The Vampire's Bride (Atlantis #4)(79)

"Well?"

Rather than answer her, he asked a question of his own. "Are you nervous? Is that why you wish to know?"

"Not nervous. Curious. Excited."

"Then I will explain and hopefully increase your excitement. I will taste you here." He circled her nipple with the tip of his finger.

She gasped in ecstasy.

"And here." He inched a bit lower, staying atop the tiny leather skirt that shielded her feminine core from his gaze.

"I - Yes. That's an excellent plan." Licking her lips, she leaned toward him. Almost, almost...she would taste so good, so very good. "Tonight you will love me," she whispered.

Love her. The words trembled through him and he turned his head away before he drowned in her, sinking deeply, sinking completely, losing himself. Her kiss landed on his cheek, and then she pulled back and blinked in disappointment.

Once more, he'd hurt her.

He pushed to his feet - don't fall, don't you dare fall - and she slid down his body. Pleasure speared him, lancing him more surely than a weapon ever had. "Come," he said roughly, harshly, holding out his hand. You can walk away, he found himself projecting. You do not have to do this. "Unless you've changed your mind?" Do not change your mind. Please, do not change your mind.

Her fingers curled around his. Without a word, they walked to the waterfall.

A THOUSAND EMOTIONS SEEMED to swirl through Delilah - excitement, joy, sorrow, tenderness, passion, anger, regret, confusion, even the nervousness she'd told Layel she didn't feel. She wanted this more than she'd ever wanted anything. Would have killed for this moment with Layel, harshly and without remorse.

She was going to be with the man who'd captured her interest. Would know him as intimately as a woman could know a man, allowing him inside her body, perhaps her soul. For once she would be the prize and not the conqueror. And yet...

She wanted to cry.

He would walk away afterward without a backward glance. Once again she would be nothing more than a pleasurable encounter, easily forgotten.

She had shed tears only once in her life: the day her mother sent her away to begin training as a warrior. Her first tutor had beaten her for those tears. Since then, she had not cried. Not in pain when her body was abused beyond recognition, not in sadness when she buried several of her sisters after battle, not in shame when Vorik left her. Tears were a sign of weakness. But weakness had mattered little when Layel turned his face away to avoid her kiss. He had turned his face away exactly as her sisters turned their heads when their slaves tried to kiss them.

As if she wasn't good enough for more than a quick tumble - she'd known that.

As if she meant nothing - she'd suspected.

As if he would remain distanced from the act, while she gave everything she had to give - that, she had not expected.

The knowledge had burned hotter than dragon fire, scraped deeper than a demon's claw and slashed harsher than a vampire's teeth. He was willing to take her body, but not her mouth, even though he'd kissed her before. Why? Had the first been a mistake? No, his actions were fueled by loyalty to his mate, she suspected, and that just intensified the hurt. But she couldn't bring herself to halt what they were about to do.

Just once, she told herself. Just once, she had to know what it was like to be utterly possessed by a man. Vorik had taken her body, but he had not consumed her. She and Layel remained in the shadows, careful not to allow anyone to see them. They remained quiet, careful not to allow anyone to hear them. After an eternity, they broke through the trees and the waterfall came into view, dripping cool liquid into a decadently fragrant pool.

Her hands began to sweat, her body to tremble.

"Bathe," he said, his tone flat. "I will check the area to make sure we are truly alone." He didn't give her time to respond, just released her and strode out of sight.

"Now there's another emotion to add to the ever-growing list," she muttered. Bereavement.

With a sigh, she stripped and padded into the water. Her skin seemed to soak up every drop, drowning, muscles softening. She washed her hair with the flowers blooming at the edge and cleaned the rest of her body with the glistening white soap-sand. At least the gods weren't denying them nature's sweetness.

Scrubbed from head to toe and unsure how much time had passed, she eased up onto the bank and sat upon a smooth silver rock, knees drawn up to her chest. Where was Layel?

As if her thoughts had summoned him, he appeared beside her. She hadn't heard him, which meant he'd floated, and she hadn't smelled his scent, which meant he'd bathed with the same sand and blooms she had. He wasn't naked, though. Actually wore his pants. But they were unfastened and sat low on his lean, sinewy waist.

His hair hung in dripping chunks, white and glorious. There was a smear of blood on his lips.

"You fed." Frowning, she pushed to her feet.

"Yes." His gaze slowly raked over her, lingering on her breasts - nipples hard and straining - and between her legs.

"On who?" She meant to snap the words, but they emerged breathless. His eyes were so vibrant with arousal it was palpable. The nymph?

"No one. An animal."

Her jealousy melted away, leaving only an arousal equal to his. Her stomach fluttered, her skin heated and her limbs shook. "You could have taken mine."

"Pretty," he said, reaching out and rolling one nipple between his fingers.