Try As I Smite

by Abigail Owen

  With that kiss. Now with a simple look.

  “I’m not a boy anymore,” he said, import in every syllable.

  Then, holding her gaze, he slowly lowered his lips over hers. But he paused before he touched her and she found herself swaying in to him, reaching for him.

  “I thought of you,” he whispered, a heartbeat before pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

  Chapter Five

  Who the hell knew that nirvana came with the taste of cherries and the softest lips?

  Or that what felt like a hundred years after fighting beside that mystery woman in the alley, Alasdair would be truly a man in his own right, master of his domain, and kissing that woman here. Because damned if he hadn’t wanted to kiss her again since the first time.

  He’d dreamed of her…for years.

  Delilah didn’t passively accept his kisses. She leaned in to him, fingers spiking through his hair, kneading his scalp like a cat, making small noises that sent him into hyperdrive. Passion and perfection in his arms. None of that icy control when he touched her, almost as though there were two halves to her.

  That she let him this close, let him see this other side fully, a hell of a lot more than the glimpses she’d inadvertently given him before now, reached inside his chest and cracked him wide open.

  A fact that should scare the everliving fuck out of him, but he was too far down the rabbit hole to care right this second. Caught up in his fascination. Not wanting to miss a second.

  Delilah gave a shuddering sigh as he slid his tongue against hers, dipping it between those cherry-ripe lips. Something about that small, needy action tipped him over the edge of his own grip on control. He speared his hands into her hair, silky smooth against his palm, a sensual slide against his skin as he cupped the back of her head. He angled her mouth so that he could plunder and persuade, drawing small moans from her. The pins holding up her hair, already mussed from their travels, came undone, and her hair tumbled down her back over his hand at the small of her back.

  In a primal move he couldn’t have stopped himself from doing even if he wanted, he wrapped his fist in the locks as though binding himself to her and groaned into her mouth. He wanted to do more, take what she was offering, lay her bare to his eyes, his hands and lips, and stake a claim on each part of her. Watch her eyes turn hazy as he surged inside her, as he spilled his seed in her body.

  “More.” The demand punched from him and she smiled against his lips, suddenly all siren.

  She took over the kiss, nibbling at his lower lip before making her way along his jaw in a series of kisses both sexy as hell but so sweet, the dichotomy only turning him on more.

  He was happy to let her lead. For the moment. And damned if that wasn’t a decision that had his dick throbbing in time to the elevated rate of his heart. Because what she did with her lips against his… It was as though each brush drew his soul closer to the surface, reaching for hers, sensation spiraling outward and driving the tension through his muscles until he buzzed with it.

  Small, soft hands swiftly undid the buttons of his shirt, slipping inside to smooth over his chest. Nothing tentative or hesitant about her touch. All woman. A siren in his arms.

  “Fuck,” he growled, and took the control back.

  Owning the kiss, driving into her and demanding a response from her that she seemed only too willing to give, he trailed a questing finger down her neck, hooking it in the collar of her blouse to slip it and the strap of her bra off one shoulder, baring her skin to him. He followed with his mouth and she tipped her head back and to the side, giving him access.

  Like an animal, he bit into the sexy curve of her shoulder, overwhelmed with the need to…what? Mark her? Only shifters did that shit.

  He jerked his head up, staring first at the mark he’d left puckering her skin, then dragged his gaze to hers, watching her through fevered eyes, obsessed with every nuance of her flushed cheeks and parted lips, the way she pressed her body in to him. A wildness wound about her. As though she’d ceded all that precious control to him.

  Damned if that didn’t fill him with the need to protect that favor, offer pleasure in exchange for power, truly giving her the control. Take care of her every fucking need.

  Gods she was gorgeous. “Delilah,” he murmured.

  The name fit her in this moment. Historically, Delilah had been a temptress, and she was every inch that, breasts thrust out, back arched, the musky scent of sex blending with her light floral scent.

  Her dark eyes widened on a gasp. A flash of vulnerability lit her gaze before her expression shuttered, long-lashed lids hiding her from him.

  No. The primitive imperative inside him eddied and shifted, the need to possess and at the same time share, expanding within him, making his chest tight. He didn’t want a quick fuck with this woman, a tussle in the sheets to sate mutual need. He wanted…

  Damned if he knew what.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t hide.” He released his grip on her hair to smooth his hand down her back, pressing her body in to his, thrusting his hips in to her so she couldn’t mistake the hard ridge of his pulsing erection.

  “I—” Her tongue peeked out, moistening lips already glistening and swollen from his kisses.

  Then she stepped back. The way she let go of him in a deliberate, jerking motion, both hands held up, hit him like a bad spell.

  Delilah shook her head, her long hair rippling out behind her, her body still all fire while her expression turned icy. “You don’t know everything about me, Alasdair. You’ll—”

  “Still want you.” He stepped in to her again, cupping the back of her neck, willing her to stop shutting him out. “I’ll still want you, dammit.”

  The words tripped over themselves to get out of his mouth, even as shock rippled through him at the impact. When had lust for a woman he’d set to keep tabs on—and only that—turned into a need that seemed tied to more than just gorging himself on her? Into something…deeper?

  Blackness consumed his vision before either of them could react to the stark admission.

  Only this time, somewhere in the darkness, Delilah disappeared from his arms, like smoke in the wind.

  “No!” he yelled, panic giving him a good kick.

  Her floral scent lingered even as he reached out in the black, futilely searching for her. Before he could call her name, light returned. Alasdair sat perfectly still, temporarily disoriented, taking in his surroundings. More than familiar, he had to ask himself if he was in the past or now in the present.

  Alasdair sat in the circular room where the Covens Syndicate met weekly. Situated on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains in California, the modern behemoth the covens had chosen to erect fit the image he projected himself. Slick. In control. But with hidden corners and edges. Constructed from cement, steel, and glass, the structure was a marvel of modern-day architecture. Meant to intimidate all. Not just the witches and warlocks they governed, but anyone who might think about coming at them. Plenty to fear in this world.

  He didn’t have to turn to know the waiting view outside the windows at his back was incredible. This room sat over the tops of the trees and craggy mountaintops to the towering peak of Half Dome in Yosemite in the distance. He sat at a long metal and glass table facing the doorway. Where he always sat. Surrounded by the other members of the Syndicate. Powerful mages all, including his own sister, Hestia. A group of witches and warlocks of various ages, their faces all cast in blank judgment, which was nothing new.

  Where’s Delilah?

  A brisk knock at the mahogany doors sounded. “Enter,” he called. Or the memory of him called.

  This felt like it had in that alleyway when he’d witnessed the entire scene from inside himself. Observing, remembering, and experiencing all at the same time.

  Delilah strode in, dressed to send his libido into overdrive, appearing her us
ual elegant self, her dark hair coiled at her nape, loose tendrils framing her face, lust-inducing figure set off beautifully in black slacks and a cream-colored cashmere sweater that he itched to push down over her shoulders. Only now that he knew what lurked beneath that icy control, all he could see was her fire. The taste of her skin, a new memory, layered over the old memory, and damned if his initial reaction that day—one of unwanted, ill-timed desire—didn’t ratchet up a whole other level.

  Like the way getting closer to a lightning strike increased the intensity of every sense. The sound louder, flash brighter, the sizzle of pure energy tingled along his skin.

  Behind her entered a woman with dark red hair. Greyson Master’s now new bonded wife, Rowan. This was her trial before that marriage, when they found out who she was.

  “Ms. McAuliffe?” Alasdair’s previous self said. Deliberately he injected a bored sort of uncaring in his voice. Nothing covered fierce emotion better than boredom.

  Rowan nodded, and he shifted his gaze to the woman at her side. Dark eyes, a twinkle of amusement sparking at him, like she’d known what he was doing a second before, met his gaze dead-on. He had to resist the need to sit up straighter. Holding onto that air of ennui, he lifted an eyebrow. “And you must be Ms…?”

  The woman gave him a cool smile which, contrarily, only made his cock ache worse. “Delilah,” she said in a throaty voice that didn’t help his current situation in the slightest.

  Mother goddess. If he hadn’t met her in that moment in time…if things had gone differently…different choices…he would never have gone to her today with the demon problem. He wouldn’t be stuck in this recycle of his life with her. And he wouldn’t know she tasted of cherries.

  “First or last?” the old version of himself asked.

  Delilah said nothing, merely held her polite smile and his stare. Rare to find someone who didn’t back down under his gaze. Even one as polite as this.

  After a long, intense moment, he let it go, turning back to Rowan. “I’m Alasdair Blakesley, current head of the Syndicate. Greyson has filled us in on the situation and”—he flicked a glance at Delilah—“supplied us information provided by various witnesses.”

  In a disorienting flash, Alasdair found himself outside the memory looking in, Delilah materializing beside him as they watched their previous selves together. The voices in the room continued to go through the scene, but, body still thrumming with pent-up sexual tension from both the kiss they’d shared and the memory of their first meeting and his own realization—fuck, no wonder he’d wanted her so badly, so immediately.

  The woman from that alley had starred in his fantasies for years. Had some part of himself recognized her? Or was it recognition of his reflection, of someone just like him in the ways that counted most?

  “Screw whatever I’m supposed to be learning from this,” he muttered.

  Pure, frustrating-as-fuck yearning had him turning his back on the room to step in to her, backing her up until she hit the wall, even as her chin came up—defiance and curiosity staring at him, a heady combination when it came from her. He pressed his body against her.

  He lowered his head, hovering where he could watch her eyes. “You know what I wanted to do to you that day we met?”

  Her walls were still up even as he could feel her heart fluttering against him. “Kick me out of the building?” she quipped.

  His lips tipped up in amusement. “No. I wanted to do this.”

  With slow, deliberate moves he undid the top buttons of her shirt, never taking his gaze from her eyes as he parted the fabric, pulling both sides back to expose her shoulders, then farther down. She remained still, lips parted, and didn’t protest when he traced the lacy demi-cups of her nude-colored bra. Her nipples poked through the material, as though reaching for him. He glanced at her expression, waiting for her to say no. She didn’t, so he dragged the cups down, releasing her breasts to his eyes, rosy tips peaked, begging for his mouth.

  Her gaze flicked over his shoulder to the people—the previous versions of themselves and the syndicate—still talking in the room.

  “Don’t look at them. They don’t matter anymore. Look at me,” he commanded.

  She gave in to him, a small victory but still one he’d relish as she focused in on him intently, silently daring him to take what he’d wanted to take that day and every day since.

  Watching her expression, he rolled one of her nipples between his fingers, her whimper lodging in his chest before traveling south in pulses.

  “If you’re going to say no, goddess,” he said. “Do it now—”

  She shook her head, hair still down, framing her face in tousled waves. “I want this,” she whispered in that sexy, husky voice of hers, her body restless against his, pressing. No more ice or wariness in her eyes. Only heat, unadulterated, unhidden, all for him.

  Thank the powers. This was how he wanted Delilah. Completely undone. Wild. For him.

  “Good.” He pressed into her softness, claiming those luscious lips again. Plucking at her nipple and swallowing her moans. Gods, her taste—soft and decadent and yet with a bite—could become addicting. Better than bourbon. As heady as magic. Like energy and aching and pleasure all in one.

  She tugged at his lower lip with her teeth, then sucked, demanding more, and his cock surged.

  A change in lighting flashed—dark than light, but slower than a blink—and he lifted his head, both of them panting. They’d moved locations again. He knew exactly where. The hallway inside the Syndicate building. Not a soul in sight.

  Their second encounter that day. Who gave a shit? He was more interested in this encounter.

  Roughly, Alasdair yanked her skirt up, trailing a hand up her quivering thigh, then brushing it over her panty-cover mound. Soaked. For him. Already.

  “Hell,” he groaned, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, imitating what he had every intention of doing with his cock.

  Her hands found their way to his pants, which she undid, pushing both those and his boxer briefs down until he sprang out, turgid and pulsing, into her hand. She squeezed, hard, milking his cock with a viselike grip, and his hips bucked against his will.

  If he let her keep that up, he’d come faster than he ever had as a callow youth. “Slower,” he begged.

  “Like this?”

  Drawing back, they watched each other as she pumped her hand down his length in long, endless strokes. In retaliation, he played with her over those wet panties, brushing at the bundle of nerves hidden underneath until she was thrusting into his touch.

  Inching back the elastic edge, he slid a finger into her, her inner walls gripping him, slick and soft. In a second, he’d replace that finger with his cock, but right now, he couldn’t look away from the play of emotions over her expressive face.

  How could I ever have thought her cold?

  Lust reflected back at him, the same haze of need that held him captive, but more was there. Trust. The glitter of excitement. And a wariness that wrapped around his heart like barbed wire, cutting deep. Compelling him to make this so fucking good for her, she’d never look at him like that again.

  “Delilah.”

  That was his voice. Turning his head, he found the ghosts of both of them standing in the hallway.

  Delilah’s previous self turned to face him. “Yes?” she asked.

  Only now, instead of frost in her eyes, he caught the flash of something else. Something hotter. There, then gone, hidden away. Holy shit. How had he missed that last time?

  The woman in his arms stirred restlessly, and he pumped his finger in her, deliberately adding the push of his thumb against her clit, grinning like a fool at the audible hitch in her breathing. “Don’t look away,” he said.

  “Your manipulations worked out,” the memory of himself said.

  She raised her eyebrows coolly and said nothing.

>   “That is the only reason I’m allowing you to walk out of here unchallenged and unscathed.”

  Her head came up in challenge, and damned if, like that day, his gut response was a combination of respect and a deeper throb of need.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

  She turned to go, only to be stopped by his hand on her arm, his touch insistent. He remembered suddenly how he hadn’t wanted her to go. Not because he was angry or irritated or threatened, even though he was, but because of her. He’d been…fascinated.

  And resentful of that fact.

  “I don’t make this warning lightly,” he murmured. He’d needed something to say.

  “I believe you.”

  “Stay away from my people.”

  Now she cocked her head. “I’ll stay away from them if they stay away from me and my clients.”

  There. That moment was when he’d decided to keep a close eye on Delilah. Personally. A decision that had led him…here.

  Previous Alasdair’s lips thinned.

  “You didn’t like that,” Delilah in his arms said, rolling her hips in time to his fingers, which he kept pressing in and out of her.

  “I was pissed at myself because I admired your response, and—”

  Previous him kept talking. “I understand you have quite a varied clientele. That could prove…difficult.”

  She shrugged, attitude plain. His problem. Not hers.

  He considered her in silence, and she refused to look away from his stare. After a moment, his lips hitched in a shadow of a smile. “Will you at least contact me if witches are involved?”

  Delilah pursed her lips and he could remember thinking only of how he wanted to suck on her lower lip until she melted. “I can’t make guarantees,” she said, “because it may depend on my client and the privacy privileges they hold with me. But I will when I can. That’s the best I can do.”

  He inclined his head, though his jaw hardened. “Fair enough.”