Deadly Game (GhostWalkers, #5)(57)

“You grew up with these women? You were all raised in the barracks by Whitney since you were infants?”

“Yes. They’re my family. I consider them sisters. Cami’s tough, she’ll get out no problem, and the others will follow our lead, but I have one sister who suspects she is already pregnant. We have to get her out of there before he runs his weekly tests on us and actually gets the results. She’s terrified Whitney will find out.”

“We’ll get her out.” Ken didn’t ask which one of the women was pregnant. Mari was already regretting telling him that much information; he could see it on her face and he didn’t blame her. He slid his body down, just a little bit, just enough that she could rest her chin on the top of his head and his face was opposite her beautiful breasts. Her breath hitched.

Moonbeams from the skylight overhead spilled across her body, illuminating her skin, turning it to cream. He pushed her shirt up further, slowly exposing her breasts to the cool night air—and his hot gaze. His own breath left his lungs in a heated rush. This woman brought him something no one else had ever done. It wasn’t the combination of lust and need, or even his body springing back to hard, vivid life; it was simple happiness. He felt different when he was with her. Lighter. The memories of the scent and sight of blood, of dark sweat, the sound of his own screams, the rage that never left him, that consumed him until he thought his world was only one of complete darkness, devoid of anything good—she forced it all to retreat, just by her presence. Whitney—the son of a bitch—couldn’t have made that happen with his meddling—it was all too real.

Mari brought up her hands, brushing her fingers through his thick wavy hair. Her body nearly vibrated with the need to feel his hands—and mouth—on her. Her body felt as if it was melting, so soft and pliant he could shape her into anything. Her breasts tingled when the cool air hit her nipples like the flick of a tongue, teasing them into twin, upright peaks.

Her fingers fisted in his hair when he shifted again, and she felt the dark five o’clock shadow rasp across her nipples, sending little jagged streaks of lightning through her bloodstream. “Ken.”

She said his name in a breathy little voice that threatened to shatter his rigid control. Ken thought he had his desire well in hand, but he hadn’t counted on the way her body responded to his. Her bare breasts were laid out in front of him like a feast, and he drank in the sight of her lush flesh, swollen and flushed with desire, rising and falling with every breath, luring him closer to the tight, pink buds that stood up to beckon him. She wanted him—no, needed him—and that was the biggest aphrodisiac of all.

She didn’t seem to see the scars on his face or body. She touched him, skimmed her mouth down his scarred flesh, as if he was whole. She seemed as ravenous for him as he was for her.

“You’re incredibly beautiful, Mari,” he whispered. “This isn’t Whitney’s pheromones talking. This is me, wanting you so bad I’m almost afraid to touch you.”

“Almost” wasn’t true—he was afraid. If he knew what paradise felt like, could he go back to the barren world of the desert? He stroked his hand between her breasts, back down her body to her flat belly. Firm muscles played beneath soft skin. He rested his hand over her stomach possessively, fingers splayed wide to take in every inch of her that he could. Beneath his palm, the muscles of her stomach clenched.

She didn’t know home or family. He’d had foster homes and Jack. Hell, they’d been kicked out of a dozen places, run away from more, and yet he was fairly certain he’d had it better than Mari. Briony had been taken from her when they were been small children, and she’d been raised in a brutal, disciplined world. His world had been brutal and disciplined, but he’d had Jack. He’d always had his brother.

He moved the pads of his fingers over her skin, tracing her sexy little belly button. No piercings for Mari. No jewels or fancy clothes. She didn’t have evening gowns or expensive perfume. She had soldier-issue boots and routine camouflage clothing.

With every stroke of his finger, he felt the ripple of response in her stomach, her muscles clenching beneath the small caresses. He could barely breathe with the intensity of his desire. The roar in his ears grew louder. He shuddered with the effort to keep his mind away from the thought of her naked under him. He might need it, and he sure as hell could make her need it as well, but hot sex wasn’t what was best for her, not right at that moment.

There was a part of him that detested the way lust intruded, so sharp and terrible that he could taste her on his tongue. He was beginning to crave her like a drug he was addicted to. He wanted to comfort and soothe her, to talk about things that mattered to her, but his cock throbbed and burned for her, stretched to the bursting point, an urgent reminder that he was alive and was more than an infinitely normal man.

Maybe it was the need to show her that beneath the mask he wasn’t all monster—that for her he could push aside his baser animalistic instincts and be a better man. She had nearly died. Technically, although he didn’t think of her as a prisoner, she was one, and that made her vulnerable. He wanted to think about that—had to think about it, in order to keep from climbing on top of her and f*cking the brains out of both of them. Once he started, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d ever stop.

“Ken?” Mari’s fingers moved in his hair, massaging his scalp and sending a shudder of awareness down his spine.