by Thea Devine
"Kalida in your room?" he demanded roughly.
"Why no, and why would you be looking for her, when I'm there?" she wanted to know in her roundest, huskiest tone. Just the faintest hint of poutiness permeated her words, but she instantly saw the mistake of doing that. He was after Kalida, for whatever reason, and there was no doubt about it.
"She took something of mine," he growled enignmati-cally, thrusting open the door across the hallway.
Ellie shrugged. "I'd like to take something of yours,"
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she whispered invitingly.
He shot her a baleful look and she retreated; there was no way to warm him up in this kind of mood. She turned on her heel and allowed her gown to slide alluringly off her shoulder to expose part of her back.
He never noticed. He was rapping on the next door, his voice commanding over the din, "Kalida!" Ellie slammed her door behind her, his voice a concert of harsh syllables behind her.
"Kalida!"
She heard him well enough. His first bellow had awakened her along with the others, but she had been damned if she were going to be pulled to his highness's side like some puppet at his mere demand.
And then again, but this time Ellie's voice intermixed with his in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. He was coming from Ellie's room to her! His gall was staggering.
She hoisted herself up into a sitting position on the bed and waited. He started banging on the door. Dimly she heard the slam of another door—Ellie rebuffed.
Good!
His first rammed into her door. She wasn't even trying to evade him. "Take me if you can," she called out recklessly, and she did not know what precipitated such volatile rashness—Ellie's voice, perhaps, or her own nightmares, opaque but there, festering. Things she was not admitting to herself. The desire to incite his desire, to control him in the only way she could. All those things fused in a moment of heady power over him that provoked her brash command, and he answered it resoundingly by crashing through the door.
She was sitting in the middle of the plain pine four-poster bed, her back against the undecorated headboard, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her midnight hair curled in wild abandon all around her, half pinned up, half
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falling to her shoulders, its disarray a testimony to her troubled sleep. It shone stark black against the whitewashed wall above her head, merging with the shadows cast by the guttering wick of the kerosene lamp.
"Good evening, Deuce," she said coolly.
"Aren't you the clever minx?" he murmured consideringly as he shut the door and paced around to the opposite side of the room. "The spitting cat turns tail and runs."
"Takes on protective coloration, perhaps?" Kalida suggested, cringing a little as he drew closer, dangerously closer.
"My darling Kalida-cat, you could not hide that coloration in the desert, let alone anywhere on Sweetland. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
His tone was reasonable—too reasonable; she had the grim feeling any excuse she tendered would be brushed aside like a whirlwind. Nonetheless, she girded herself, without moving a muscle, and prepared to do battle. "Well, I was sure that, since the patrol was disbanded — for this week at least—that you meant for me to have a separate room and some privacy."
"You were sure, were you?" he asked silkily, pacing back and forth in front of her bed, his shadow moving edgily back and forth over the blanket rail. "So sure?" He wheeled on her, his eyes flinty charcoal, glittery at her audaciousness. How far did she think she could push him? he wondered. How far would she try? The glint in his eye turned speculative. What was she expecting him to do? The obvious, most probably, as though he were some savage with no feeling but that in his loins. Yes, she surely was expecting some fierce response, and God, one part of him wanted dearly to give into the ferocious desire he felt.
But the thought of luring her by doing something unexpected appealed to him even more. To make her beg
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. . . His eyes smoked up and the force of his hunger assaulted his very vitals. To compel Kalida to beg ... He drew in a deep, heavy breath.
And Kalida watched him, her eyes sharpened to every subtle movement as his initial anger evaporated before her intent blue gaze. She immediately became more wary. In this mood, she fully expected him to hoist her up over his shoulder and carry her back to his room just to prove the point that her defiance was no match for his invincible male strength. Damn it all, she thought; it would never get that far. In her heart, she knew it; if he touched her, she would not struggle very hard.
But he didn't intend to drag her back to his room, kicking and screaming. "You were wrong," he said suddenly.
For a moment, she thought he was reading her mind and her heartbeat accelerated. "Wrong?" she queried innocuously, as she realized he was not referring at all to her fantasy, or to her secret knowledge of what she would or would not do if he were to approach her.
"You were meant to share my room, Kalida, no matter who is or is not staying in the house. I don't take it kindly that you took it on yourself to renege on my arrangements."
Of course not, your highness, she thought contemptuously; your word is law, your household members are your vassals. So what if he calmed down from his initial rage; his intention was the same. He would punish her now by ignoring her, and she would wind up back in his room, and that would be that. He had probably had some evening with Ellie; no wonder there was no vigor left to deal with her. It was just as she had thought: He would keep them both and damn anyone's opinion.
"All right, I give up," she said, swinging her black-sheathed legs off the bed.
He held up his hand. "I wouldn't dream of discommod-
ing you." The hand moved to his shirt, and he began unbuttoning it.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"I can sleep here just as well as anywhere else," he said, removing his shirt with a deliberate politeness that did not fool her one bit. "Come. I promise I won't lay a hand on you."
"Two handsf" she prompted sarcastically, watching him distrustfully.
His skin seemed darker in the lowering lamplight, his matted chest broader. Every muscle constricted as he bared his upper torso and sat down heavily on the opposite side of the bed, looking at her over his shoulder.
"No hands," he said with a crooked smile.
"You must be tired," she muttered. "All that dinner and then all the rest ..." And she would have to face Ellie's gloating black gaze in the morning.
"All what rest?" He bent forward to tug at his boots, amused at her reaction to his blatant undressing. She hadn't expected that. She still sat on the edge of the bed, holding her black-clad spine as stiffly as possible, trying to minimize the impact of her dress against her ivory skin, trying desperately to figure out what he meant to do.
He pulled off his boots and tossed them across the room, where they landed with a resounding thunk. Then he pulled the pillow out from under the bedspread, punched it down to make it more comfortable, and set it up against the headboard. He lifted his long muscular legs onto the bed, settled his head and shoulders against the pillow, and folded his arms across his chest.
"All what rest?" he repeated conversationally, contemplating the rigid back still facing him, the perfect posture and the tumbling black hair that blended with the heavy tactile material of the dress.
"All the energy you must have expended on Ellie," she
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said reluctantly, her voice somewhat muffled. "No wonder you're tired. This afternoon with me, this evening with Ellie . . ." Her voice trailed off. She knew she was on very dangerous ground here. She wondered whether she wanted to deliberately goad him; it seemed like the words spilled out of her almost of their own volition. Perhaps she wanted him to deny it, or to be pushed hard enough to touch her. "It's been a busy day," she finished lightly.
"Scratch, scratch," he murmured appreciatively. He was
really beginning to regret he had said he wouldn't touch her. That comment at the very least deserved a hard shake, perhaps more. Definitely more. If only she were facing him, she would see it in his smoky gray eyes. But her face remained adamantly averted.
"Kalida." His tone was still pleasant, but a vein of iron underlay his commanding statement of her name. She refused to turn.
"Good night, Deuce." There, that should put an end to his little game. She stood up, fully intending to turn down the light, and his steely voice stopped her. "Sit down, Kalida."
She sat. He could have reached out and whipped her back as easily as he tossed a rope, but compliance was easier.
"Facing me," he added, in that chippy tone, and she twisted her head toward him, sending him a disdainful blue look over her shoulder.
"Facing me, Kalida," he said dryly. And he waited. It was so hard for her to have someone else order her. There was reluctance in every line of her body, and in the length of time it finally took her to shift herself so that her whole torso was turned to him and he could clearly see her face—and her unwillingness.
"You're playing cat and mouse with me," she accused angrily.
"Ah, but who is really the cat and who is really the
mouse?" he murmured. At this point even he did not know. He shifted his body forward and slithered closer to her. "Shall we find out?" He was six inches away from her now, and the heaving of her breasts was obvious against the confining line of the dress.
"You weren't going to touch me," she muttered under her breath, girding herself against the assault on her senses by his averpowering maleness.
He moved even closer. "Not with my hands," he agreed huskily, and his mouth slanted across hers, holding, waiting. "Nothing has changed," he whispered. "Nothing." His lips brushed hers, a mere breathless movement against them, so intense it sent a glissade of sensation spiralling through her.
He knew it; the faintest tremor shook her body. He had to lace his fingers together to prevent himself from touching her, but he swore he wouldn't, and he meant not to. She would have to demand it. Voice it. Want it.
The light surrounding them flickered as the wick burned still lower. He could still see her features now that he was so close. Her eyes flashed navy under the half-closed lids, covered lest they give something away. But her lips were slightly parted and he couldn't tell if it was an invitation or she meant to say something. Probably the latter, he thought ruefully. He waited, assessing her reaction.
She remained motionless; if she moved, she would dissolve against him. She had no defense against anything he could do to her except to prolong her ultimate capitulation.
She felt a suppressed excitement course through her, as if the power had suddenly shifted to her, compounded by the initial arousing touch of his lips and the knowledge of what would come and how he would pursue her.
"Kalida . . ."
He meant for her to acquiesce; he did not know who
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held the control here. Her expression turned haughty, her navy-darkened eyes glittering with insolent challenges. She sat as still as a statue, daring him to tear away the trappings.
His fingers tensed with the overwhelming desire to strip away the elegant dress and reveal the sleek voluptuous nakedness beneath. He knew every inch of that delectable body, and he meant to taste its succulence tonight. But not yet. Not quite yet. Not until she was pulsating with the yearning to have him explore and taste her perfume. Not until she was white hot with wanting him, begging him ... It was time she understood the nature of her own fierce primitive desire.
And he waited, feeling her excitement expand as the knowledge of the tempestuous passion between them sizzled in the air, in their minds, in their slowly, tantaliz-ingly aroused bodies, lured by the incandescent thought of what could happen.
If only he would just . . . she thought, licking her dry lips nervelessly. She wanted him to seize her and hold her; she wanted him to crush his mouth down on hers just so, to feel the softness, the pliancy of her lips, tasting them, yes, pulling away from them too soon, hovering so close. She leaned forward an inch in invitation, and he captured her lips again, gentle, soft, feeling their texture. Releasing them with just the slightest pressure.
She was ready to scream; this was not nearly enough, and he sensed her urgency. He loved her urgency, but he wasn't about to give in to it, in spite of his own unruly craving for her. His mouth came down on hers again in that same slow, exploratory tasting way, pressing harder this time, feeling the shape of her lips with the firm tip of his tongue. And pulling away again and looking at her in that knowing male way.
She met his smoky gaze with a baleful blue look and folded her shaking hands primly on her lap. That provok-
ing action earned her another innocent, devastating caress of her lips, which left them tingling with yearning long before she was ready. The realization made her furious and bold all at once, and resentful that he should know it.
"Say it," he murmured, watching her revealing eyes.
"You want everything your own way," she hissed, pull
ing back. 4
"Everything," he agreed huskily; he had said it before. He waited for a long, long moment, and then teased her lips again, bedeviling them with little smacking kisses. His refusal to taste her, to kiss her fully, inflamed her still more. She would never importune him but she sought to tempt him, thrusting her tongue between his lips each time he touched hers. He nipped at her for her impudence, sucking her lower lip violently as punishment, refusing the invitation of her tongue, ignoring the wanton wet enticement.
"Say it." His voice was harsh with unleased tension, and she responded by impertinently sticking out her tongue at him.
"You brazen bitch," he growled, "who the hell gave you the right to do that to me—to both of us? Say it now, or I'll leave the room."
The air vibrated with his thick hot urgency. Who was in control now? she wondered grimly. Her body was in control. Her body wanted what was hers to have for the price of a mere few words. Her body demanded the ecstasy of his ravishing tongue against hers. Her body spoke for her, whispering the words, "I need to taste you."
"Yes . . ." he groaned, and covered her mouth instantly, seeking her tongue, surrounding it with his lips, tugging at it, sucking it until her yearning body writhed in exultation. Her arms, of their own volition, sought his body to pull him closer to her. The lush thrusts of his tongue drove her to unbridled excitement that shimmered
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through her veins; his heat and voluptuous wetness swirled through her senses erotically, compelling her hands to feel him and stroke him in concert with what his delectable tongue was doing to hers.
His whole body was taut and erect with massive sensual tension. And yet, he still had not touched her. He braced his body against his arms on either side of her thighs, and he did not once, as his provocative tongue enslaved hers, touch her. She wanted him to touch her.
But he must know that, she thought dimly, he wanted her. His need was palpable; his succulent tongue had aroused her to an almost unbearable excitement. She felt liquid with her own honey, ready for anything he wanted. And still only his hot tongue possessed her.
"Deuce — " she pleaded fretfully, her hands sliding all over his hard muscular arms and chest, raking his skin lightly.
He growled deep in his throat, delving into her mouth again for the luscious taste of her.
She wrenched away. "Deuce—" Her voice was shaky, her need all-consuming. Why was he not stripping away her dress and caressing her fevered skin?
"Ummm." He licked her lips, nibbling at them, rimming them with the firm tip of his tongue. "What is it, Kalida?"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm devouring you." His tongue skimmed against the lush curve of her lower lip.
"Is that all?" she managed to whisper. Did she have to tell him? Had she ever had to tell him?
"Is that a
ll?" he echoed in wonderment, pausing in his pursuit of her delicious tongue, pulling back and regarding her swollen lips and passion-glazed eyes. "Is there more?"
"Deuce-"
"Well, is there?" His soft voice caressed the air as his
soft lips gently wafted across hers, pressed against them, wet them, seduced them. "You tell me, Kalida," he whispered, his mouth still against hers. "Is there? Do you want there to be?" •"
"Yes," she breathed, and tilted her head to give him her willing tongue once again. "Yes." He filled her mouth and she could not get enough of his taste. "Now," she pleaded, gripping his tense hard-muscled arms.
"Tell me," he commanded, huskily. "Tell me." He crushed her lips again with his own, seeking her once again with wet gossamer strokes that aroused her senses, mastering her satin tongue, dominating it, loving it. "Now. . ." he ordered in a voice barely above a breath.
"I want you." Her own voice was shaky with her own wild need, not even a whisper.
"Show me."
"Oh God, Deuce ..."
"Show me." His voice became stronger, less a prisoner to his rigid rampaging masculinity as he determined to finish what he had started. He bit at her lips, demanding entry to the silken recesses of her mouth, thrusting his bold way within as deeply and firmly as he would her body. Yes, it would have been far easier to tear away her clothes and take her willing nakedness and possess it. It would have drowned the raging fever of desire that he had never experienced before. But it never would have satisfied his need to hear, from her own lips, of her wanton need for him. To hear her demand the delights of his ravishing tongue; to have her beg for the ecstasy of his sex.
She quivered under the expert manipulation of his wild kisses. She gave herself to him, wholly, wantonly, willing him to undress her, take her beneath him, and fill her as hard and deep as he could. And still he did not touch her. She felt like tearing off her own clothes, but the damned dress had hooks and buttons, and even as she thought it,
