Storm's Heart (Elder Races #2)(32)

The concern in his face was genuine. She took a deep breath, released it in a shuddering sigh, and melted just that little bit further. “Yeah. But it’s not too bad if I’m careful.”

“We’ll be careful,” he murmured. “No more fever?”

She shook her head.

“Well-fed and rested?”

She nodded, mesmerized by the dark Power that blanketed her and by the intent focus in his hawkish face.

“Then kiss me,” he whispered. He spread his hand on her torso and caressed down the curve of her hip.

He was a master of lightning. His request sent a bolt of it shooting down her body. It pooled between her legs, causing her to throb with hungry need. She moved her lips lightly against his in a sexy pout. “Why would I kiss such a low-down, self-serving bastard?”

He gave her a slow smoldering grin, a white rakish slash across the dark brown of his skin. “Because you like me,” he said in a low voice. “And because you know in your bones it would be good.”

No, she knew in her bones it would be wicked-bad, quite possibly the worst thing she could do to herself. She already wanted too much to lean on him, to rely on him. Kissing him, getting more emotionally involved with him than she already was, would be nothing short of self-destructive. She felt like a gambling addict galloping into a casino with a week’s pay in her pocket.

But there he was, untamed and uncensored, crouched over her like a lion waiting to pounce. Her breathing roughened.

Oh, what the hell, she thought. It’s not like I’m known for my common sense.

She tilted her head, and with a light, delicate touch she caressed the line of his sensual, tough mouth with hers.

Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. Strangely enough, her reaching up to touch him of her own volition seemed to calm down the unpredictable violent storm that had seethed through his energy since before they had breakfast. The kiss turned into a sweet, gentle exploration of him while he held himself poised over her, rock-steady, and he submitted to her touch.

She murmured something wordless as her own hurricane calmed, her heart sped up, and pleasure spun out in a slow, expanding liquid spiral. He teased her lips open and eased inside, an expert invasion she discovered she relished. When he let go of her wrists, she ran her hands up his arms to grip his shoulders as he pressed into her mouth more deeply. The hand stroking her hip shifted to cup her between her legs and pressed against that sweet, hungry ache.

She stiffened, and he lifted his head to whisper, “Shh, easy now. You’re injured and we’re not doing anything. Just relax.”

She met his gaze. They were dark cauldrons of sexual heat. He ground the hard heel of his hand against her as he bent his head back down. He took her mouth again, this time hard and rough, while he rubbed her clitoris through the soft folds of her clothes. She sobbed out something incoherent as she ran shaking hands down the contoured landscape of his taut body. Feeling as if something inside of her had broken loose, she cupped both hands over the long length of his own arousal, which pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He hissed against her mouth and pushed his hips at her, moving against her touch.

“Goddamn,” he whispered unsteadily, running his lips down the side of her neck. “You feel like heated silk.”

She gasped out a laugh and gave him a gentle squeeze. He hissed again and licked her collarbone while he worked her, and her pleasure spiraled higher. He bent down to bite at her nipple through her shirt.

He was a puzzle box constructed of aggression and thorns. She didn’t want to want him, but oh gods, his hands and his mouth felt so good. She wanted his tongue, his finger, his c**k in her mouth. She wanted his body covering hers as he pushed inside of her and drove the rest of the world away.

She shook her head as some part of her rebelled against the pleasure he sought to give her. She was her own puzzle box of contradictory feelings. He touched a place so deep inside, she couldn’t bear to have him there. Her breathing roughened as anxiety tightened her muscles. She pressed a hand to her ribs as her wound gave a warning twinge, and she took hold of his wrist with the other. “Stop,” she gasped. “Please.”

He froze and searched her damp, bewildered gaze. “Did I hurt you?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. She turned her face away, covering her eyes with one forearm. “I–I can’t do this.”

She waited for some explosion of temper or aggression, but he held still, kneeling over her. Moments trickled by as his breathing deepened and steadied, and then he shifted onto his side beside her. He covered the hand she had pressed against her ribs and settled a heavy muscled thigh across her hips, pinning her in place.

“You were with me,” he said. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “Reality intruded, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“Niniane,” he said in a calm voice. He fell silent, studying her face.

Hearing him call her by her real name tugged again at that spot deep inside of her, that place that was more private and vulnerable than even the place where his hand still rested.

“Would you please give me some privacy?” she asked, forming the words with some difficulty. “I need a few moments alone.”

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse and push at her boundaries again, but something about her trembling mouth and unsteady voice must have made him pull back. He gave her a small smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll go make more coffee,” he said. “Then we’ll talk. All right?”