Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(28)

As his lips parted, he swallowed hard. “Please . . .” he whispered. “Do it.”

Ahmare lowered her mouth to his. With his level of arousal, she thought he’d grab her by the back of the neck and go hard-grind with the kiss. Instead, he closed his eyes as she brushed against him softly, and beneath her mouth, his lips trembled—until she captured them fully, that was. Then he responded, mirroring her motions, the caressing, the stroking, the plying.

When she entered him with her tongue, he gasped. Groaned. Jerked his hips.

Underneath her, his body was live-wire tight, his palms braced against the floor, his arms shaking as he held himself in place, his leg muscles contracting in a series of spasms. She appreciated the restraint, she truly did.

It meant he respected her in that old school way.

But it was not what she wanted.

Breaking from the kiss, she sat back on his knees and knew she had to do something to get him into gear. The kissing was nice, the kissing was great, but the prelude was not the purpose of this, and he seemed unwilling to be the one to take things to the next level.

Pulling the bottom of her shirt out from the waistband of her pants, she had a stupid thought about how Under Armour had made this thin, long-sleeved body upholstery to “wick sweat” and “cool as it covered” during workouts. Good attributes if you were in the gym or on a run.

Totally irrelevant in this particular hot-and-bothered situation.

Worse than irrelevant.

An impediment.

Duran’s eyes burned as she gripped the mesh, and he breathed like he had a car in each hand and was doing bicep curls. What she was about to show him seemed, given his rapt attention, like the kind of thing he needed to see more than he worried about oxygen.

Funny, how a male could tell you you were beautiful without saying a word.

Ahmare lifted the shirt slowly, not because she wanted to artificially delay things or was having second thoughts. She wanted to savor the moment of revelation.

Except the sports bra underneath was something she’d forgotten about.

As she up-and-over’d the shirt, tossing it somewhere, she didn’t care, she had meant to show him her breasts. Instead, hello, Champion.

Duran didn’t seem to notice. He traced the wide straps and tight panel with his hot eyes, as if he were imagining the flesh underneath.

“Take it off for me,” she said in a throaty voice.

More with the trembling on his side, but he didn’t disobey the command. Hooking his thumbs under the lower edge of the wide band, he took the tight nylon upward—

Her breasts popped free, bouncing, the nipples tight and tingling thanks to the fabric’s hard stroke.

Duran didn’t get any further than that. He bailed on the removal job with the sports bra wedged under her armpits, her breasts compressed on top, extra full on the bottom. Sitting up, he put his mouth to her, sucking one of her nipples in, lapping at her with his warm, wet tongue.

Ahmare let her head fall back, and he caught her torso with a strong arm. Spearing into all that long hair of his, she moaned at the sweet tugging, the slip and slide and recapture, the switch to the other side. And even though the contact was only in one place, she felt it everywhere, all over her skin and throughout her body.

Especially between her legs.

Back with the kissing now, and positions were changing. He was moving them, shifting her as if she weighed nothing, laying her back against the hard floor that could have been a down mattress for all she knew. As he lay on top of her, a strange, hypersensitive numbness came over her, and she welcomed it just as she welcomed his body, now flush against her own, her clothing, and all of his, a total frustration.

She solved that problem quick.

Peeling the sports bra all the way off, she went for the buttons of his flak shirt. Her fingers were sloppy as she worked her way down the lineup, and then she was parting the two halves, finding smooth skin and hard muscle and volcanic warmth underneath.

Pants were supposed to be next on both sides, but she stayed awhile where they were, like a mountain climber enjoying a keyhole view that was not to be missed even though the summit was where they were headed. He was so different than she, the pads of muscles and thick, heavy bones the kind of thing that made her feel feminine, especially as her bare nipples met his torso.

The independent part of her, the fierce and strong part that had entered Chalen’s castle without weapons, carrying the head of a dead man, rankled at the idea that somewhere in her was an unevolved female who wanted a male to chase her and catch her and hold her down while he entered her and bit her hard on the neck. While he marked her as his own. While he established a dominance that she was hot for. While he left his scent all over her.

Inside of her.

Yup, the modern side of her could do without those kind of he-man antics. But what was happening between them now wasn’t modern; it was ancient. It was as old as the species itself. It was the basis of mortal existence, the door to immortality through the creation of a next generation.

Splitting her thighs, she pulled him even more fully on top of her, and Duran came readily, his body making its way between her legs, the ridge of his hard sex pushing into her core through their pants. As he started to roll into her and retreat, stroking them both, his hands, broad and warm and calloused, swept up to her breasts, learning her contours, caressing. Kissing deeply, they moved together, getting their rhythm down, a dress rehearsal for the naked penetration that was coming soon.