Storm's Heart
Page 13
He tilted his head and put his hands on his hips as he regarded her. His obsidian gaze glittered with a strange light.
“My name,” she said between her teeth. The next one was a mug. She threw the water on him. “You know what it is. I’ve reminded you often enough. Funny enough, it is not ‘Tricks, goddammit.’ And if you ever shorten it to Ninny, I WILL BITE YOUR NOSE OFF!”
His broad, powerful shoulders jerked, and the clear sharp lines of his stern mouth spasmed. “Back in New York you told me I was supposed to say something else. What was it again? Oh yeah. Goddamn, ma’am.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me!” she shouted. She grabbed hold of the next mug with both hands.
Suddenly he was behind her, his sodden chest pressed against her back. His hands encircled her wrists. He said in a strangled voice, “Lady, back away from the kitchen sink.”
She clung to the mug with all her strength as he tried, gently, to pry her fingers away. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing their hands and drenching the countertop. “It’s the last one,” she panted. “I’ve got to throw it.”
He buried his wet face in her hair and exploded. She tried to twist her wrists out of his grasp, quite without hope of getting free, as he roared with laughter. He managed to say after a moment, “I don’t think you have a single sane synapse firing in your brain.”
“I don’t think you’re any judge of sanity,” she snapped. Disgusted, she dropped the mug onto the counter. They had jostled all the water out of it. “And in case you’re thinking of patting me on the head and calling me ‘cute’ again, I’ll have you know all of my weapons are still poisoned.”
He let go of her wrists and turned her around, pressing her back against the counter. His drenched T-shirt soaked wet patches into her lounge suit, the muscles of his hard torso flexing with sinuous strength. The sparkle in his eyes turned smoky as her curvy body wriggled against his. “Oh, I don’t want to pat you on the head, faerie,” he said low in his throat in a deep purring growl that vibrated through her body. He bent closer until his lips brushed hers. “I want to f**k your mouth.”
Said mouth dropped open, and the breath left her body. She couldn’t believe what she just heard. “You–you what?”
The world swung as he picked her up and carried her in long, swift strides to the bedroom. He set her on the bed. She suddenly found herself lying down, as he planted a knee on the mattress by her hip and pinned her wrists over her head with one hand.
She looked up his body, from those strong legs that went on forever to the tight angle of his hips, the lean, long torso and the cut of his muscled arms. He bent his head until his mouth just brushed the sensitive skin of her open lips, and he spoke the words right into her body. “I said I want to f**k your mouth, first with my tongue”—he licked her lower lip—“and then with my finger, and then with my cock. Maybe that will shut you up.”
“You can’t talk to me that way,” she whimpered. He was outrageous, completely uncivilized. She had to find the switch in her head that would turn off her traitorous arousal. She twisted her wrists against the long fingers that held her with such ease.
“Why not?” Sharp white teeth nipped at her upper lip. “Don’t you like it?”
Like it? Like was far too insipid a word for how she reacted to what he did or what he said. His raw sensuality was whipping up a hurricane in her body. Confused and a little scared, she shifted restlessly, and his black glittering gaze swept over her.
“You said you were sorry. Right after you kissed me,” she said. She hadn’t meant for it to sound so breathless or accusing.
“Hell, yes, I was sorry, but not because I kissed you. There I was, eating you alive while you were exhausted, wounded and burning up with fever. I had no idea I could be such a low-down, self-serving bastard,” he said. He brought his other hand up under her soft loose shirt, and he gently cupped her ribs where her knife wound was. “How are you feeling, faerie? Does it hurt?”
The concern in his face was genuine. She took a deep breath, released it in a shuddering sigh, and melted just that little bit further. “Yeah. But it’s not too bad if I’m careful.”
“We’ll be careful,” he murmured. “No more fever?”
She shook her head.
“Well-fed and rested?”
She nodded, mesmerized by the dark Power that blanketed her and by the intent focus in his hawkish face.
“Then kiss me,” he whispered. He spread his hand on her torso and caressed down the curve of her hip.
He was a master of lightning. His request sent a bolt of it shooting down her body. It pooled between her legs, causing her to throb with hungry need. She moved her lips lightly against his in a sexy pout. “Why would I kiss such a low-down, self-serving bastard?”
He gave her a slow smoldering grin, a white rakish slash across the dark brown of his skin. “Because you like me,” he said in a low voice. “And because you know in your bones it would be good.”
No, she knew in her bones it would be wicked-bad, quite possibly the worst thing she could do to herself. She already wanted too much to lean on him, to rely on him. Kissing him, getting more emotionally involved with him than she already was, would be nothing short of self-destructive. She felt like a gambling addict galloping into a casino with a week’s pay in her pocket.
But there he was, untamed and uncensored, crouched over her like a lion waiting to pounce. Her breathing roughened.
Oh, what the hell, she thought. It’s not like I’m known for my common sense.
She tilted her head, and with a light, delicate touch she caressed the line of his sensual, tough mouth with hers.
Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. Strangely enough, her reaching up to touch him of her own volition seemed to calm down the unpredictable violent storm that had seethed through his energy since before they had breakfast. The kiss turned into a sweet, gentle exploration of him while he held himself poised over her, rock-steady, and he submitted to her touch.
She murmured something wordless as her own hurricane calmed, her heart sped up, and pleasure spun out in a slow, expanding liquid spiral. He teased her lips open and eased inside, an expert invasion she discovered she relished. When he let go of her wrists, she ran her hands up his arms to grip his shoulders as he pressed into her mouth more deeply. The hand stroking her hip shifted to cup her between her legs and pressed against that sweet, hungry ache.
She stiffened, and he lifted his head to whisper, “Shh, easy now. You’re injured and we’re not doing anything. Just relax.”
She met his gaze. They were dark cauldrons of sexual heat. He ground the hard heel of his hand against her as he bent his head back down. He took her mouth again, this time hard and rough, while he rubbed her clitoris through the soft folds of her clothes. She sobbed out something incoherent as she ran shaking hands down the contoured landscape of his taut body. Feeling as if something inside of her had broken loose, she cupped both hands over the long length of his own arousal, which pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He hissed against her mouth and pushed his hips at her, moving against her touch.
“Goddamn,” he whispered unsteadily, running his lips down the side of her neck. “You feel like heated silk.”
She gasped out a laugh and gave him a gentle squeeze. He hissed again and licked her collarbone while he worked her, and her pleasure spiraled higher. He bent down to bite at her nipple through her shirt.
He was a puzzle box constructed of aggression and thorns. She didn’t want to want him, but oh gods, his hands and his mouth felt so good. She wanted his tongue, his finger, his c**k in her mouth. She wanted his body covering hers as he pushed inside of her and drove the rest of the world away.
She shook her head as some part of her rebelled against the pleasure he sought to give her. She was her own puzzle box of contradictory feelings. He touched a place so deep inside, she couldn’t bear to have him there. Her breathing roughened as anxiety tightened her muscles. She pressed a hand to her ribs as her wound gave a warning twinge, and she took hold of his wrist with the other. “Stop,” she gasped. “Please.”
He froze and searched her damp, bewildered gaze. “Did I hurt you?”
She bit her lip and shook her head. She turned her face away, covering her eyes with one forearm. “I–I can’t do this.”
She waited for some explosion of temper or aggression, but he held still, kneeling over her. Moments trickled by as his breathing deepened and steadied, and then he shifted onto his side beside her. He covered the hand she had pressed against her ribs and settled a heavy muscled thigh across her hips, pinning her in place.
“You were with me,” he said. “What happened?”
She shrugged. “Reality intruded, I guess. I’m sorry.”
“Niniane,” he said in a calm voice. He fell silent, studying her face.
Hearing him call her by her real name tugged again at that spot deep inside of her, that place that was more private and vulnerable than even the place where his hand still rested.
“Would you please give me some privacy?” she asked, forming the words with some difficulty. “I need a few moments alone.”
For a moment she thought he was going to refuse and push at her boundaries again, but something about her trembling mouth and unsteady voice must have made him pull back. He gave her a small smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll go make more coffee,” he said. “Then we’ll talk. All right?”
She nodded and turned her face away as he pulled off the bed and walked out of the room. He left the bedroom door cracked and strode into the small kitchen to go through the mindless motions of starting a new pot of coffee. The suite was beginning to feel too confining to him. Maybe if she was up for it, he could sneak them out of the hotel and they could go for a drive along Lake Michigan while they talked. He could use a blast of cold, sharp air in his face.
He braced his hands on the countertop and shook his head. Back in the bedroom he had almost said to her, “Niniane, we’re going to become lovers, so we’ve got time. That’s all the reality you need to know.”
Somehow he had managed to stop himself from saying it, because in that moment there had been something breakable in her expression and some instinct had held him back, for her sake.
Not for his sake. He knew in his bones what he had almost said to her was the truth. She prevaricated and tried to push him away, but he would have her in the end.
He would have her. He wouldn’t stop or rest until he did.
The edge of the countertop cracked under his hands. He frowned, and for the first time he acknowledged that he wasn’t acting as rationally, or nearly as calmly, as was normal for him.
Not rational. Not calm.
Obsessed with her. Unable to let go.
She was a long-lost goddamn faerie princess like something straight out of a hybrid Disney/horror flick. She would soon be Queen of the Dark Fae, an Elder Race well known for its relentlessly Byzantine politics. She was a constant pain in his ass.
She couldn’t fight worth a damn without cheating (well, okay, maybe he didn’t have so much of a problem with that). All her pretty designer clothes were named strange things. What was a shrug or a gladiator stiletto or a Vera Wang? What the f**k was wrong with calling clothes what they really were, like dresses or shirts or pants or shoes, anyway?
And he was old, very old and not just middle-aged old, and set in his ways. He was self-contained, well-used to the autonomy of command, comfortable in the violent roaming of his life, satisfied with army life, a predator, a warlord that liked pounding the shit out of things, and a Wyr sentinel.
This fixation he had developed for her was beyond insane. It was incomprehensible, a recipe for a perfect storm disaster.
He rubbed his face hard with both hands. First things first. Rune and Aryal would be here within the next twenty-four hours. While they investigated the rogue Wyr in yesterday’s attack, they could help with bodyguard detail. Their presence would dilute this impossible, intense one-on-one craziness he had going on with Niniane. Then things would calm down.
From the direction of the bedroom came a thump and a muffled cry. He lifted his head and called out sharply, “What happened, did you fall?”
There was no reply. His stride turned into a lunge. He slammed the bedroom door open with a flattened hand, his sharp gaze darting around.
The room was empty, as was the adjoining bathroom. The silence in the suite roared in his ears. The bedside lamp was on the floor. There was a strange wild scent in the room, a sense of an immense expenditure of Power, a wild upsurge in energy that was already fading.
The bottom of his stomach dropped away. Unbelievably, she was gone again, but this time it was not of her own choosing.
“Oh shit,” he whispered. “Niniane.”
SEVEN
She had lain on the bed staring at the ceiling for long moments after Tiago left the room. Without the vitality of his presence stimulating and supporting her, the lethargy from the cleansing spell stole through her body again. At first she wasn’t sure if she could get her shaky limbs to support her.
Finally she managed to find the strength to push herself to an upright position. She thought about trying to change into more public attire, but that sounded like more than she could handle, let alone trying to deal with Elder politics. She should send messages out to everyone that she needed at least another day to recuperate.
Like Tiago said, let the world wait for you. Pleh. She wondered how he would like it if she applied that to him. But no, she already knew how he would like it—Mr. Bulldozer would push through every objection she might make, so she supposed they were going to have that talk he wanted to have. Then maybe she could lie down and watch old movies on the TCM channel. She could eat the box of chocolates he had given her in between naps and pretend for a little while that the outside world didn’t exist.
“My name,” she said between her teeth. The next one was a mug. She threw the water on him. “You know what it is. I’ve reminded you often enough. Funny enough, it is not ‘Tricks, goddammit.’ And if you ever shorten it to Ninny, I WILL BITE YOUR NOSE OFF!”
His broad, powerful shoulders jerked, and the clear sharp lines of his stern mouth spasmed. “Back in New York you told me I was supposed to say something else. What was it again? Oh yeah. Goddamn, ma’am.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me!” she shouted. She grabbed hold of the next mug with both hands.
Suddenly he was behind her, his sodden chest pressed against her back. His hands encircled her wrists. He said in a strangled voice, “Lady, back away from the kitchen sink.”
She clung to the mug with all her strength as he tried, gently, to pry her fingers away. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing their hands and drenching the countertop. “It’s the last one,” she panted. “I’ve got to throw it.”
He buried his wet face in her hair and exploded. She tried to twist her wrists out of his grasp, quite without hope of getting free, as he roared with laughter. He managed to say after a moment, “I don’t think you have a single sane synapse firing in your brain.”
“I don’t think you’re any judge of sanity,” she snapped. Disgusted, she dropped the mug onto the counter. They had jostled all the water out of it. “And in case you’re thinking of patting me on the head and calling me ‘cute’ again, I’ll have you know all of my weapons are still poisoned.”
He let go of her wrists and turned her around, pressing her back against the counter. His drenched T-shirt soaked wet patches into her lounge suit, the muscles of his hard torso flexing with sinuous strength. The sparkle in his eyes turned smoky as her curvy body wriggled against his. “Oh, I don’t want to pat you on the head, faerie,” he said low in his throat in a deep purring growl that vibrated through her body. He bent closer until his lips brushed hers. “I want to f**k your mouth.”
Said mouth dropped open, and the breath left her body. She couldn’t believe what she just heard. “You–you what?”
The world swung as he picked her up and carried her in long, swift strides to the bedroom. He set her on the bed. She suddenly found herself lying down, as he planted a knee on the mattress by her hip and pinned her wrists over her head with one hand.
She looked up his body, from those strong legs that went on forever to the tight angle of his hips, the lean, long torso and the cut of his muscled arms. He bent his head until his mouth just brushed the sensitive skin of her open lips, and he spoke the words right into her body. “I said I want to f**k your mouth, first with my tongue”—he licked her lower lip—“and then with my finger, and then with my cock. Maybe that will shut you up.”
“You can’t talk to me that way,” she whimpered. He was outrageous, completely uncivilized. She had to find the switch in her head that would turn off her traitorous arousal. She twisted her wrists against the long fingers that held her with such ease.
“Why not?” Sharp white teeth nipped at her upper lip. “Don’t you like it?”
Like it? Like was far too insipid a word for how she reacted to what he did or what he said. His raw sensuality was whipping up a hurricane in her body. Confused and a little scared, she shifted restlessly, and his black glittering gaze swept over her.
“You said you were sorry. Right after you kissed me,” she said. She hadn’t meant for it to sound so breathless or accusing.
“Hell, yes, I was sorry, but not because I kissed you. There I was, eating you alive while you were exhausted, wounded and burning up with fever. I had no idea I could be such a low-down, self-serving bastard,” he said. He brought his other hand up under her soft loose shirt, and he gently cupped her ribs where her knife wound was. “How are you feeling, faerie? Does it hurt?”
The concern in his face was genuine. She took a deep breath, released it in a shuddering sigh, and melted just that little bit further. “Yeah. But it’s not too bad if I’m careful.”
“We’ll be careful,” he murmured. “No more fever?”
She shook her head.
“Well-fed and rested?”
She nodded, mesmerized by the dark Power that blanketed her and by the intent focus in his hawkish face.
“Then kiss me,” he whispered. He spread his hand on her torso and caressed down the curve of her hip.
He was a master of lightning. His request sent a bolt of it shooting down her body. It pooled between her legs, causing her to throb with hungry need. She moved her lips lightly against his in a sexy pout. “Why would I kiss such a low-down, self-serving bastard?”
He gave her a slow smoldering grin, a white rakish slash across the dark brown of his skin. “Because you like me,” he said in a low voice. “And because you know in your bones it would be good.”
No, she knew in her bones it would be wicked-bad, quite possibly the worst thing she could do to herself. She already wanted too much to lean on him, to rely on him. Kissing him, getting more emotionally involved with him than she already was, would be nothing short of self-destructive. She felt like a gambling addict galloping into a casino with a week’s pay in her pocket.
But there he was, untamed and uncensored, crouched over her like a lion waiting to pounce. Her breathing roughened.
Oh, what the hell, she thought. It’s not like I’m known for my common sense.
She tilted her head, and with a light, delicate touch she caressed the line of his sensual, tough mouth with hers.
Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. Strangely enough, her reaching up to touch him of her own volition seemed to calm down the unpredictable violent storm that had seethed through his energy since before they had breakfast. The kiss turned into a sweet, gentle exploration of him while he held himself poised over her, rock-steady, and he submitted to her touch.
She murmured something wordless as her own hurricane calmed, her heart sped up, and pleasure spun out in a slow, expanding liquid spiral. He teased her lips open and eased inside, an expert invasion she discovered she relished. When he let go of her wrists, she ran her hands up his arms to grip his shoulders as he pressed into her mouth more deeply. The hand stroking her hip shifted to cup her between her legs and pressed against that sweet, hungry ache.
She stiffened, and he lifted his head to whisper, “Shh, easy now. You’re injured and we’re not doing anything. Just relax.”
She met his gaze. They were dark cauldrons of sexual heat. He ground the hard heel of his hand against her as he bent his head back down. He took her mouth again, this time hard and rough, while he rubbed her clitoris through the soft folds of her clothes. She sobbed out something incoherent as she ran shaking hands down the contoured landscape of his taut body. Feeling as if something inside of her had broken loose, she cupped both hands over the long length of his own arousal, which pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He hissed against her mouth and pushed his hips at her, moving against her touch.
“Goddamn,” he whispered unsteadily, running his lips down the side of her neck. “You feel like heated silk.”
She gasped out a laugh and gave him a gentle squeeze. He hissed again and licked her collarbone while he worked her, and her pleasure spiraled higher. He bent down to bite at her nipple through her shirt.
He was a puzzle box constructed of aggression and thorns. She didn’t want to want him, but oh gods, his hands and his mouth felt so good. She wanted his tongue, his finger, his c**k in her mouth. She wanted his body covering hers as he pushed inside of her and drove the rest of the world away.
She shook her head as some part of her rebelled against the pleasure he sought to give her. She was her own puzzle box of contradictory feelings. He touched a place so deep inside, she couldn’t bear to have him there. Her breathing roughened as anxiety tightened her muscles. She pressed a hand to her ribs as her wound gave a warning twinge, and she took hold of his wrist with the other. “Stop,” she gasped. “Please.”
He froze and searched her damp, bewildered gaze. “Did I hurt you?”
She bit her lip and shook her head. She turned her face away, covering her eyes with one forearm. “I–I can’t do this.”
She waited for some explosion of temper or aggression, but he held still, kneeling over her. Moments trickled by as his breathing deepened and steadied, and then he shifted onto his side beside her. He covered the hand she had pressed against her ribs and settled a heavy muscled thigh across her hips, pinning her in place.
“You were with me,” he said. “What happened?”
She shrugged. “Reality intruded, I guess. I’m sorry.”
“Niniane,” he said in a calm voice. He fell silent, studying her face.
Hearing him call her by her real name tugged again at that spot deep inside of her, that place that was more private and vulnerable than even the place where his hand still rested.
“Would you please give me some privacy?” she asked, forming the words with some difficulty. “I need a few moments alone.”
For a moment she thought he was going to refuse and push at her boundaries again, but something about her trembling mouth and unsteady voice must have made him pull back. He gave her a small smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll go make more coffee,” he said. “Then we’ll talk. All right?”
She nodded and turned her face away as he pulled off the bed and walked out of the room. He left the bedroom door cracked and strode into the small kitchen to go through the mindless motions of starting a new pot of coffee. The suite was beginning to feel too confining to him. Maybe if she was up for it, he could sneak them out of the hotel and they could go for a drive along Lake Michigan while they talked. He could use a blast of cold, sharp air in his face.
He braced his hands on the countertop and shook his head. Back in the bedroom he had almost said to her, “Niniane, we’re going to become lovers, so we’ve got time. That’s all the reality you need to know.”
Somehow he had managed to stop himself from saying it, because in that moment there had been something breakable in her expression and some instinct had held him back, for her sake.
Not for his sake. He knew in his bones what he had almost said to her was the truth. She prevaricated and tried to push him away, but he would have her in the end.
He would have her. He wouldn’t stop or rest until he did.
The edge of the countertop cracked under his hands. He frowned, and for the first time he acknowledged that he wasn’t acting as rationally, or nearly as calmly, as was normal for him.
Not rational. Not calm.
Obsessed with her. Unable to let go.
She was a long-lost goddamn faerie princess like something straight out of a hybrid Disney/horror flick. She would soon be Queen of the Dark Fae, an Elder Race well known for its relentlessly Byzantine politics. She was a constant pain in his ass.
She couldn’t fight worth a damn without cheating (well, okay, maybe he didn’t have so much of a problem with that). All her pretty designer clothes were named strange things. What was a shrug or a gladiator stiletto or a Vera Wang? What the f**k was wrong with calling clothes what they really were, like dresses or shirts or pants or shoes, anyway?
And he was old, very old and not just middle-aged old, and set in his ways. He was self-contained, well-used to the autonomy of command, comfortable in the violent roaming of his life, satisfied with army life, a predator, a warlord that liked pounding the shit out of things, and a Wyr sentinel.
This fixation he had developed for her was beyond insane. It was incomprehensible, a recipe for a perfect storm disaster.
He rubbed his face hard with both hands. First things first. Rune and Aryal would be here within the next twenty-four hours. While they investigated the rogue Wyr in yesterday’s attack, they could help with bodyguard detail. Their presence would dilute this impossible, intense one-on-one craziness he had going on with Niniane. Then things would calm down.
From the direction of the bedroom came a thump and a muffled cry. He lifted his head and called out sharply, “What happened, did you fall?”
There was no reply. His stride turned into a lunge. He slammed the bedroom door open with a flattened hand, his sharp gaze darting around.
The room was empty, as was the adjoining bathroom. The silence in the suite roared in his ears. The bedside lamp was on the floor. There was a strange wild scent in the room, a sense of an immense expenditure of Power, a wild upsurge in energy that was already fading.
The bottom of his stomach dropped away. Unbelievably, she was gone again, but this time it was not of her own choosing.
“Oh shit,” he whispered. “Niniane.”
SEVEN
She had lain on the bed staring at the ceiling for long moments after Tiago left the room. Without the vitality of his presence stimulating and supporting her, the lethargy from the cleansing spell stole through her body again. At first she wasn’t sure if she could get her shaky limbs to support her.
Finally she managed to find the strength to push herself to an upright position. She thought about trying to change into more public attire, but that sounded like more than she could handle, let alone trying to deal with Elder politics. She should send messages out to everyone that she needed at least another day to recuperate.
Like Tiago said, let the world wait for you. Pleh. She wondered how he would like it if she applied that to him. But no, she already knew how he would like it—Mr. Bulldozer would push through every objection she might make, so she supposed they were going to have that talk he wanted to have. Then maybe she could lie down and watch old movies on the TCM channel. She could eat the box of chocolates he had given her in between naps and pretend for a little while that the outside world didn’t exist.
