fingertips to massage the cords at the back of her neck. ‘‘You won’t be able to keep it up. But definitely you should try. I’ll enjoy watching you yield.’’
Passionate, sharp hatred burned in her stomach.
How could she have welcomed him into her tent, into her bed? He was nothing but a . . . ‘‘You’re a snake,’’ she said, the accusation dipped in poison.
‘‘No. I am a panther. And you are my mate.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘We’ll see what you say . . . later.’’ He used his thumbs on her nipples. Over and over he rubbed them, first with the pad of his thumb, then with the edge of his fingernail, until she wanted to whimper—and not from fear.
Damn him. If he meant to use her, couldn’t he be a man and get it over with quickly?
Instead he slid his arm beneath her, lifting her, arching her up to his hungry mouth. He suckled softly at first, then harder, taking almost all of her slight breast into his mouth, manipulating it with his tongue and teeth and lips until her eyelids closed and she found her fingernails clawing the pillows under her head.
With careful deliberation he placed his knee between her legs and thrust his thigh against her.
The hard canvas seam of the jeans rubbed against her clit, and her sensation of fullness abruptly became painful.
No, not painful. That wasn’t the right word. She was . . . needy.
The bastard who held her, who moved her on him, had chased her down, marked her as his, scared her to death, and now . . . now he was using all his knowledge of her and probably a thousand other women to make her come. Come so fast and hard she’d be ashamed of herself. Of her weakness.
So she gasped, ‘‘What’s the matter? Can’t get it up?’’
Slowly he let her down onto the sheets. Rising on his knees above her, he lowered his hands to his worn brown leather belt.
She couldn’t look away as, with leisurely care, he pulled the two ends apart, then ............opened the buttons, one by one.
He wore underwear, plain white cotton underwear made, by the looks of it, by some American manufacturer. And as he pushed the jeans down, his erection tented the material. He eased his briefs off—and abruptly the whole business was so much worse.
She’d seen his penis before. Of course. But today it looked longer, wider. It rose from among the curling black hairs, a pale marble veined with blue, and the mere sight of it made her feel a ferocious desire to touch.
But she couldn’t. He had tied her . . . his slave.
She closed her eyes and turned her head away. ‘‘I wish you’d hurry this up. I don’t know what you do all day long, but I’m sure warlords have some duties.’’
He laughed, and it sounded like a purr. ‘‘No. I’m like a hunting cat. There are great, long hours of relaxation, followed by brief bursts of furious activity.’’
‘‘Which is this?’’
‘‘My favorite combination of both.’’ Something soft and luxurious stroked her throat, tickled down her breastbone, slipped under the loose waistband of her borrowed jeans to caress her belly. And for a second she thought she felt the drag of a long, sharp claw across her tender skin.
Her eyes shot open.
Above her Warlord leaned on one elbow and examined her face. ‘‘I don’t want you to hide behind your lids. I want you completely open to me.’’
‘‘What was that?’’
He showed her a glorious, colorful peacock feather and whisked it lightly across her breasts. ‘‘This?’’
‘‘It felt like . . .’’ Her gaze fell on him.
His pants were gone. He wore only a tight black short-sleeved T-shirt that clung to his muscled chest. His sculpted body was tense with anticipation, yet still he coolly dusted her skin with the feather, intent on lifting her past the level of suspense to mindless craving.
He laid his palm flat on her stomach, right above the waistband of her jeans—his jeans— and slipped his hand beneath the tough material. He pressed her belly, simply
Passionate, sharp hatred burned in her stomach.
How could she have welcomed him into her tent, into her bed? He was nothing but a . . . ‘‘You’re a snake,’’ she said, the accusation dipped in poison.
‘‘No. I am a panther. And you are my mate.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘We’ll see what you say . . . later.’’ He used his thumbs on her nipples. Over and over he rubbed them, first with the pad of his thumb, then with the edge of his fingernail, until she wanted to whimper—and not from fear.
Damn him. If he meant to use her, couldn’t he be a man and get it over with quickly?
Instead he slid his arm beneath her, lifting her, arching her up to his hungry mouth. He suckled softly at first, then harder, taking almost all of her slight breast into his mouth, manipulating it with his tongue and teeth and lips until her eyelids closed and she found her fingernails clawing the pillows under her head.
With careful deliberation he placed his knee between her legs and thrust his thigh against her.
The hard canvas seam of the jeans rubbed against her clit, and her sensation of fullness abruptly became painful.
No, not painful. That wasn’t the right word. She was . . . needy.
The bastard who held her, who moved her on him, had chased her down, marked her as his, scared her to death, and now . . . now he was using all his knowledge of her and probably a thousand other women to make her come. Come so fast and hard she’d be ashamed of herself. Of her weakness.
So she gasped, ‘‘What’s the matter? Can’t get it up?’’
Slowly he let her down onto the sheets. Rising on his knees above her, he lowered his hands to his worn brown leather belt.
She couldn’t look away as, with leisurely care, he pulled the two ends apart, then ............opened the buttons, one by one.
He wore underwear, plain white cotton underwear made, by the looks of it, by some American manufacturer. And as he pushed the jeans down, his erection tented the material. He eased his briefs off—and abruptly the whole business was so much worse.
She’d seen his penis before. Of course. But today it looked longer, wider. It rose from among the curling black hairs, a pale marble veined with blue, and the mere sight of it made her feel a ferocious desire to touch.
But she couldn’t. He had tied her . . . his slave.
She closed her eyes and turned her head away. ‘‘I wish you’d hurry this up. I don’t know what you do all day long, but I’m sure warlords have some duties.’’
He laughed, and it sounded like a purr. ‘‘No. I’m like a hunting cat. There are great, long hours of relaxation, followed by brief bursts of furious activity.’’
‘‘Which is this?’’
‘‘My favorite combination of both.’’ Something soft and luxurious stroked her throat, tickled down her breastbone, slipped under the loose waistband of her borrowed jeans to caress her belly. And for a second she thought she felt the drag of a long, sharp claw across her tender skin.
Her eyes shot open.
Above her Warlord leaned on one elbow and examined her face. ‘‘I don’t want you to hide behind your lids. I want you completely open to me.’’
‘‘What was that?’’
He showed her a glorious, colorful peacock feather and whisked it lightly across her breasts. ‘‘This?’’
‘‘It felt like . . .’’ Her gaze fell on him.
His pants were gone. He wore only a tight black short-sleeved T-shirt that clung to his muscled chest. His sculpted body was tense with anticipation, yet still he coolly dusted her skin with the feather, intent on lifting her past the level of suspense to mindless craving.
He laid his palm flat on her stomach, right above the waistband of her jeans—his jeans— and slipped his hand beneath the tough material. He pressed her belly, simply
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