Mind Game (GhostWalkers, #2)(100)

“I can’t stop.” She looked desperate. “Make me stop, Nicolas. Make it stop.”

Nicolas found her mouth with his, kissing her deeply, taking the cries from her throat and swallowing them, making them his own. He took her breath into his body and swept his tongue over her tears, tasting them. Keeping them. He deepened the kiss, urgency mingling with tenderness, taking her away from a place he couldn’t follow her to, bringing her back into his world. Their world.

The silk of her pajamas rubbed over his skin, her skin, feeding the growing need rising in a slow smoldering heat between them. He ran his hands over her body, cupping her breasts, feeling the tuck of her waist through the thin layer of silk, shaping every curve even as his mouth stayed welded, kiss for kiss, to hers. “It’s all right, kiciciyapi mitawa,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right.” He kissed her eyes, his tongue capturing more tears before they could fall, going back again and again to her soft lips. “You’re with me. You’ll always have me.”

He kissed her with long drugging kisses, making her almost senseless, unable to think anymore, taking every sorrow and replacing it with erotic pleasure. All the while his hands stroked and explored, slowly pushed the silken pajamas aside until he had bare skin. Until she lay beneath him completely naked, her eyes wild for him, pleading with him, and her hips rising to try to meet his.

Nicolas shook his head, his expression tender. “Not this time. I want you to know I love you, Dahlia. I want you to feel it. I’m going to make love to you, a long slow assault on your senses. I want you to know you’re mine, that you really belong with me.” He bent his head to her throat, lapped at the valley between her breasts. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmured the words against her breasts, took her nipple into her mouth, heard her soft cry and took his time, paying attention to both breasts and her narrow rib cage before taking a small foray across her stomach to her belly button.

“Nicolas,” Dahlia caught two fistfuls of hair. “I can’t stand it. I want you.”

“Yes you can. You can stand me loving you.” He traced the path lower, spreading her thighs with gentle hands and dipping his head to taste her.

Dahlia’s hips lifted for him, giving him the opportunity to cup her bottom and bring her to him. He took his time, enjoying her frantic little cries, a stark contrast to her earlier sobs. She tried to pull him over her, to wrap her legs around him, which only opened her more to his exploration. She came with a wild bucking of her hips. He entered her, felt the continuing ripples as her muscles gripped him tightly and spiraled out of control. He moved then, long deep strokes, robbing her of breath until her eyes began to glaze and he felt her nails dig into his back, and he laughed softly with satisfaction as she came again.

Breathless, Dahlia could only lie beneath him as Nicolas began to ride her in earnest, his body surging with strength into hers, bringing her to another fever pitch when she thought it impossible. She clung to him, watching his face, the stern, almost harsh angles and planes that were so beautiful to her. She could see his pleasure growing with each thrust of his hips. His hands bit into her hips and dragged her to him with each stroke so that they came together hard, so that the pleasure was so much it bordered on pain. She could feel him moving in her, deep in her tight folds, her heat surrounding him, drawing him to her very core. The pressure built and built and the air sparkled and sizzled and the flames flickered everywhere, and deep inside when the volcano thundered and spread fire through her body, through his, she felt utter contentment and total peace.

Dahlia lay still, so spent she couldn’t move. He should have been too heavy but she wanted him draped over her, tangled with her, arms and legs everywhere so she couldn’t tell where he started and she ended. “What does kiciciyapi mitawa mean?”

He kept his head on her breasts. “What?”

“You called me kiciciyapi mitawa. It sounded so beautiful. It wasn’t Japanese. What was it?”

“It’s the voice of Lakota. It would sound silly in English.” He cupped her breast, his fingers moving lightly over her skin. His breath warm on her heart.

“I want to know. It didn’t sound silly when you said it. It sounded . . . beautiful. It made me feel beautiful. And loved.”

He kissed her breast. “I called you my heart. And you are.”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The street, in the upscale neighborhood, was empty at three in the morning. The wind blew gently through the flower beds and across recently mowed lawns. A dog lifted its head as the breeze carried an unfamiliar scent. He got stiffly to his feet and faced the west, a growl rumbling deep in his throat. Dark shadows darted through the street, moving fast, a blur as they scattered to surround the large, two-story house at the end of the quiet cul-de-sac.

The dog barked a warning, but stopped abruptly when one of the shadows turned back and stared at it. The dog retreated slowly, the hair settling on its back as it once again lay down on the porch, eyes brightly watching the intruders moving around the house into position.

The light from the streetlamp didn’t quite reach to the house itself, set back as it was from the road. Trees darkened the surrounding yard even more. Shadows flitted around the yard, and swarmed up the sides of the house in complete silence like dark wraiths.

Nicolas went up the side of the house, a spider crawling up to the second story. He studied the window for some time before proceeding to the roof. Crouching on the slope he spoke into his radio. “We’ve got ourselves a real operator,” he whispered. “I found a string across the window. Use extreme caution.”