The Vampire's Bride (Atlantis #4)(35)

"Doesn't matter. I didn't do it." His self-disgust threatened to choke the life out of him.

Understanding dawned. Exactly what did she think she understood? "You should not even be here," she said. "Spying for your team is cowardly."

"Please. You only wish you were on the other side of the island, listening to my team strategize. Besides, I don't need to spy to defeat you. I've pinned you beneath me, remember?" The moment the words escaped him, the memory of when she'd pinned him flashed in his mind. Her legs straddling him, her core so close he had only to lift his head to taste her.

She clearly remembered, too.

Her pupils dilated and that rosy color spread from her cheeks, slowly overtaking her from jaw to collarbone. As she closed more of the distance between them, she dabbed at her lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Stop," he commanded, even as he inched toward her, as well. That tongue...

A moan escaped her, a whimper. "I can't."

What are you doing? Acting like the coward she had called him, he ceased moving toward his downfall and actually backpedaled - until he hit the tree.

Still Delilah advanced. "One of us could be the person to die tonight," she said huskily.

"We will not be chosen," he forced himself to say, even though he had thought the same only moments ago.

"You can't know that for sure." At last she reached him, was merely a whisper away. Her body heat radiated around him, into him, beckoning him all the closer. He'd always preferred the cold - or thought he had. This heat enthralled him, wrapping him in the inexorable threads of desire only she seemed capable of weaving.

Tiny as she was, the top of her head only hit his chin. Surprisingly her blue hair floated up with the breeze, sticking to his shirt and skin as if some part of her had to be in contact with him. He gulped, mouth going dry, blood roaring at a frantic speed.

Before he could stop them, his hands were on her waist, holding her captive. His nails were so sharp they had to be cutting into her skin, but she gave no protest. No, she leaned closer, until the hard tips of her nipples abraded his shirt. Until her legs fit between his, cradling his erection.

He couldn't think, didn't want to think.

"I know we are both strong and determined and we will not allow it to happen," he said, trying - so good, so damned good - to think of anything except possessing her. Taking her. Hearing her cries of pleasure in his ears. Had he been talking about dying, or making love to her? He couldn't say for sure.

"I wanted you," she admitted. Her eyelids dipped to half-mast. "Before. In Atlantis. I told myself I couldn't allow it. I told myself it would be wrong. I told myself I needed to stay away from you. But right now, I can think of only one thing I will regret if I'm killed."

Push her away! "And what is that?" The words were broken, hoarse.

"Not knowing your kiss." She didn't ask his permission, didn't even give him a chance to respond. She merely rose on her tiptoes and meshed their lips together, her tongue thrusting inside his mouth.

He moaned, the sound more animal than human. The heat...the taste...the desperation...They filled him, consumed him, slayed him. Yes, something inside him died. Or broke. Whatever it was, sensation pounded through the numbness he'd forced upon his body with the ferocity of a winter storm, covering everything in its path, spreading...spreading so quickly there was no controlling it. He was not sure he wanted to control it.

Growling, keeping Delilah locked in his arms, he charged forward. Years of denied instinct surged to the surface, demanding he seize control. Too long. He'd been without a woman too long. Hadn't wanted one in two hundred years, and now all of his latent desires were suddenly revealing themselves, desperate, greedy.

When Delilah's back slammed into one of the trees, she gasped. His body trapped her and his tongue plundered deeper, taking everything and demanding more. She cupped his jaw, not to stop him but to hold him and angle him for even deeper contact. Her grip was so fierce she would have snapped the bones of a lesser man. He liked it. Liked that she was as lost to the passion as he was.

"More," she demanded.

"Ask," he said, because it went against the very nature of what she was. She might refuse, might deny him, and the madness might finally end. Perhaps she would even flounce away and he could regain his senses.

Her hands moved to his head and her nails dug into his scalp, as sharp as daggers. "Please."

He was surprised by the plea, even more surprised that he fell deeper into the passion. With a kick of her ankle, he spread her legs and meshed his erection against her, hardness to softness.

On a shuddering moan, she said, "Yes, yes. Like that. More."

"Ask." This time, it was a plea of his own. He was desperate to hear the entreaty in her voice.

"Please, please. Layel, please." With every beseeching gasp, her excitement seemed to increase.

She would let him have complete control, he realized with shock. This powerful Amazon would willingly submit herself to his demands. The knowledge burned inside him as he palmed one of her breasts. He felt the stiffness of her nipple through her clothing, but that wasn't good enough. He raked his claw over the material, ripping it in half and freeing her breasts. They were small and firm, perfectly tipped.

More...more...he needed more, felt crazy with the need. The sweet flavor of her skin was addictive, a drug. Her moans were like gateways to the heavens.