Storm's Heart (Elder Races #2)(30)

His hands shot out. He planted one on the table and the other at the back of her head as he lunged forward and drove his mouth down onto hers. He felt the shock of it bolt through her body. Her soft, pretty mouth fell open under his onslaught as he pushed his tongue deep inside her, and there was nothing sweet or romantic about it. It was a marauding capture that fed a hunger that had been gnawing at him from the inside and making him bat-shit crazy.

Her hands flew up and touched his face. Her mouth moved, either to protest or to kiss him back. Or both. Breathing heavily, he pulled back.

She blinked devastated, dazed eyes at him. She whispered, “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re tap-dancing on my last nerve,” he growled. He removed the metal cover from her meal and slammed it down on the table. “Shut up and eat your breakfast, faerie.”

He released the back of her neck and settled back in his seat to uncap a porterhouse steak and a mountain of scrambled eggs.

Tap-dancing on his last nerve? Well, he was driving a Sherman tank over hers. Trembling in reaction, Niniane looked down at her plate. She put her elbows on the table and covered her mouth as she stared at her meal. Of course. He had fulfilled his promise. Fragrant fluffy pancakes were topped with fresh strawberries and melting whipped cream. There was a side plate with a scrambled egg and two crispy slices of bacon.

For a heart-pounding moment she didn’t know if she wanted to eat her meal or grind it into his face, but then a surge of hunger consumed her. Unable to think about anything else, her mind shut down. She dove into her breakfast and didn’t come up for air until both plates were clean. At some point Esperanza brought them fresh coffee and iced water with lemon slices, then she left with Hughes.

If Niniane could have come up with any excuse for them to stay, she would have. She sat back and cradled her mug in both hands. She stared into the fragrant hot liquid to avoid looking directly at the lunatic Wyr that lounged at the table beside her.

She could see him out of the corner of her eye. He folded his arms and balanced his chair on its back two legs. He was topheavy as most of the warrior Wyr were, with massive muscles in his chest and arms from heavy sword work and wielding other weaponry. His stretched-out legs went on forever. She kept her feet tucked under her own chair to avoid coming into contact with him in any way.

She pretended to sip her coffee as the tiny hairs along her arms rose. He was staring at her, a moody, brooding look from under level black brows, while his Power pressed down in the room with the sulfurous weight of an impending thunderstorm.

“Of all the shit I’ve got to think about and deal with right now,” she remarked in a cool voice. “You should not even make the list.”

“So you think you can ‘deal’ with me,” he said. The insolent, silken tone of his voice stroked down her spine even as it raised the danger level in the room. “You can try.”

She raised her head and met his gaze. She watched her own hand move out, grasp the stem of her iced water and toss the contents into his face.

Water cascaded down his face and neck. His chair came down on all four legs. His eyes filled with lightning. She pushed to her feet and backed away from the table as he came to his feet in a leisurely movement.

A sharp rap sounded at the door. His head snapped around, and he glared as the rap sounded again. She took that moment to escape toward the bedroom. His soft growl followed her. “Goddammit, Tricks. Go ahead, try to run. See what good that does you.”

She scowled. Try to run? Hell, no. She stormed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She flipped the kitchen faucet on and started pulling all the mugs and glasses out of the cabinets. She filled each one with water and lined them up on the kitchen counter.

She’d had it. And she had not just merely had it—she had really most sincerely had it.

Just a week ago, before she had even left New York, she had ambushed Tiago so she could smack him in the back of the head and yell at him for cursing at her. They had lived for her entire stay in New York—two hundred years, to be exact—as near strangers. Then all of it sudden it was “Goddammit, Tricks” or “Tricks, goddammit” with him. When her temper had finally erupted, he had had the gall to laugh in her face and call her cute.

Ordering her around. Acting like a world-class bastard. He was rude. He was crude (well, okay, maybe she didn’t have so much of a problem with that). He hardly paid attention to a thing she said. One word from her, and he went ahead and did whatever the hell he liked anyway. He scared normal sane people and manhandled her without permission, and maybe his particular brand of crude, dominating sexuality was exactly the kind of thing that made her knees melt and her foolish heart go pitty-pat but that didn’t give him any right—

In the meantime, Tiago stalked to the suite door and yanked it open, his anger fueled by the fact that he hadn’t been paying attention and hadn’t heard someone approach the suite door until they had knocked. That damn faerie was messing with his head and screwing up all kinds of finely honed instincts.

Cameron Rogers stood with her hand raised to knock again. He barked, “What.”

The lieutenant’s hand lowered as she stared at him. Her cinnamon-sprinkled features became suffused with sudden strain. “Ah,” she said with a cough. “Looking a little damp there, sentinel.”

“Fuck you,” he snapped. He swiped at his dripping face with the back of his hand. “What do you want?”