and used his body on hers
—in hers—in a way that was nothing short of divine. And she believed it would only get better. She shivered again, unable to imagine how she could feel more pleasure without dying. Then there was a very compeling fact….
He’d unchained her where none other could.
Did that mean he was supposed to have it? To have her? Was he supposed to possess her, to command her like a genie with a bottle? She’d always pitied the plight of genies until once when she’d freed one from a young berserker. Instead of thanks, the chit had laid into her, screaming, “To each her own, lightning whore!”
After Myst dried off, she dressed in an emerald-green, understated nightgown that said neither “do me” nor “don’t do me.” She lay back in his bed, realizing she was just so relaxed about everything. Strange, but she felt so at home here in this cold, bare mansion.
Less than half an hour later he returned and showered. There’d been no threat? Probably his brother visiting just in time to see Wroth looking like she’d fought him for her life. He should see when she didn’t pul her punches.
When Wroth joined her, she wondered if he was going to make love to her again. Their time in the field had only set a fire for her—lit a pilot light, so to speak, as it had never been lit before. She was sore, but if he commanded her not to hurt again…yet he only clasped her into his arms to rest on his chest. She saw he was hard, but he made no advance.
Finaly, he curled a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. He drew her hair back to reveal his bites. He let her hair fal, then stared at the ceiling, rumbling the words, “I regret hurting you. The number of bites, the lack of care before…”
She knew what he meant by the latter—he regretted not taking time to prepare her body and ease into her. When she thought about how he’d learned to do this, or thought about the first time he’d ever realized that he would even need to, she felt a scorching flare of…jealousy—so strong it rocked her. Jealous? When he could never want another but her for the rest of his life?
“I can’t believe I lost control like that. I am unused to being blooded. I am unused to being a husband. But I vow to you that things wil be different—I wil be gentler.”
That statement was the first thing to threaten her lackadaisical mood since she’d returned here. She didn’t want their sex to be different. Their sex. Great Freya, was she thinking about keeping him? She would get used to his size, and then she would demand that he be anything but gentle. She couldn’t have ordered up a better match for her in bed and she’d be damned if she let him hold back al that magnificent strength.
He was everything she could ever dream of physicaly. His scars alone…she stifled a moan but her claws were curling. He was a warrior, with a warrior’s mentality, which she appreciated. None of her lovers before had been warriors. No, they’d been the warlock, an immortal sultan and an architect. Perhaps that was why she was so attracted to Wroth.
She and Wroth were kindred.
“Speak to me,” he commanded, then immediately amended, “Wil you not speak to me?”
“I want my chain back. I want to choose.” If he gave it to her, she would stay awhile. Her sisters had already seen her screwing a vampire—she might as wel enjoy the pleasure for a time.
He moved to his side, pressing her to hers as wel. There they lay, gazes locked. Dawn was nearing and she didn’t want this to end for some reason. He put his hand on her shoulder and stroked her. His palm was rough from hardships and the grip of his sword, and she relished the feel of it. “I can’t lose you. The very thought makes me crazed. I can’t even alow myself to imagine you leaving me.” His hand squeezed her now.
“Are you so certain I would?”
“Yes. I am,” he rasped. His tone wasn’t blaming, but more like he was explaining
—in hers—in a way that was nothing short of divine. And she believed it would only get better. She shivered again, unable to imagine how she could feel more pleasure without dying. Then there was a very compeling fact….
He’d unchained her where none other could.
Did that mean he was supposed to have it? To have her? Was he supposed to possess her, to command her like a genie with a bottle? She’d always pitied the plight of genies until once when she’d freed one from a young berserker. Instead of thanks, the chit had laid into her, screaming, “To each her own, lightning whore!”
After Myst dried off, she dressed in an emerald-green, understated nightgown that said neither “do me” nor “don’t do me.” She lay back in his bed, realizing she was just so relaxed about everything. Strange, but she felt so at home here in this cold, bare mansion.
Less than half an hour later he returned and showered. There’d been no threat? Probably his brother visiting just in time to see Wroth looking like she’d fought him for her life. He should see when she didn’t pul her punches.
When Wroth joined her, she wondered if he was going to make love to her again. Their time in the field had only set a fire for her—lit a pilot light, so to speak, as it had never been lit before. She was sore, but if he commanded her not to hurt again…yet he only clasped her into his arms to rest on his chest. She saw he was hard, but he made no advance.
Finaly, he curled a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. He drew her hair back to reveal his bites. He let her hair fal, then stared at the ceiling, rumbling the words, “I regret hurting you. The number of bites, the lack of care before…”
She knew what he meant by the latter—he regretted not taking time to prepare her body and ease into her. When she thought about how he’d learned to do this, or thought about the first time he’d ever realized that he would even need to, she felt a scorching flare of…jealousy—so strong it rocked her. Jealous? When he could never want another but her for the rest of his life?
“I can’t believe I lost control like that. I am unused to being blooded. I am unused to being a husband. But I vow to you that things wil be different—I wil be gentler.”
That statement was the first thing to threaten her lackadaisical mood since she’d returned here. She didn’t want their sex to be different. Their sex. Great Freya, was she thinking about keeping him? She would get used to his size, and then she would demand that he be anything but gentle. She couldn’t have ordered up a better match for her in bed and she’d be damned if she let him hold back al that magnificent strength.
He was everything she could ever dream of physicaly. His scars alone…she stifled a moan but her claws were curling. He was a warrior, with a warrior’s mentality, which she appreciated. None of her lovers before had been warriors. No, they’d been the warlock, an immortal sultan and an architect. Perhaps that was why she was so attracted to Wroth.
She and Wroth were kindred.
“Speak to me,” he commanded, then immediately amended, “Wil you not speak to me?”
“I want my chain back. I want to choose.” If he gave it to her, she would stay awhile. Her sisters had already seen her screwing a vampire—she might as wel enjoy the pleasure for a time.
He moved to his side, pressing her to hers as wel. There they lay, gazes locked. Dawn was nearing and she didn’t want this to end for some reason. He put his hand on her shoulder and stroked her. His palm was rough from hardships and the grip of his sword, and she relished the feel of it. “I can’t lose you. The very thought makes me crazed. I can’t even alow myself to imagine you leaving me.” His hand squeezed her now.
“Are you so certain I would?”
“Yes. I am,” he rasped. His tone wasn’t blaming, but more like he was explaining
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