“Xanthe . . .” She reached between them, wrapping her fingers around his cock. “Now.”
He stroked her, rubbing his thumb against her clitoris, then dipping inside, testing her.
Syn shuddered as he eased one finger inside her damp sex, flinched as he added a second. “You’re not ready.”
“I don’t care.” She steadied his cock, tucked the head of it against her entrance. “I don’t care.” It hurt and she shuddered, forcing her body to relax, to accept him. She wasn’t ready—not ready enough, at least. But she didn’t care.
Xanthe continued to stroke her, drawing forth the slick, wet heat and watching her with a hooded gaze.
Under his touch, under his gaze, her body warmed and began to welcome him. Bracing her hands on his chest, she took him deeper, then stroked upward, each time taking more until she’d taken him all.
Xanthe lay under her body as she started to ride him, rocking back and forth, her nails biting into his shoulders. “You’ll drive me mad,” he whispered, watching her with a wide, wondering gaze.
“Hmmmm . . .”
He tugged on her clit and she jerked as pleasure jolted through her. His cock throbbed, pulsating inside her as she squeezed him with her inner muscles and then lifted up, sinking back down on him, one slow inch at a time.
Xanthe banded an arm around her waist and fell back onto the cot, dragging her down with him. She whimpered as he caught one nipple in his mouth, teased the sensitive flesh until it throbbed. Then he switched to the other side, treating it to the same attention. “I never thought I’d have this chance again,” he rasped against her flesh.
“Kiss me.” She tugged on his hair until he lifted his mouth to hers and as his mouth slanted over hers, she started to rock, riding him fast and hard, desperate for him. His fingers bit into her hips, clenching her tight, so tight she’d have bruises, but she didn’t care.
Inside, she felt him jerk, felt him swell. She clenched down, using her inner muscles to tease and stroke until he growled against her lips and flipped them over, tucking her body under his. “Teasing little witch,” he rasped, biting her lower lip.
“Hmmm. You love it and you know it.”
He braced his elbows on either side of her head and caught her face in his hands. “Hmmm. I love you.” He did, so badly it ached, so badly it left him feeling dazed and drained . . . and complete. More complete than he’d ever felt in his life.
Swiveling his hips against hers, he caught her thigh and drew it up, opening her. Below him, Syn arched and shuddered. Her head fell back, exposing the long, slender line of her neck, and he dipped his head, sank his teeth into the sensitive area where her neck joined her shoulder.
At the same time, he moved higher on her body, angling his hips so that he touched her just . . . there. Her eyes fluttered and she whimpered. Xanthe did it again, using the head of his cock to stroke over that bundle of tissue buried deep inside her pussy. “I love you,” he whispered again, muttering it against her lips.
Syn raked her nails down his side and closed them over his hips, arching close. “More,” she pleaded. Begged. “Give me more.”
“Anything,” he whispered. He’d give her anything . . . everything.
But he didn’t want this to end, and she moved under him in a way that threatened to drive him mad, rocked against him with a rhythm that was going to destroy him.
He wanted it to last . . . and last . . . and last . . . but then she tangled her hands in his hair, jerked his mouth down to hers. As her teeth sank into his lower lip, he shuddered and felt the threads of his control snapping, one by one.
Hooking his arms under hers, he braced her body and shafted her, driving hard, driving deep, until she wailed his name against his lips. She arched against him and demanded in a low, throaty growl, “More.”
“Everything,” he whispered to her. Everything. For eternity.
She shuddered and started to come, her pussy clutching and gripping his cock, milking him. Her arms held him close, and he tasted the tears in her kiss as he went over, falling with her.
Dazed, he sank down, collapsing her slight body into the cot. With a grunt, he rolled to his side, dragging her with him, cuddling her close. Her eyes opened, and she stared at him. There were tears on her lashes. His heart squeezed in his chest, and he leaned in, kissed the tears away. “You cry.”
A smile curled her lips and she said, “I’ve gone and turned into my worst nightmare . . . a weak, weepy girl.”
“Weak.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “There is nothing weak about you.” He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Nothing.” He nuzzled her neck and then pushed up onto his elbow, looking down at her.
Syn felt herself blushing under that intent, probing stare. He cupped her face in one broad, scarred palm and said, “You’re the most amazing woman I think I’ve ever met in my life. Smart and stubborn, strong and proud. Amazing.”
She fought not to squirm and shot for a cheeky smile, hoping to hide some of her embarrassment, her nerves. “Be honest—you probably never once imagined falling for somebody like me.”
“Not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined somebody like you,” he said, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth.
“So what did you imagine?” she murmured, reaching up to cover his hand with hers.
“When it comes to this . . . nothing.” He settled back down on the bed, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know that I ever spent much time thinking about a woman and whether I’d want to spend the rest of my life with her.”
“Is that what you think about with me? Whether or not you’d want to spend the rest of your life with me?”
“No. I don’t think about that.” He crooked a grin at her. “I already know I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Beyond. So I do not need to think about it.”
“The rest of your life, huh?” She caught a lock of his long, black hair and wrapped it around her finger. “So . . . does that mean you’re going to stay? Here, I mean? With me?”
“For as long as you are here, I will be here.” He lowered his mouth to hers and whispered, “Wherever you go, I will go.”
“Hmmm. I like the sound of that.”
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF
HUNTER’S FALL
BY SHILOH WALKER
COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!
There was smoke.
And there was blood.
The air was thick with the smoke and he was going to choke on all the blood. Couldn’t breathe, but even if he didn’t have all the blood pooling in his throat, he wouldn’t have been able to take a breath.
The pain wouldn’t let him.
It stole through him, turning everything to ice.
She was crying. He could hear her. She cried and wept and pleaded with him not to leave her. But he had no choice. Death was coming, coming to rip him away from the one person who mattered.
Even though he slept, he felt the burn of tears. Felt them well up under his eyes, felt them burn their way down his cheeks. He wanted to wipe them away. Wanted to wake from this awful dream.
But he was helpless, locked in his slumber, locked in his dreams.
Ah, Nessa . . . my beautiful, foolish, wonderful girl. I love you so much. I will come back . . . I will find you again . . .
BROWNING, IDAHO
“You’re too pretty.”
“Am I?” he asked, a grin tugging at his lips. It was a mouth made for kissing.
“Yes.”
She was dreaming. Nessa knew she was dreaming. If she had any sense, she would lie back and just enjoy it.
Well, I already did that. And she had—three, no, four times over.
There was no way any red-blooded, straight woman could lie in bed with this man, dream or no dream, and not enjoy it. Not enjoy him.
His eyes were dark, rich as melted chocolate and framed by thick, curly eyelashes. His skin gleamed a soft, me
llow gold. In the sun, she imagined that smooth, sleek skin would deepen to a darker gold. His hair was black, blacker than onyx, and thick. It had just the slightest curl to it, and when she ran her hands through it, the jet strands twined her fingers.
She knew that from experience—she’d spent half the night with her hands buried in his hair.
They hadn’t spent much time standing up, but she guessed he was about five foot ten. He had a long, lean build, and she sensed strength inside him, massive strength. But when he touched her, he did it with gentleness. Reverence.
As well a dream lover should, she supposed.
He reached up and traced the line of her mouth with his fingertip. She shivered under that light touch and felt heat flicker through her. Catching his finger in her mouth, she bit lightly.
Hunger blazed in his eyes.
She felt a response and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. “Well, if I had to dream you, I must say, it turned out rather well,” she mused.
He laughed against her mouth and asked, “How do you know I’m not the one who dreamed you up?”
“Oh, believe me, I’m the one who is dreaming. There is no man out there pining for me.”
No man waiting. No man longing. No matter what was promised.
I will come back . . . I will find you again . . .
“You’re so sad,” he whispered. “Why are you so sad?”
Nessa forced a smile. “Of course I’m not . . . Well, I won’t be for long. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I will find you. No matter where you go. No matter how far.”
With a snort, Nessa looked away from the TV and focused on Mei-Lin’s hair. The teenager grinned up at her. “It’s romantic, Nessa. You can’t snort like that when Daniel Day-Lewis is on the screen saying a line like that.” With a sigh, the girl rested a hand on her heart and gazed at the TV with rapt eyes.
The Last of the Mohicans was the girl’s favorite movie. They usually watched it once a month.
Unless Nessa could see a way out. Today was Mei-Lin’s seventeenth birthday, though, and she’d wanted to watch the silly film before she went out with some friends.
Weaving the girl’s silky hair into a tight braid, Nessa glanced at the screen. Spectacular scenery. Strong, sexy men with big guns, innocent-looking girls with simpering eyes. Romantic bits like, I will find you.
It struck a knife in her heart.
Although it had been five hundred years, she could still hear Elias’s voice.
I will come back . . . I will find you again . . .
Only God himself could keep me from you, love.
And God himself had spent the last five centuries doing just that. Nessa couldn’t watch this damn film without reliving her memories. A time when she was torn away from her husband.
Not by pissed-off Natives, but by death.
By God.
God had taken her lover from her, and God had kept her from joining him.
She was alone and empty. So empty inside. Not even her dream lover could ease that ache. At least not for long.
She blew out a sigh and used an elasticized band to keep Mei-Lin’s braid from unraveling. Rising from the couch, she gathered up the ice cream cartons from the floor and carted them into the kitchen to dump them in the trash.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mei-Lin, and despite herself, she had to smile.
This girl had pulled Nessa back from the edge.
Hovering at the edge of madness, despair. Even as she tried to draw her mind away from the memories, she found herself caught in them again. It had been a few years since her life had been turned upside down.
One last battle . . . She’d been so sure when she went to face the young witch that it would be her last battle.
After more than five hundred years, she had been so very, very tired. So empty inside, but she’d become accustomed to the emptiness. The exhaustion, though, it weighed on her more and more, with each and every year.
The thought of just being done had been such a . . . sweet relief. She’d yearned for it, ached for it. Longed for it. She’d gone to battle with a young woman who used her magic to steal life and power from others—Morgan Wakefield had practiced blood magic and it was addictive. Once a witch gave in to that lure, it became a hunger, a need. Fighting it was almost impossible, and Morgan hadn’t wanted to fight it. She’d craved the blood, craved the power.
The only way to keep that young woman from killing was to end her life—a sad, sorry fact, but one Nessa had been prepared to handle. She’d been prepared for all likely outcomes—including her own death.
She hadn’t been prepared to live. She certainly hadn’t been prepared to live like this.
Absently, she glanced at the ornamental mirror hanging over the sofa and studied her face.
Her face.
Morgan’s face.
No. She hadn’t been prepared for this. She’d fought the young, deceptive, bloodthirsty witch, and as she’d expected, her body hadn’t survived the battle. But somehow, her spirit had. She hadn’t planned for it, hadn’t done a damn thing to make this happen—at least not consciously. Nessa had wanted death, craved it. Craved it the way Morgan had craved blood. The way a drug addict craved his next fix. She’d needed it.
But instead of the sweet relief of death, she lived. In Morgan’s body.
For so long after it had happened, Nessa had been lost—trapped in a muddle of depression, despair, memories and madness. Even as she began to emerge from that fog, she’d hated it—she’d yearned for the sweet cloud where she’d lived.
Until Mei-Lin.
Mei-Lin changed things.
They had met just a few months ago, but already, this girl had settled inside Nessa’s heart, forged a place there. Given Nessa a reason to believe again. A reason to hope. A reason to live.
She looked at Mei-Lin and saw the echo of her own youth. Kindred spirits, she supposed. That was why she’d felt so drawn to the girl, why she’d taken Mei-Lin under her wing instead of shipping her off to Excelsior.
Almost a year earlier, Mei-Lin’s mother had died and the girl had ended up in foster care, only to run away after one of the other foster kids had tried to molest her.
The night they met, Nessa had been walking through the dark streets, looking for a fight, a drink, both . . . anything to occupy her mind.
What she found was Mei-Lin. Or rather, Mei-Lin found her. The girl had quick hands—she might not have even noticed the theft if the girl hadn’t unconsciously used her magic as well.
Untrained witches—they were a danger to themselves. Nessa had planned to dump the girl back at Excelsior. She needed training, that was for certain, and she also needed to finish high school. She could do both at Excelsior. Kelsey and the other Hunters would see to it that Mei-Lin was trained and care for.
But in the end, it was Nessa who took the girl in. It hadn’t taken but a few hours to realize she needed the girl as much as the girl needed her. Perhaps more.
The two of them, they were both lost, lonely souls.
Meeting the girl had pulled Nessa back from the brink—she’d reminded Nessa of who she was.
She’d reminded Nessa of what she was.
She might be a lonely witch still pining over her lost lover, but she was also a fighter.
Nessa was a Hunter—a warrior, a witch. She’d devoted her life to protecting the innocent from the monsters in the world. She’d never given up in her whole damned life.
Mei-Lin helped her remember that about herself.
She owed the girl.
More, she loved her.
Leaning against the counter that separated the kitchen and the living room, she tucked her hair behind one ear and watched as the teen finished watching the movie. As the credits started to roll, Mei-Lin patted her heart and said, “If you’re still wanting to find me another birthday present, I want that. Gimme a man like that.”
“I looked but they’d already sold out at the mall.” Nes
sa rolled her eyes. “Darling, you are seventeen. You have plenty of time to find a man.”
“They do still make them like that, right?” She wrinkled her nose and said, “I want a real man, not one who spends more time messing with his hair than I do. I don’t want some dumb boy, either. Real men still exist, right?”
Nessa grinned and thought of some of the men she knew. Chortling, she tried to picture Malachi messing with his hair. The vampire had seen millennia come and go and while he was a vain bastard, he wasn’t one to primp.
Images of other men, other friends—Hunters she’d worked with over the years—flashed through her mind. Would they stand in front of a mirror and primp? Tobias, Declan, Vax . . . no. Not a one of them.
Eli, perhaps, but he had always been a peacock.
She had a quick flash of her dream lover. That thick, silken hair, tousled by her hands. He wouldn’t spend his time studying his reflection, either, she knew.
Of course, he wouldn’t . . . he isn’t real. He was just her dream lover, a man her imagination created to help with the emptiness inside her, to help while away long, lonely nights.
A dream lover . . . and he belongs in those dreams, only those dreams, so for the love of all things holy, stop thinking about him during the day.
She shoved off the counter and went to turn off the television. “Yes, Mei-Lin. I promise, there are plenty of men who are less than enamored with their pretty reflections.”
Outside, Nessa heard footsteps and she tugged on one of Mei-Lin’s braids. “Your friends are here.”
“How can you hear them?” she asked, cocking her head. She squinted her eyes as though it might help her hear better.
“Practice.” Nessa shrugged a shoulder. “You’ll get there.”
The doorbell rang and Mei-Lin moved to answer it. As a gaggle of giggling girls entered the small house, Nessa tidied up the living room. Living with a teenage girl, she was constantly picking up, straightening up, doing laundry.
She didn’t mind, oddly enough.
Other than Mei-Lin’s training, this was the closest to normal Nessa had ever known.
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