Wolf Rain (Psy-Changeling Trinity #3)(82)

His hand rising to grip her nape, he held her in place as he plundered her mouth. When he nipped gently at her lower lip, she parted her lips and licked her tongue against his. And every so often, she’d do to him what he’d done to her. It felt like they were in a dance and she was following his every move—while making a few of her own, turning him into her captive. He could imagine being buried inside her, the intimate dance of their hot, sweat-soaked bodies sliding against each other.

Molding one heavy breast on that thought, he deepened the kiss. Demanding more. Demanding everything. She moaned and gave it to him—while demanding the same in return.

My lioness.

She’d never be passive in bed, never be anything but a full partner. He wanted to thrust into her, brand her as his so damn much that his cock throbbed, but tonight was about pleasing Memory. Shifting his hand from her breast, down the slope of her abdomen, he played his fingers around her waistband . . . before sliding down to cup her through her jeans.

Memory moaned and moved against him.

Grip on her nape tightening a fraction, he pressed the heel of his palm against her.

Her breathing altered to become faster, more jagged. Breaking the kiss, she buried her face against his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Smile no doubt pure wolf, Alexei very deliberately pressed hard against the seam of her jeans, right where it lay over her most delicate flesh.

Her cry was short, sharp, deliciously shocked.

Cradling her against him as she trembled, her breath lost, he rumbled raw words of pleasure in her ear. “My beautiful, sexy Memory.” He licked his tongue playfully along the shell of her ear. “That’s what I want to do between your legs.”

She stiffened against him . . . and then her entire body melted in a rolling wave. Shifting his hand to her hip, he nuzzled her through the orgasm, but when he kissed her throat in the aftermath, her responsive shiver was a touch too hard.

Protective instincts stirring, he tugged her head back so he could look at her face. She was all kiss-swollen lips and tumbled hair, and eyes of gleaming obsidian. He shouldn’t have been able to read those eyes, but for him, they were no longer fathomless. He saw her. She was drunk on sexual sensation; any more would push her over the edge into pain.

When she cuddled against his shoulder, her hair bouncing against his jaw, he put his arms around her and indulged himself in petting her back in slow, soothing strokes. Her breath was soft and warm against him, her skin silk under his palm. And her scent, it was wild and bright tangled with the languid richness of something intrinsically soft and feminine.

He knew this was it tonight. Memory was emerging out of an enforced deep freeze. He couldn’t and wouldn’t force her, wouldn’t rush her.

He would, however, do his best to charm her.

Careful, little bro. Remember what happened to me.

The ghostly voice was painfully familiar. His heart fucking hurt.

“Alexei?” Memory sat up in his lap, raising her hand to cup his cheek. “You’re sad.”

Turning his head, he pressed his lips to her palm and knew he had to tell her the truth. Because this, what was growing between them, it was a thing of truth. It held the kind of potent power that could make a man . . . or break him. “My brother was two years older than me, and he loved crazy adventures and a lovely woman called Etta, and he had this laugh that was so infectious it caught from person to person until an entire room would be rolling around on the floor.”

Memory brushed her fingers through his hair, her eyes slowly shifting back to deepest brown. “You loved him a lot.”

“Yeah.” Brodie had been the most important person in his life for a long time. “Our folks died when I was seven, and Brodie was nine. Our aunt—our mother’s much younger sister—raised us, and the entire pack was there for us, but we were brothers. That bond . . .” It had been formed of loyalty and love and grief and a stubborn commitment to stay alive.

Then Brodie had died.

Petting her hands across his shoulders, Memory said, “You love him still, but you’re so angry, too.” Gentle voice, an empath’s knowledge. “What did Brodie do?”

“He died.” The words were gritted out. “After our father died the same way, we made a promise and he broke it and he fucking died.”

“Alexei.” She wove her fingers through his hair again. “Unless your brother took his own life”—a pause where he shook his head—“then he couldn’t thwart death. At first, I was angry at my mother for being dead and leaving me alone in the world, but I knew all the time that she couldn’t help it. The monster was too powerful.” Her eyes shimmered. “I wish every day that she was alive, but I’m not angry at her anymore.”

Alexei gripped her hips, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her back. He’d never been that alone, even at the darkest times of his life. “You will never be alone again.” Would always have arms to hold her close.

She stroked her fingers over his jaw. “Why are you Alexei and your brother was Brodie?”

The question brought back memories of childhood laughter, his father’s deep voice, his mother’s soft arms. “I’m Alexei Vasiliev Harte and he was Brodie Harte Vasiliev.” His brother’s name felt so alien falling from his lips—it had been an eon since he’d spoken it aloud. “My father came from a pack in Russia, while my mother was a California girl through and through: Konstantin Vasiliev and Calissa Harte. They split the difference.”