The Nymph King (Atlantis #3)(40)

He consumed her. Dark need consumed her. And she discovered that she liked being consumed.

His tongue worked hers with expert precision, causing her nerve endings to leap to blissful life. Her nipples hardened, her thighs ached, her stomach quivered. His taste was pure sexual heat, exotic, addictive. She shouldn't want to, knew she should pull away, but she found herself winding her arms around his neck and accepting him fully, demanding more.

A feral growl of satisfaction escaped him, raw, as if he couldn't hold it back.

"Do you want me?" he whispered fiercely.

As always the sound of his wine-rich voice excited her. More so than ever before. He'd been made for her, only her, his every action, every breath, existing simply to please her. The thought was intoxicating. Like the man himself. Heady and sultry and drugging.

"Do you want me?" he asked again.

"No," she forced out, then contradicted herself by licking the seam of his lips. Who was this wanton woman she'd become?

Valerian's woman drifted across her mind.

His callused hands slid from her neck over each vertebra of her spine and settled softly on the curve of her hips. His fingers gradually scrunched up the hem of her shirt.

"I want you," he said fiercely. Warm breath fanned her cheek.

There was a reason she should push him away. Yes, there was definitely a reason. A reason she should... drag his mouth back to hers. Taste him again. Feel the strength of his chest straining against her, feel the barely leashed power humming through his blood. Her nipples beaded tighter and hurt, actually hurt, for contact.

He released her shirt and reached under it, his fingers tickling her skin. She gasped in wonder.

"Your nipples ache for me, I know it." His hot gaze lingered on the area in question, making them pearl all the more.

"No, they don't," she denied.

"It would be my pleasure to prove it to you. I could stand you in front of a mirror, slowly remove your top, baring your flesh inch by precious inch. I could cup your breasts in my hands, framing your nipples as they cry for me."

She should have been used to it, expected it even, but the picture he described tunneled into her mind. Valerian behind her, his arms reaching around her, kneading her breasts. One of his phantom hands began a slow, languid glide down her stomach, stopping at the pale curls between her legs.

"I hate that idea," she lied breathlessly. "Hate it." She brought her hands to his chest, her palms over his nipples. They were hard little points her tongue yearned to lick. To suck. As her fingertip curled in the steel loop anchored there, she wanted to lick and suck that, too.

He groaned. "I like the way you hate."

Oh, she did, too. Their breaths mingled together. Their gazes locked, a sultry clash of turquoise against brown, passion against passion.

"Hate me some more," he breathed.

She didn't think to resist. She rose on her tiptoes - her body seemed to have a mind of its own - placing her lips just in front of his. His hands tightened on her waist, the grip needy, hard, commanding. Not allowing escape. He urged the lower half of her closer to him, so close, until she nestled against the long, hard length of his erection.

A hot, raspy gasp shuddered from her. Spears of pleasure arced through her, spawning other bursts of sensation. Needed sensation. Welcome sensation.

"I want to hate you, too," he told her in that same soft tone. "I want to hate you hard and fast, the first time. Slow and tender, the second."

"My king," someone called.

Shaye heard the voice distantly and despised the interruption. More kisses. She wanted more kisses.

As if Valerian didn't notice the voice - or simply didn't care - his gaze slid to her mouth. Wicked intent gleamed in his eyes. So much desire blazed from him, she had trouble catching her breath. He was a man ready to give her as many kisses as she desired.

"My king," the voice said again, this time projecting equal measures of reverence, impatience and eagerness.

Valerian's fingers clenched at her waist. "I don't want to stop hating you," he said softly, a growl.

Saying "You must" almost killed her.

"Must hate you?"

"Must stop."

He ran his tongue over his teeth. His nostrils flared, as if her taste lingered there. "For now," he allowed.

"Forever." What are you, stupid? She gulped. She'd never been kissed with such passion. Such fervor. As if the man doing the kissing savored her. Would be destroyed without her. And she wanted like hell to experience that urgency again.

Dangerous, her mind whispered.

But totally worth it, her body responded.

"Don't ever hate me again," she forced out. She tugged from his embrace, turned away, suddenly cold and empty. Hollow, as she'd been through her entire childhood.

He gripped her shoulders and spun her around. His eyes were compressed to tiny slits, his thick lashes nearly intertwining top with bottom. "My greatest pleasure will be - what is it your people say? - making you eat your words."

"Valerian," another man called. Joachim, this time. She recognized the deep baritone. Impatient now. Valerian didn't face him. "The woman is not yours to kiss."

Shaye drew her arms over her middle, tamping down a tremor of dread. She glanced over her shoulder, only to see that the dark-haired man resembled an angel of death. Great. A sign?