Archangel's Blade (Guild Hunter #4)(64)

He kept playing with her hair in that lazy way that made her want to cuddle up to him and close her eyes. “It was too easy.” A shrug. “I discovered the conquest meant nothing—especially when certain hunter-born began to seek me out.”

“Like a drug.” She could taste the dark eroticism of him on her tongue, her body primed to the satin and champagne and fur of his caresses, could well understand the compulsion that had driven those hunters to return to him over and over.

“The lure,” he said, “is not addictive.”

No, she thought, that was Dmitri.





Dmitri dreamed that night, of a woman with sunshine in her smile and love in her every breath.

“Dmitri.” A shy word, her hands smoothing down her skirts. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He wanted to touch her, kiss her, adore her. But she wasn’t his. Not yet. “I brought you these.”

Her eyes, those brown eyes uptilted at the corners, filled with unhidden joy at the sight of the wildflowers he’d clambered all over a mountainside to collect, feeling like one of the goats who roamed the same range. Yet if she asked him to go out and gather more of the wild blooms, he’d do so without question. Because that smile, it was the reason for his heartbeat.

Taking the bouquet, she half laughed her delight. “Thank you.” A sucked-in breath, a look of absolute determination.

Running forward, she kissed him on the lips, only reaching him because he was already bending toward her.

Stunned, he didn’t have time to raise his hands, keep her with him.

She was gone the next instant, her skirts whipping past his legs in a burst of color, the scent of her a blend of sunshine and those wildflowers she adored. He dreamed every night of having the right to press his nose against the delicate skin at the curve of her neck, to breathe in that scent as he drowned in the wild, feminine taste of her.

As it was with dreams, the colors shifted without warning until he was no longer standing in a rough barn but inside the walls of the small cabin he’d built with his own hands, a lovely dark-haired woman standing, shy and uncertain, in front of him, her back to his front. He’d touched her between her thighs until she was slick and pink with welcome, kissed her there in spite of her shocked cries, licked up the exquisite musk of her pleasure . . . but never had he claimed her as he hungered to do. Such a thing would have dishonored her.

“Ingrede.” Closing his hands over her upper arms, he tugged her against his chest. “Are you afraid?”

Her response was a whisper, her body trembling until he wanted only to stroke her, slow and easy. “Yes.”

Kissing the soft curve of her neck in the exact place that he knew made her weak in the knees, he found himself pushing his aroused body against her, his control in tatters. Clawing it back, though it was a precarious hold at best, he rubbed his lips over her skin. “I’d never hurt you.” He would tear out his own heart before putting a bruise on her.

Making that little moaning sound in her throat that he loved, she angled her head to give him easier access. “You know so many things.” Husky words. “I know only what you have taught me.”

He shuddered as she pushed herself against him. Control lost, he bit at her pulse as he reached around to cup her breasts with a boldness he’d never before dared, afraid she’d shy. But now . . . now she was his wife, and though her skin burned with color, she didn’t pull away. “You are so beautiful.” He shaped her through the fabric of her clothing, indulging himself in a way he’d dreamed about for years, often waking with his cock hard between his legs.

“And I know,” he said, licking out at her skin because the taste of her was a searing pleasure, “only what we’ve learned together.” Touching another woman—he’d never even considered it, no matter the invitations he’d received. “Anything else is simple imagination on my part.”

Ingrede gave a startled laugh, her breasts warm and heavy under his intimate caresses. “Your imagination is a dangerous thing for a woman.”

“For you,” he corrected. “I want to see you, wife.” Releasing her breasts only because he intended to have his fill of them when he’d bared her to the skin, he began to unlace her gown, aware of her breath getting ever faster, her pulse a thudding beat.

But she didn’t raise a hand to stop him, this small woman with ripe curves who had been his fantasy from the day he’d looked up from helping his father in the fields to realize he was no longer a child and neither was she. When he pushed her dress down her arms, she tugged it the rest of the way with a shy touch, the material bunching at her hips.





23


A single push, a small tug, and she was naked in front of him, her back pressed to his chest still. Shuddering with possessive hunger, he stroked his hands over her thighs, along the soft curve of her abdomen and up to cup her breasts again, her skin creamy against his scarred hands.

Full and taut and topped with dark nipples he’d tasted when he’d seduced her into allowing him to tug down her top one hazy summer day, they made his mind spark with ideas he was certain the village elders would term extremely unacceptable. He didn’t care. When it came to exploring what felt good between him and Ingrede, he never had.

“I dream,” he whispered in her ear, “of sliding myself between your breasts.” Using his forearm to plump them up, he sucked his finger to wet sleekness, then inserted it into the warm valley of her breasts to illustrate his meaning.