?”

“I’m right here, leelan,” he murmured.

As she rolled onto her side, he could feel her staring at him, and even though his vision had finally given up the ghost and conked out on him entirely, he could picture her long, thick black hair and her blue eyes and her beautiful face.

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine.”