by Julie Kenner
Hell, I just want Mal.
His hands slide up and I tremble as his fingers find the button of my jeans. He unfastens it, then slowly tugs the zipper down and starts to slide them off, using one hand to lift my hips.
“And just what exactly are you doing?” My voice is low and husky, and the little half-smile on my lips is playful.
He chuckles. “Lover, I think you know.”
He has a point.
He tosses my sandals and jeans aside, leaving me clad only in tiny thong panties and my lacy bra. He glances at the pile of clothing and then back at me. “Then again, perhaps I’m doing more than you think.”
What I think is that he’s going to send me ricocheting off the moon. And what he’s doing seems to be proving that out. His hands are on my thighs, stroking my skin slowly—so painfully slowly. And in the wake of each caress, I feel a tingle, almost like a pinched nerve coming back to life.
“Mal? Oh, god, Mal, that feels wonderful.” Whatever it is, the heaviness that had settled over me and had been pulling me inexorably toward sleep has faded, replaced now with a wonderful energy. Sexual, yes, but more than that. I feel amazing.
Hell, I feel alive.
I moan with pleasure. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.”
“I’m giving back what I took,” he says. “Just like the doctor ordered.”
I’m about to ask what he means when he bends his head to my leg, and suddenly his mouth is where his hand was only moments before. He’s kissing the soft skin of my inner thigh, moving higher and higher, his tongue and lips teasing me, sending sparks dancing through me, making my body tense and my pulse skitter.
I cling to the armrest, then to his hair. And then—oh, dear god—his mouth closes over the crotch of my panties and he uses his finger to tug the tiny scrap of material aside so that his tongue can stroke my sex, laving me, tasting me, then teasing my clit ever so gently. And I feel the world start to spiral up, up, up.
And as it does, I remember what happened the last time he got me this excited.
I stiffen, putting my hands on his head and pushing him away. “Mal. No. No, you can’t.”
I’m breathing hard again, but now it’s not sexual excitement, it’s fear. I want his touch—dear god, how I want it—but I know I can’t have it. “My apartment,” I say, the words coming on a gasp. “Before I ran to the alley. Before I knew the truth.”
I remember the power surging inside me. The wildness.
“That wasn’t just the world’s most amazing orgasm, was it? That was the weapon.” I shudder. “It was building in me.”
I see the truth in his eyes, but I don’t even need that to know that I’m right. I’d felt the same intensity in the alley when Asher threatened me. A sense that I was going to explode and take the world with me.
A feeling that didn’t dissipate until Mal struck Asher down and gathered me in his arms.
I push myself up so that I am sitting and curl my legs under me. If there had been a blanket, I would have hidden beneath it.
In front of me, Mal moves slowly onto the ottoman. He says nothing, only waits for me to compose myself. And despite everything, I appreciate that small courtesy.
It takes a moment or two, but I finally gather my control. “That’s your power, isn’t it? You can control the weapon.”
“No,” he says, dashing the tentative relief that had been blooming within me. “But I can control you.”
I frown, confused, and hug myself. “What do you mean?”
“I could mean a lot of things.” He moves from the ottoman to sit on the edge of the chair with me, then lightly trails his finger over my shoulder. “I could mean that I can make you wet.” He eases his finger lower, tracing the curve of my breast along my bra cup. “It could mean that I can make you beg.”
“Mal…” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It sounds needy. Desperate. And I am not at all certain if I want him to stop or to continue.
What I want doesn’t matter, though, as he is still following his path, down, down, down, over my stomach and then to the band of my thong. My legs are curled under me, but all he does is close his hands over each of my thighs and very slowly ease them apart.
I actually whimper, and then—as that dangerous finger slides lower to stroke my clit through the thin, soaked satin—I bite my lip. “Mal.” His name is soft, and this time there is a desperation in my tone. Not sensual, but fearful. Because I can feel the wildness building inside me again. “Mal.”
“Trust me,” he says, as he slips his fingers beneath the satin and thrusts into me. I arch up, almost crying both from pleasure and from the line that we are skirting, and I’m trying—trying so damn hard not to get excited. Not to let the pleasure build in me. Not to feel the power rise, the heat, the onslaught of the kind of explosion that we truly won’t survive, but—
And then it’s gone.
The rising pressure has receded, and I’m left gasping, my body still flush and aware, but softer now, tired. As if I came without noticing it and now I’m warm and sated.
“What happened?”
“I drew off some of your energy.” His voice is soft and steady. Soothing. And as he speaks, he holds my hand. “The weapon is inside you—that means it’s primed by your energy. Your emotions, your power. You stay in control, then so does the weapon. Lose control—through sex, through anger, through fear—and your energy pushes the weapon up. Too much, and it will generate its own power.”
“It’s own power?”
He shrugs. “A theory, but a good one. Within you, the weapon is dormant. It needs energy, so it draws from you when it can, filling its own reserve. But there’s a tipping point when it has drawn enough from you and can exist on its own, no longer a parasite.”
“Oh.” I’m not really liking that analogy, but I understand what he’s saying. Sort of, anyway.
“When the weapon was going hot, I didn’t take the weapon’s energy, I took yours. And that backed it off. And now,” he adds, stroking me again, “I’m giving that energy back to you.” He meets my eyes. “Do you understand?”
I nod. Not only do I understand it, I feel it. The lazy, languid sensation is gone, replaced by a vibrancy that has me feeling anything but exhausted. “Mal, please,” I beg as he slows his hands.
“Hush,” he says, tracing small circles on my thighs. “I’m not finished telling you how I’m going to help you keep the weapon at bay.”
He slides to the ground in front of me then moves his hands to my breasts. He doesn’t unfasten my bra, but he does slide the cup down, then closes his mouth over my breast and strokes his tongue over my nipple.
I actually mewl. And when his hand slides between my legs to cup my sex even as his teeth graze my nipple, I arch up, my body shifting as if to escape this onslaught of pleasure, but I’m trapped by his hand and his mouth, this chair like a prison of delights. And as the sensation grows I gasp, wanting the release of an orgasm even as the dark power that is rising inside fills me with terror.
And then, as quickly as his mouth closed over me, he backs off. Not taking my energy this time, but just leaving me breathing hard and feeling hot and wet and needy.
“Good girl,” he says, with a smug little smile.
“What the hell?” This is not the time for polite inquiries.
But all he says is, “Trust me.”
“Mal.” I grind his name out like a curse.
He says nothing. But once more, his fingers stroke me, teasing me through my thong, then beneath it, then sliding his fingers inside me until I am gasping with pleasure, my body clutching around him, silently begging him for more. For him.
“Christ, you’re so responsive. I swear I can’t resist you.”
“Then fuck me, Mal. Please. I want to feel you inside me.”
“Soon,” he promises. “Right now, I want to enjoy watching you. The way you move when I touch you. Your soft moans that make me so hard.”
“Yes,” I murmur.
&nbs
p; “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?”
I draw in a trembling breath and close my eyes. “Tell me.”
“I want to take you to the edge. I want to lead you right to the precipice, and then I want to look you in the eye as you fight to keep from coming.”
“Fight?”
“That’s just it, lover. You don’t come until I say you can.”
My eyes flutter open. “I’m not sure I like this game.”
“Do you trust me?”
“I thought I did, but I’m thinking I should take that back.”
He laughs. “You want my help to control the weapon inside you, right? Well, we’re going to do that by me taking control of you.”
My entire body goes warm, and I swallow. “Control?”
“Control,” he says, and the word is as potent as a caress. “This will work, lover.” He strokes his fingers over my skin, and I almost melt with longing. “You learn sexual control, and you can translate that into control of the weapon.”
I frown, uncertain.
“Trust me,” he says. “This will work.”
I lift a brow. “Except I never get an orgasm?”
He chuckles. “Oh, you do. We’re just going to take it slowly. Carefully. And very, very deliberately.” As he speaks, he touches me, and I cannot deny that his plan is tempting. It may even work.
“I guess we might as well try,” I finally say. “At the very least, it’ll be interesting.” As far as I’m concerned, “interesting” is a synonym for “sexually frustrating.”
“Lover,” he promises, “it will be exquisite. Dancing along that precipice. Holding your submission in my hand. The pressure building, the need growing—and then the sweetness when you finally do get satisfaction, when we are both sure. And when I am right there to bring it down if you get out of control.”
I draw in a breath, both turned on and relieved. Because he is right. With Malcolm beside me, I can do this. I can hold back. I can exercise control.
And if I fail, he will be there to save me. To save us all.
“Okay?” He is looking at me intently, as if his whole world waits on my decision. And in a way I guess it does.
“Okay,” I say. “But we can’t start now.” I’m fighting a smile, and it’s very obvious that he realizes as much.
“No? Why not?”
“The situation is inequitable.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches, but other than that, he doesn’t react. “Inequitable?”
“Here I am, practically naked. And there you are, entirely clothed.”
“I see.” His voice is thoughtful. “Perhaps you missed the whole submission part of the equation. You’re mine to command.”
“I know that. I just thought perhaps submission came with a view.” I bat my eyes and conjure what I hope is a seductive smile. “Unless you’re the shy type?”
He says nothing, but he does stand up. For a moment, I’m afraid that I’ve shifted the balance of power in this little game and he’s going to leave. And considering how turned on I am at the moment, that really wasn’t my intent. But he only stands there in that space between ottoman and chair.
And then—oh, heaven help me—he strips.
The shirt comes off first, and I draw in a breath of appreciation. We’d made love in my best friend’s kitchen just this morning—was it only this morning?—but he’d kept his T-shirt on. Now, I see the broad chest, firm and tanned. The light dusting of chest hair that starts at his pecs and arrows down to hidden treasure below his still fastened waistband. His skin is smooth and tight, and I want to draw my fingers over it. To feel the tension and the heartbeat.
Mostly, though, I want to trace my fingertip over the exquisite bird that is tattooed in vibrant colors, the tail feathers trailing down to curve into his waist as a hint of flames flicker up from beneath the waistband of his jeans.
“A phoenix,” I whisper. “You only have one?”
His brow furrows. “You remember?”
I shake my head, because I don’t understand why I asked the question. But even as I’m about to tell him that I don’t know where that came from, I realize that I do remember. I hadn’t noticed on Asher because he’d been too covered in soot and I hadn’t been paying that much attention. I’d seen enough to know that the man was beyond gorgeous, but considering that I’m with Mal and that Asher had tried to kill me, it had seemed rude to stare.
“It’s the mark,” I say. “The tat grows with every death.” I meet his eyes. “How many times have you died, Mal?”
“Not many. Only twenty-seven.”
The number slices through me. Any death is too many, as far as I’m concerned, even knowing that he comes back. I rise to stand in front of him and press my fingertip to the bird’s majestic head. He takes my hand and guides it down, tracing the magnificent tail feathers. “Eight deaths in the tail,” he says, then turns so that I am looking at his back where two birds preside over his shoulders, their beaks meeting at his spine. “The rest in those two and their feathers.”
I press my hands to his back, then draw my lips down his spine. I do not know why it hurts so much—perhaps it is a reminder of all that he has suffered while we have been apart—all I know is that I want to fold myself in his arms. That I want to kiss it and make it better. But there is no way to change the past, and all we can do now is move forward.
He turns back around, and I tilt my head up to look at him, and then gasp as he pulls me close, capturing me in a wild kiss full of passion and promise. His mouth is hard against mine, his tongue tasting and taking, and I open to him, my whole body going soft and wet with need.
His hands are on my back, and with one nimble movement he unfastens my bra. He is not nearly so gentle with my thong—he simply rips the panties right off me. Nor am I gentle, either. My fingers fumble for the button of his jeans, and I have to force myself to skim the zipper down gently so that I do not injure him. And then, once he is naked, I can only stare, astounded by the perfection of this man and by the knowledge that he belongs to me. That of all the women in the world, I alone have the right to touch and taste and enjoy.
And I intend to do exactly that.
I move closer, then press my lips to the delicate line of hair that trails downward, intending to follow that path to heaven. But Mal has other plans, and he pulls me to my feet even as he moves to the chair I’ve abandoned. He sits, leaning back so that his hard, thick cock lays against his abdomen. “Come here, lover,” he says. “Knees on either side of me. And then,” he adds as I start eagerly toward him, “I want your legs over the armrests.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Straddle the chair. Straddle me.”
My entire body goes limp at the prospect, but I comply. It is an insanely sensual position. My legs wide, so that I am beyond vulnerable. His cock right there at my slit, teasing me but not entering me.
Between us, the air is wild and hot, full of all that energy that Jessica was talking about. So thick with passion that I feel as though the damn chair could evaporate and I would stay right here, buoyed by the heat that fills this space between us.
And then he manages to set fire to the world even more by leaning forward and easing the tip of his cock inside me. Just enough to tease. Just enough to torment.
I arch back, wanting to squirm, but his hands close fast around my hips, holding me in this position.
“Don’t move,” he orders, even as he pulls one of his hands away, then slides it between us to stroke me.
“Mal.” I let my head fall back, overwhelmed by the riot of sensation coursing through my body. Delicious sparks that are filling me and spreading through me. “Oh, yes, Mal.”
I feel myself tremble as the passion rises. “No,” he says. “Don’t come.” And yet he does not lessen the onslaught, and everything inside me is building to a fever pitch. But I have to control it. This isn’t just a sex game, it’s survival. And I know that when we meet with the others in just a few hours,
we need to be able to tell them that I’m learning control—not necessarily how, but we need to honestly say that I am learning to hold the weapon down.
Even as these thoughts roll through my head, Mal’s mouth closes over my breast. At the same time, he takes me by the waist and moves me forward. “Knees on the chair,” he demands, and I comply so that I am no longer straddling the armrests, but am kneeling over him. As soon as I’m in this new position, he takes my hips, then pushes me down even as he thrusts up. I cry out, losing myself to the glorious sensation of being impaled upon the hard length of his cock.
“That’s it,” he says as he teases my clit with his finger even as he finds a rhythm for our joined bodies. “Just a little closer.”
“Mal—” His name is both a plea and an admonishment. “What are you doing? We can’t—I can’t—”
“My job is to try to make you come,” he whispers. “To take you higher. To push you to the edge. And your job,” he adds as he moves his hand from my clit to my nipple and then twists slightly, sending sparks of pleasure and pain ricocheting through me, “is to hold back.”
I want to curse, but I can’t spare the focus. I have to concentrate instead on what he’s doing. On what I’m not doing. Because I have to do this. I have to fight my own desire—my own body—and damn him, he’s not helping at all.
Except, of course, he is.
Because that’s the point, isn’t it? This exercise isn’t just about keeping the weapon from rising, it’s about keeping me with Mal. It’s about what Asher tried to do and the fact that right now, I am under Mal and Liam’s protection. Because though I do not remember everything, I do remember that Mal and Liam are a team—that they lead the brotherhood jointly. Which means that if I’m in Mal’s protection, I am also in Liam’s.
But if we—if I—can’t prove that I can control this thing inside me, Liam will change his mind. He’ll side with Asher. And while I know that Liam and Mal have led the brotherhood since this mission began in another world and another time, I also know that I could be the catalyst that changes all that. That forces Mal out and Asher in.
That condemns me to death yet again.
