Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(62)

She could only feel and yearn.

He lifted his head finally, when her breath was ragged and nearly broken, and began trailing his open mouth down her quivering belly. At first she had no idea of his intent—couldn’t even think—but as his hand bunched up her chemise and moved lower still, she had a terrible premonition.

“No.” It was the first word spoken between them since he’d entered her room, and it sounded overly harsh to her own ears.

Megs licked her lips, feeling her heart still beating too fast in her chest, the obscene dampness on both her nipples, and the still of the night.

He’d frozen at her word, but it wasn’t in fear or apprehension. His stance, hovering over her, his arms on either side of her hips, seemed dangerous somehow. As if his will were held back by only a tiny thread. As if he might ignore her plea and place his mouth against her anyway.

Against her cunny.

That’s where he had been moving. She was no virgin and she knew what his intent was: to disintegrate her composure. She wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d succumb to that beautiful mouth, that quiet expertise, and she’d forget everything.

The last vestiges of Roger would dissolve and blow away from her mind.

So she inhaled slowly and reached tentatively for his shoulders. His muscles were bunched, hard and unyielding, and she couldn’t move him if he did not wish it.

“Please,” she whispered.

For a moment more he didn’t move. Then he was shaking her hand off his shoulder, hauling up her chemise, settling between her thighs. She was already wet, but perhaps not quite enough. He rocked against her, his penis a hard prod, sliding in her moisture before catching and slowly beginning to invade.

She swallowed, arching her head back, trying to relax as he slid more and more of himself into her. Animals did this without thought. Why, then, couldn’t people? She knew some did. But not her it seemed.

She thought—felt—far too much.

She gripped his arms as he shoved resolutely against her, seating himself fully. She looked up, trying to see something of him in the darkness. An expression, perhaps how he held his head.

But he was simply a large male shape.

And yet … she knew it was him. Would’ve known it blindfolded. Whether by scent or some more primitive means—perhaps an alchemy of souls—she felt him bone-deep.

Godric. Poised above her.

Godric. Withdrawing his cock in one long, pulling slide.

Godric. Flexing his hips back into her with a final twist at the end.

He was overpowering her senses, laying claim to her soul.

She struggled internally, resisting, closing her eyes, dropping her hands from his arms, trying to shut away her senses.

But that was impossible. How could it not be? He was making love to her.

She tried her best, she really did, and in the end she had one small victory: As his thrusts grew harder and closer to his point, she held herself together. He shook against her, rubbing into her, making her feel, but she was stubborn and strong, and when finally he shuddered, the dark shape of his head arching back, it was by himself.

She had no time to congratulate herself.

He leaned down in the dark and she thought he meant to kiss her. She turned her head aside and it was in her ear he whispered huskily, so close she could feel the brush of his lips.

“Who are you making love to, my lady? For I know it’s not me.”

Chapter Twelve

Faith was hungry as she clung to the Hellequin’s broad back. She fished in a pocket of her dress and took out a small apple. The Hellequin’s nostril’s flared as she bit into the sweet-tart flesh.

Faith was abashed at her discourtesy. “Would you like some?”

“I have not eaten the food of men for a millennium,” the Hellequin rasped.

“Well, then,” said Faith, “it’s past time you did so.”

She bit off a piece of the apple, and taking it from her own mouth, held it to his. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

At his words Megs froze beneath him.

Rage was pumping through Godric’s veins, corrosive and hot, expanding, making him feel as if he’d explode from inside if he didn’t get out of here at once. He gingerly withdrew from her silky depths, moving carefully so as not to hurt her.

He’d never in his life worried that he might harm a woman in shear anger.

His movement shifted the covers, stirring the scent of semen and sex and her. He couldn’t think; his emotions were overwhelming him.

“I didn’t—” she started, foolish wench.

How dare she try to deny it?

“Quiet,” he bit out, sliding from the bed.

“Godric.”

“Will you leave it?” he hissed, turning on her in the dark. He had to leave before he said something—did something—he would regret.

But she was ever contrary. He felt her fingers wrap around his wrist, feminine and strong.

He stilled.

“Where are you going?” she whispered.

He could still smell her scent, and he realized to his horror that it was probably imprinted upon his skin. “Out.”

“Where?”

He sneered, though she couldn’t see it in the dark. “Where do you think? I go to St. Giles. To find your lover’s murderer. To do my work as the Ghost.”