Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(58)

“It’s closed.”

She turned to him and his eyes went to her breasts. Her waist. Her hips.

“Come under the warm water,” he beckoned.

Ahmare took his hand, and as he drew her up against him, his body responded, thickening, lengthening. Where it counted.

Tasting her mouth under the falling spray, he was hungry, but he was careful as he held her close and ran his hands up and down her body. Tongues, languid and hot, penetrated and slid as she fit herself against him, her breasts pushing into the wall of his chest.

He washed her as a way to honor her, shampooing her long hair, soaping her body, taking his time as he kissed and licked . . . everywhere. Especially between her legs. She ended up sitting on the ledge in the corner, her thighs split to his hungry, unknowledgeable tongue. He’d never done anything like this before, some inner drive guiding him. He must be doing something right, though.

She orgasmed against his lips, and he drank of her.

Rising up on his knees, he angled himself in the way she had done when they’d first been together.

He looked into her eyes as he entered her.

But even as he gasped at the hold, he stopped himself. Cradling the back of her head, he bared his throat to her.

“Take from me,” he said in a guttural voice. “Let me make you strong.”



Ahmare’s fangs descended in a rush, and yet she was too stunned to move. Duran, after all he had been through, was giving himself to her in the most complete of ways, and she was so struck by the gift, she could only blink away tears.

As she stared at him, she couldn’t stop picturing him as he had emerged from the water falling in that dungeon, the rush split by his huge shoulders, his magnificent body so proud and strong even in his captivity. And now here they were, in a warm shower together, in a safe house.

With a different kind of water falling.

Slipping her hand around the back of his neck, she drew him toward her. She pressed her lips to the thick vein that roped up the side of his throat, and then she ran one fang up his flesh. As he shuddered beneath the contact, she tilted her pelvis and reached down, clamping a hand on his ass and pulling him into her.

She struck as he gasped again at their joining.

His blood was a roar in her mouth, his arousal a hot brand in her sex, his body a blanket of strength against her own. She’d had no idea she was starving until she tasted him, and then suddenly she was ravenous.

As she took from him, he took her, penetrating and retreating, finding a rhythm.

The release that wracked her was so intense, she worried she was chewing him raw, but he didn’t seem to care. He was wild, too, his head back, his throat exposed, his hips pumping.

For a moment, she was worried that he would need pain to find his climax, as he had back in that bolt-hole they’d spent their first day in—and watching him hurt himself to get to a point of pleasure had been hard enough to witness before. Now? With everything she felt for him and all they had been through, it would kill her.

But he had no problem. With a shout of her name, he soared, clearly free of the burdens he had carried, and tears of joy came to her eyes. So natural. So right—for the both of them: He was down the back of her throat, in her gut, in her body, coming in great kicks into her sex. Duran . . . was everywhere and everything, all she knew, all she needed.

And it was beautiful.

So much so, she might well drain him dry if she took too much—and so she was careful to force herself to release his vein way before she was satiated, her love for him greater than her greed for his blood. Licking the puncture wounds closed, she slumped against the wall and propped her heels on the ledge, opening herself up as wide as she could.

Duran planted his palms on the tile wall, his great arms bowing out, and then he got to the grind, his abs rolling under his tight skin, his hips working, his lips finding hers until the rhythm got too intense. Looking down her body, beneath her breasts, she watched him go in and out of her, the sight so erotic, she came again.

And again.

And . . . again.

He was filling her up on the inside once more, marking her as males did when they had bonded, mating her in the rawest sense of the word. His face, as he strained and powered over her, was intense, his eyes glowing, his fangs bared as his lips curled off his canines in pleasure.

He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

And he was alive.

When he finally stilled, she was boneless and fully satisfied. And if, tomorrow night, she had to add stiffness between her legs to her legion of bumps and bruises?

Well worth it. Sooooooo worth it.

“You ready for bed?” he asked with a slow smile.

“Beyond ready.” She brushed his wet hair back from his forehead. “I can’t wait to sleep all day long.”

“If I happen to wake you,” he drawled as he bent to one of her breasts and sucked her nipple between his lips, “I want to apologize in advance.”

“Do not hesitate to disturb my sleep with the likes of this,” she groaned as he nuzzled against her.

Out of the shower, they dried off and went to fall into the big queen-size bed that was covered with quilts. Their room was in the back of the house on the first floor, and she had an idea, considering what had happened in the shower, of why Nexi had given them this particular locale.

Far from the basement.

So no one would hear . . . things.