The Vampire's Bride (Atlantis #4)(83)

She almost gave up, that cry was so tortured. More than that, she was desperate to have him moving again. Without the friction of his body sliding in and out of hers, she felt lost, adrift. "Kiss me. I need your tongue in my mouth, tasting. I need your flavor. I need you like I've never needed anyone else. I want you so badly, I feel like I've been waiting for you forever and will think of you, dream of you, every night for - "

Her words were cut off as his mouth smashed into hers, tongue thrusting deep. With that one touch, that one melding of their mouths, it was as if his control snapped completely. No tether, no reining him in.

He jerked from her only to slam forward, hard, rocking her and even scooting her backward, from moss to twig-laden bank. A few rocks cut into her skin, but she didn't care. This was it, the kiss she'd remember all the days of her life, more powerful than even the first. "Yes. More."

He tongued her deep, probing. Their teeth scraped together with a ferocity that surprised her. His fangs even dug into her lower lip. He sucked and he thrust and he growled, all the while hammering inside her.

This wasn't sex. This was possession. This was...magic.

Release tore into her with the same intensity as his thrusts and her inner walls clamped down on him. He roared loud and long, and she swallowed the sound. His body heaved, the force of his climax so strong he was nearly convulsing.

He gripped her tightly and she thought her bones might snap, but she didn't stop him. She held him, cradled him, cooed to him as she'd never done to another.

A few minutes passed, maybe an hour. His spasms eased and he was left shuddering...shivering...Her own limbs were weak, her body utterly sated, but still she held on to him. Every feminine instinct inside her was screaming for her to do so, to never let go.

He was hers.

Only tonight...foolish girl.

She wanted forever. Wanted more nights like this, wanted to wake in his arms and talk with him, eat with him. Every morning.

Mine, she thought.

"I'm sorry," he said brokenly. "I'm sorry."

She tangled her fingers in his silky hair. "I'm glad we did this. I loved everything that happened. I - "

"I'm sorry," he repeated as if he couldn't hear her or just wasn't listening. Perhaps he was trapped inside his head, his thoughts consuming him.

Her chest ached for him. For herself. "Layel - "

"So sorry." He wrenched from her, separating them completely. His half-hard shaft was covered with her climax and glistening in the moonlight.

She shivered from the sudden cold. "Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

He turned from her without a word and ran. Just ran. Delilah watched, feeling more helpless than she had in the whole of her life. Even the time she had been captured by the demons after she'd been wounded in battle, she hadn't experienced this sense of despair.

What should I do?

She pushed to shaky legs, almost fell as she tried to move forward. Then something cool and wet slid from her collarbone and down, down her stomach. Confused, she wiped at it and held up her hand. Clear, glistening liquid.

Tears.

Layel's tears.

LAYEL HUDDLED against the base of a tree, raw, alone, destroyed. Hot tears streamed down his face, and he laughed bitterly. What kind of warrior was he? What kind of king? Sobbing like a godsdamn infant?

He wasn't a warrior, he decided. He was a nothing. Worse than nothing. He had betrayed Susan in every way possible now.

He'd thought to hold a part of himself from Delilah, to prove to himself, he supposed, that she was different than his beloved mate. But in the end, he had given Delilah everything. His body, his mouth, his desire, his seed, perhaps even his soul - because he wanted to give her even more.

Shame coursed through him. Shame and - no, surely not. But it was there, undeniable. Pride that he had satisfied a woman such as Delilah, that pleasure had blanketed her features, that she'd clutched him tightly, gasped his name, wanted more. That she'd given herself to him, precious gift that she was.

Never again, he vowed. He'd had his night, and that would have to be enough. Any more, and he would forget Susan altogether. And if he forgot her, he would not be a man worthy of Delilah. Delilah, who he wanted to return to, take again, hold. And love. Should have been Susan he craved.

"Susan, I'm sorry. I'll do better, I swear it." Scowling, he grabbed a jagged rock from the ground and jabbed the sharpest end into his wrist. Tissue broke apart, veins split, revealing a pool of blood.

He carved two words into his flesh, a reminder: Never again.

SHIVAWN WAS NEARING panic.

He had searched the Outer City, but Alyssa hadn't been there. So he had gone to the Inner City. No sign of her there, either. Next he'd traveled to the vampire stronghold, where she lived. No one had seen her. He believed them, because they'd immediately launched a search party of their own.

Shivawn knew of no other place to look.

No matter where he'd gone, he'd caught no trace of her scent - and nearly two days had passed since he'd breathed her in. Almost two days since he'd spoken to her, enjoyed her wit, tried to convince her of his love.

She was his. He needed her. Would die without her.

Already he was weak, but no other would do. Not anymore. He couldn't even consider kissing another woman. The thought was abhorrent to him. This must have been how Alyssa had felt, needing his blood and no other's. He deserved this suffering, he realized. This and a thousand times more.