by Tina Donahue
He did. Her employment file was next to him on the sofa. She’d glanced at it as she’d moved across the office to him.
“You’re one of my strippers,” he said.
She slanted her face to regard him. “And a whore.” The corners of her exquisite mouth tilted upward with her wry smile. “It pays better than—what do they call it? Oh yeah,” she answered herself, “exotic dancing.”
The genteel term appeared to amuse her.
“You’ve been here how long?” he asked.
“Two months. But you already know that too.”
“Are your parents aware of what you do for a living?”
She chuckled, a throaty, provocative sound that excited Carreon even more. He resumed stroking her nub.
She swallowed. Her throat quivered quite nicely. After a deep breath, she murmured, “They threw me out when I was fifteen. They said I was a bad influence on my little sisters.”
“Were you?”
“I don’t like rules.” Her eyes were glassy with arousal. However, she clearly fought it as though she needed to draw out the pleasure or deny him proof that he’d satisfied her. “I’m exactly like you are, Carreon. I don’t do what’s right. I do what I want.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“No?” She blew out a sigh, then continued, “That’s not what my parents would say.”
“To hell with them.”
Her smile widened. “Exactly what they’d say about you. They may be from our clan, but they think you and your men are scum.” Her expression grew ecstatic as he rubbed faster, harder. “They’d hate me being here.”
“Maybe we can do something about their attitude.”
“Maybe. That would be—” She stopped, clearly unable to continue as she climaxed.
Carreon slipped two fingers deep inside her sheath to see if she was faking. Her muscles pulsed around the tips of his fingers. Hardly proof, given that any woman could simulate those contractions. Her cunt’s slickness was another matter entirely. She was beyond wet, her body relaxed with pleasure.
Before it passed, Carreon pulled his fingers from her, then grabbed her wrist. Trinidad’s hand tightened around her weapon.
With more tenderness than it was his custom to use, Carreon eased her fingers from the switchblade. If she resisted in the least, he’d break every one of her digits.
As though she understood his character was as indecent as hers, Trinidad submitted. Carreon took the switchblade and slipped it back into its sheath within her boot.
She made a sound that reminded him of a contented cat, claws withdrawn.
Angling her palm to the light, Carreon studied the reddish stain on her lifeline, the size of a large freckle or a mole. In her file, Ernez had recorded her height, weight, measurements, all body marks. This one was the most important.
Liz and her father also had the discoloring on their palms, though theirs were far larger.
Proof, Liz had said, that her and her father’s gifts were the strongest. Others in their clan may be able to heal, but none of them—at least according to Liz—had the indisputable mark of a primary healer, the greatest there was.
Obviously, she and her father didn’t know about Trinidad.
“You can heal,” Carreon said.
She shrugged, her indifference returned. “I’ve been told that.”
Carreon stroked the discoloration, feeling a faint spark of energy emitting from it…or so he hoped. “You’ve never tried?”
“My parents wanted me to heal my little sister when she fell from a tree and broke her leg. I said it would cost them a hundred bucks. Was that too much to ask?”
Carreon laughed. “Cheap, I’d say.”
She returned his smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Exactly. They cursed me. Said I was no good.” Another shrug. “That’s the only time I’ve been asked to use it.”
“Until now.” He switched off the charm and got serious. “Ernez.”
The young man’s shoulders were hunched, the handkerchief around his sliced hand wet with blood. Obediently, he joined them, his breathing shallow and fast.
“Take off the handkerchief,” Carreon ordered.
The moment Ernez did, Carreon spoke to Trinidad. “Heal him.”
She lifted her shoulders as if to say, sure, why not?, then took Ernez’s hand in both of hers and licked off his blood.
“Aw shit,” he growled, his upper lip curling, “don’t do that. You’ll give me some fucking disease, you goddamn—”
“Quiet,” Carreon snapped.
Disease or not, insult or not, Trinidad continued lapping until she’d apparently had her fill—or proved her point that she was one badass—then she laid her palm on Ernez’s.
Carreon leaned up, forearms on his knees. “What’s happening?”
Ernez spoke through clenched teeth. “She’s fucking burning me.”
Wrong. The healing always felt like that—a surge of nearly unbearable heat.
“Let him go,” Carreon said to Trinidad.
She finally did, after several seconds. Because she didn’t like anyone telling her what to do?
She’d better get over that shit and fast.
Carreon took Ernez’s hand and studied the wound. Narrower now, no longer bleeding but not healed entirely either. Trinidad had the gift, though not to the extent that Liz and her father did. For now, it would have to do.
Releasing Ernez, Carreon grabbed Trinidad’s wrists and directed her to straddle his lap. When her cunt was snuggled against his rigid cock, he turned his damaged ear toward her. “Heal me.”
Something in his tone or manner made her obey more readily than usual. She cupped his ear. A spark of energy flowed from her body to his. The heat became intolerable as Carreon knew it would. Despite the discomfort, he sighed happily.
The office phone rang. Ernez answered it, muttering a hello, after which he paused to listen, then mumbled something Carreon didn’t catch.
The stinging had turned to velvety warmth, allowing Carreon to concentrate on Trinidad’s nipples brushing his chest, her warmth and weight, her fragrance—soft musk with a hint of roses.
Ernez strode across the room and stopped at the sofa. “The men you ordered to your stronghold found something.”
Carreon regarded Ernez through hooded lids, irritation in his response. “What? Liz’s body? Her father’s? Don’t tell me Neekoma left them there.”
Worry crossed Ernez’s features. He handed the phone to Carreon. “You better hear it from them.”
Zeke captured Liz’s hands and pulled them away from the metal button on his jeans’ waistband.
Surprised, she asked, “What are you doing?” Was this a joke? Had to be…for reasons she couldn’t figure out. Even so, Liz decided to play along. “Since when are you reluctant to strip, especially in front of me?”
If not for all the people in this stronghold, Zeke would never have worn clothes around her.
“Come on,” she murmured. “Let me undress you. I want you inside of me.”
“No.”
No? Uh-uh. Liz didn’t believe that answer for a second. She saw the lust in his eyes, recognized the tension in his big body, had felt his rigid rod. If he got any harder and didn’t get immediate relief within her cunt or mouth, he’d be whimpering in pain. “You don’t want to make love?”
He eased her arms behind her back and held her as close as he could. His lips brushed her cheek, pulling a soft sigh from Liz. She released her weight into him. Zeke bore it well, as though he’d been born for this moment. With his face pressed to her hair, he inhaled deeply, no doubt to capture her shampoo’s lingering floral scent.
“I don’t want to rush,” he whispered. “Never again. This has to last.”
Liz wasn’t about to argue the point, needing the same. However, the way he said it—with such desperate need—made her pulse quicken with worry. “It will.”
As though he didn’t quite believe her, Zeke held Liz for minutes, his heart bea
ting in time with hers, their scents mingling. She felt his increasing arousal, the rigidity of his cock pressed against her mound. Her cunt responded, growing wet, preparing for his shaft’s intimate invasion.
On a deep sigh that sounded utterly helpless, he finally eased back and lifted her tee. Slowly, though, so he could expose her torso a bit at a time. Her belly fluttered at the promise of her nudity and then his. When he’d bared her breasts, Zeke stopped to regard them in the room’s gentle glow.
Smiling, he ran his forefinger around her areolas, already tight with carnal hunger. He stroked the sensitive tips.
A riot of sensations thrummed through Liz. She shivered in delight and reached for his jeans again, eager to strip him.
Her fingers paused on the metal button. She recalled his request that he didn’t want to hurry through this. He—they—needed to savor these moments.
Why? Because Carreon was still out there and would soon be hunting Zeke again? Because Zeke’s people wouldn’t be mollified for long? They’d demand that she and her father leave? Because—
Her thoughts paused at Zeke’s mouth on her nipple. He flicked the tip with his tongue, then swept it over her areola’s bumpy contours. His mouth’s heat and the rasp of his beard-roughened skin against hers brought a new thrill.
On a pleased moan, Liz settled her hands on either side of his head and worked her fingers through his hair to keep him from stopping.
He drew her nipple deeper into his mouth and settled his hands on her ass, then squeezed those cheeks, using his touch to imprison her.
Liz never wanted to be separate from him. Her head fell back and her chin tilted upward. Zeke took that as an invitation to kiss her throat.
My God.
Warmth and yearning poured through Liz at the softness of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue. She sighed in willing surrender to whatever Zeke wanted to do, whatever pace he preferred. She was his. Had been from the moment he’d first mounted her in Carreon’s stronghold, his cock stretching, using her sheath. That evening, he’d taken her with a master’s right while also delivering exquisite pleasure.
At the time, she hadn’t expected to drown in his strength and passion. She’d been there merely to heal him.
It was what her heritage and gift demanded…at least until tonight.
Her desire receded as she recalled Zeke’s earlier behavior. Why hadn’t he wanted her to heal Jacob, Samuel or anyone else who might have needed her help? Why hadn’t he stripped her the moment they’d come in here, then pulled her on the bed unable to wait a second longer to plow inside her cunt?
She knew that was what he wanted to do, could feel it, and yet he kept holding back.
Was he worried she hadn’t fully recovered from Carreon’s attack? Didn’t he trust that her father’s healing…the reanimation…would last?
Liz ached for answers but didn’t speak. Zeke had asked her not to bombard him with questions. To simply hold him and follow his lead.
He lifted her bloodstained tee over her arms, past her head and tossed it aside. The garment landed on a chair near his bed. A beige-and-brown Indian blanket covered its seat, its bold geometric designs similar to the blankets draped across the mattress.
Zeke stepped away from her and kicked off his suede moccasins. His large feet and long toes were as masculine as the rest of him, urging Liz to fall to her knees. To kiss and lick his toes, then draw each into her mouth.
With all the will she owned, Liz resisted, because what she really wanted was to have him nude. Hell, she craved that as she had nothing else.
While she studied the impressive bulge between his legs, Zeke placed his hand on the limestone wall. Somehow, the rock morphed into a mirror, no different from the limestone in Jacob’s bath. Days ago, she’d been in there with him and Zeke. When she’d neared that wall, it had turned into a mirror too, showing her reflection. A phenomenon that still surprised her and now brought a wave of dismay.
Her hair was a mass of hopeless tangles, dark circles discolored the skin beneath her eyes, and her jeans were filthy with dirt, blood and who knew what else. She spoke without thinking. “I look really shitty.”
“Bullshit.” Zeke swept her into his arms. He was so strong, he made it seem as though she weighed nothing.
Easily, Liz snuggled into him and glanced at his bed.
After a moment’s hesitation, he bypassed it.
Not a good thing. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Bathroom.”
“Why?”
He pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “For a bath.”
Okay.
She expected Zeke’s bathroom to be similar in design to his brother’s. Jacob’s shower was no more than a semicircular depression in the wall, made of the same metal alloy as that in the tunnel. No glass door or showerhead was visible. Rather than pouring down, the water had misted in the enclosure and somehow drained away even though there wasn’t any visible means for it to escape.
No such shower existed in Zeke’s bath, a room that was perfectly circular. Instead, there was a large stone tub, ringed with polished rocks of various colors. Some had veins of yellow running through them that sparkled like gold. Zeke put Liz down and touched one of the larger rocks. Instantly, water poured into the tub from between the smooth stones, splashing merrily over several of them. Frail threads of steam rose from the tub, the water scented with something fresh and sweet Liz couldn’t immediately identify.
“Wow,” she breathed. “This is amazing. Better than a rock star’s pad.”
Zeke grinned. “You have no idea.” He touched the wall. The entire area, including the ceiling, turned into a mirror. Behind it was that same golden glow. Subtle. Romantic.
She grinned. “Your alien ancestors must have been hedonists.”
“They were. I’ve been told I take after them.”
At her side, Zeke sank to his knees and unfastened Liz’s jeans. The denim folded away from her, exposing her belly. Zeke kissed the gentle swell.
Her muscles trembled. Sighing, she used his shoulder for support as he removed her moccasins. Next, he eased her jeans down, exposing her mound and thighs. With the garment bunched at her knees, Zeke cupped her naked ass and pulled Liz into him, his mouth on her cleft, his tongue exploring her sex, searching for her clit.
She gasped as he found it.
Zeke suckled her, his tongue flicking against her erect nub. A satisfied moan escaped Liz as indescribable sensations surged through her. Her knees sagged. Zeke pressed the pads of his fingers into her ass to give her as much support as he could. He licked and sucked until Liz thought she’d explode. Her body tensed. Her burning lungs urged her to breathe. Gritting her teeth, she surrendered to him and her coming climax.
Zeke stopped, stalling the magic.
Liz alternately groaned and panted, then frowned. “Why did you stop? What are you doing?”
“Undressing you. Hold on.”
The last of her arousal drifted away, leaving overwhelming frustration. Clamping her hand on his shoulder, Liz lifted one leg, then the other so he could remove her jeans.
The moment she was nude, Zeke stood, his attention on her breasts and pussy as he unbuttoned his jeans, then lowered the fly.
“Wait.” She went to him. “Let me do that.”
“Will you hurry?”
Was he kidding? Liz stared at the meaty bulge behind his fly, the dark curls above it, revealed by the denim sagging away from his body. She found it impossible to swallow, difficult to speak, her desire was so great. “What do you think?”
“You ask too many questions.”
She shouldn’t have asked that one or taken her eyes off the prize. It gave Zeke the few seconds he needed to strip, which deprived her of so much. The chance to lower his jeans and expose his cock so she could trap him as he had her…so she could press her face to his hairy groin and do wicked things to his stiffened shaft with her mouth and hands.
His rod was so hard it was eleva
ted slightly, its thick head seeming to point at her. His lightly furred balls were plump as could be, tight against his body. She reached out to touch them. Zeke curled his fingers around her wrist and pulled her into him, his caress filled with tenderness.
He smelled wonderful, musky and male. Liz felt his thundering heart, recognized his need, as desperate as hers to be as close as they possibly could.
Rather than take her where they stood, Zeke gave her a hard, brief hug—clearly restraining himself—then led her down the stone steps into the tub.
Liz sighed at the water’s delicious heat, its gentle eddy, like a thousand fingers massaging her weary body. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until she began to relax. She sank into the water and sprawled on one of the stone benches within it, not caring how shameless she looked. A contented moan spilled from Liz at the delicious warmth. Plumes of steam misted around her, adding to the allure.
Zeke went to his knees between her legs. He brushed several strands of damp hair from her shoulder. She did the same with his. They stared at each other, saying nothing. Words weren’t necessary or even welcome. Drinking each other in was all that mattered.
She adored him so much the emotion was actually painful, in a good and needed way. He’d returned her dignity, hope, her life when she hadn’t thought such a thing was possible.
Liz touched the barely visible scars on his pec from where Carreon’s men had shot him, loathing them for it. She ran her forefinger over the tattoo on his biceps, then stroked the shiny area where the snake’s head had once been. The scar was pink and puckered. If it took the rest of her life, she’d make Carreon pay for injuring that part of Zeke.
Not that she’d been any better, at least in the beginning. Liz recalled how she’d fought Zeke, clawing him when he’d kidnapped her. Those injuries were no more than thin red lines now. She traced them with her fingertips, recalling what he’d told her at the time…what she’d refused to believe.
“Carreon’s going to kill you,” he’d said. “I’ve seen your murder in my mind. If you want to live, you have to come with me.”
His vision hadn’t been wrong. She had died.
Liz stroked his bottom lip. Zeke smiled. So did she, then whispered, “You’re so damn beautiful.”
