Ecstasy Untamed (Feral Warriors #6)(59)

Hawke's thumb stroked the back of her hand, a faint tremor in his own that told her how badly he wanted her. "After the seventeen warriors and their animal spirits were lost in the spirit trap six hundred years ago, there were nine Feral Warriors left. The nine. One of them, the previous fox shifter, died a few months ago."

Faith nodded. "So his is the animal who marked Fox, not one of the seventeen from the trap. Which is why there's no dark magic attached to him."

"Correct. The nine are magic-free and are the men chosen by our animals - presumably the strongest of our lines. Those marked by the seventeen lost animal spirits appear to be infected. According to what you were told, and what we've seen, they're not the ones meant to be marked. Not the strongest of their lines."

She nodded. "Fox was the one who confused me since he's a new Feral yet not like the others."

"We'll be taking shifts guarding the house and sleeping," Lyon said, when they reached the main floor. "Tighe and Hawke, you two take the first sleep shift." He glanced at Hawke knowingly. "Make sure there's sleep involved? I need you on your game."

Hawke nodded, his gaze sliding to Faith. At the heat that leaped into his eyes, her pulse stuttered. As they started up the stairs, she started to pull back, but Tighe was right behind them. Maybe, once they got to Hawke's room, she'd tell him she wasn't tired. No, those would be the words he'd want to hear. She could tell him she was too tired. Or she had a headache. And how lame was that?

They reached his bedroom door, and he ushered her inside. She'd seen it earlier right after she'd gone Feral, but this time she actually looked around. Bookshelves lined two full walls, shelves filled with every manner of intriguing thing - books, skeletons of small animals, gadgets of every size and shape. The walls were deep tan, the bedspread a dark blue, and on the wall above the bed hung a dozen antique swords and daggers. The only thing she'd noticed last night was the framed letter from Robert E. Lee hanging on the wall above his desk, a letter urging the strong men of Feral House to join the Confederate cause.

Hawke closed the door behind her. Before she could think of the right excuse, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her. Sensation exploded, thought fled in the heat of the fire that flared between them. He tasted of sin and power and safety. And she wanted him with a hot, shuddering desperation that nearly obliterated everything else.

He pressed her back against the door, hands covering, kneading her br**sts, and she lifted to his touch, thrusting her fingers into his short, soft hair, arching against the thick ridge pressed against her belly. Moisture dampened her panties, a moan of pure need escaping her throat. In a distant part of her mind, she was aware that if she meant to keep her pants on, this wasn't the way to do it.

His lips moved over hers frantically, his tongue sweeping against hers, hard and desperate. Long fingers dove beneath the hem of her shirt, caressing her bare flesh, pushing aside the lace of her bra to stroke her bare br**sts. He thrust his jeans-clad erection against her, and she moaned again as the fire flared higher, hotter.

Sanity fled. She tugged at the T-shirt tucked into his jeans, pulling it out of his waistband, burrowing her hands beneath to slide her palms against the warm flesh covering granite-hard muscle.

Hawke pulled back, yanked his shirt over his head, sending his masculine scent wrapping itself around her, revealing that gorgeous chest to her hungry eyes. She reached for him, sliding her hands over those rock-hard abs and up to flick his ni**les lightly with her thumbs. His groan made her smile, and she looked up to meet his gaze.

Her breath caught at the blazing heat and infinite tenderness that filled his eyes. Her chest began to ache with a pressure nearly too great to contain. And the fear that when he knew the truth, he wouldn't look at her this way again.

He reached behind her, fingering her bra, and she knew she'd already let things go too far.

"No, Hawke."

His hands stilled as he watched her, his eyes tightening with disappointment. A disappointment quickly masked by soft regret. He dropped his hands, cupping her waist instead, his need clear in the tension of his fingers.

"I'm sorry, Smiley. I know you're not ready."

She stroked his face, his handsome, dear, beloved face and forced the lie between her lips. "No. I'm not." In truth, she'd never been more ready, her body hot, wet, throbbing with need of him.

He leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on her nose. "I shouldn't have fallen on you like that. Not after all you've been through."

She laughed, the sound strangled. "I . . . understand. After watching Grizz and the Ilina . . ."

His eyes deepened until she thought she'd drown in their dark, steaming depths. "I've been on fire for you since the first time you smiled at me. It's not Grizz and the Ilina. It's you, in my room, no longer tied to another man, that sent me over the edge." He pulled in a deep, shuddering breath and lifted a hand to tenderly brush the hair back from her face. "Every time I touch you, I go a little crazy." His smile was gentle and endearing. "Ironic, isn't it? You make me lose control even as you help me keep it."

A lump that threatened to choke her formed in her throat. He was such a good man, and she was a bad, bad person for lying to him like this. For not telling him, for not telling any of them that they had another new Feral hiding in their midst, another who was likely infected.