by J. R. Ward
He leaped back on her, finished tearing apart her nightgown, and split her thighs wide. Except then he paused, a worried look threatening to overtake the passion in his face. He opened his mouth, clearly about to ask her if she was okay with—
“Shut up and get inside of me,” she barked, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down to her lips.
He roared and punched into her core, the penetration a bomb that went off in her body, sparks shooting through her, igniting her blood. She gripped his ass hard as his hips jackhammered until he followed where she was, coming in a massive, full-torso contraction.
The instant it passed he threw his head back, bared his fangs, and hissed like a great cat. Arching back into the pillow, she put her face to the side, giving him her throat so that he—
As Zsadist struck hard and deep, she orgasmed again, and while he drew on her vein the sex pounded on. He was even better than she’d remembered, his muscles and bones churning on top of her, his skin so smooth, his bonding scent blanketing her in that special dark spice.
When he finished feeding and orgasmed for . . . God only knew how many times he’d come . . . his body stilled and he lapped at her throat to close the bite wound. The lingering, luscious strokes of his tongue made her want him again, and as if he read her mind, he rolled over onto his back and took her with him, keeping them joined.
“Do me,” he demanded, his wild yellow eyes locking on her full breasts.
She cupped herself where his stare was fixated and pinched her own nipples as she rode him nice and slow. His moans and the way his hands tightened on her knees made her feel more beautiful than any words he could have spoken.
“God . . . I’ve missed you,” he said.
“Me too.” Dropping her hands to his shoulders, she leaned into him and swung her hips more freely.
“Oh, fuck, Bella—take my vein—”
The invitation was accepted before he finished issuing it and she was no more gentle than he had been. His taste was spectacular, and more intense than it had been. Ever since the birth, when she’d fed it had been . . . courteous. But this was raw, a champagne cocktail of power and sex, not just nutrition.
“I love you,” he sighed as she took from him.
They made love four more times.
Once more on the bed.
Twice on the floor halfway to the bathroom.
Once again in the shower.
Afterward they wrapped themselves in thick white towels and climbed back into bed.
Zsadist tucked her into his side and kissed her forehead. “Is the whole issue as to whether I’m still attracted to you settled?”
She laughed, trailing her hand over the pads of his pecs and down onto his six-pack. She swore she could feel his muscles strengthening under her palm, his body drawing on what he’d gotten from his feeding. The fact that she was making him strong made her proud . . . but more than that, it made her feel connected to him.
The Scribe Virgin had been a smart one when she’d created a race that needed to feed from itself.
“Well? Has it?” Z rolled over on top of her, his scarred face breaking into an I-am-the-man smile. “Or do I need to prove it again?”
She ran her hands up his heavy arms. “No, I think we’re—Z!”
“What?” he drawled as he nestled his way in between her legs again. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I’m still hungry.” He put his mouth to hers as gentle as a breath. “Mmmm . . .”
His lips went down to her neck and he gave his bite mark a little nuzzle, as if he were saying thank-you.
“Mmm . . . mine,” he growled.
So slow, so soft . . . his mouth went down farther, to her breast. He paused at the nipple.
“Are they sensitive?” he asked, rubbing the tip of his nose over her crest, then licking her.
“Yes . . .” She shivered as he blew a stream of air over where his tongue had been.
“They look it. All red and pouty and pretty.” He was ever so careful with her breasts, caressing them with his hands and kissing them lightly.
When he moved down to her stomach she started to get hot and restless again, and he smiled up at her. “Have you missed my kisses, darling mate? The ones I like to give you between your thighs?”
“Yes,” she choked out while anticipation shivered through her. Given the erotic little grin on his face and the evil cast to his yellow stare, he was once again a male with plans and a wide-open schedule.
He rose up on his knees. “Open your legs for me. I like to watch you—Oh . . . shit . . . yeah.” He rubbed at his mouth like he was warming the thing up. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
His shoulders bunched up hard as he leaned down and made like a cat to a bowl of milk—while she made like an ehros, giving herself up to him and his warm wet mouth.
“I want to go slowly,” he murmured against her core as she groaned his name. “I don’t want to finish my treat too quickly.”
That wasn’t going to be a problem, she thought. For him, she was a pool with no bottom . . .
His tongue slipped inside of her, in a hot penetration, then went back to its sweet, dragging strokes. Looking down her body, she saw him staring up at her with glowing citrine eyes . . . and as if he’d waited for her gaze to meet his, he flicked the top of her sex back and forth.
Watching his pink flesh work hers threw her over the edge again.
“Zsadist . . .” she groaned, palming his head and pushing her hips up.
There was nothing more delicious than being between your shellan’s legs.
It wasn’t just the taste; it was the sounds and the scents and the way she looked at you with her head cocked to the side and her rosy lips open so she could breathe. It was the soft, welling center of everything that made her female against your mouth and the trust she had in letting you get this close. It was everything private and sensual and special. . . .
And the kind of thing you could do forever.
As his shellan let out the most incredible moan and started to orgasm, Zsadist moved up her body and put himself inside so he could feel the contractions along his shaft.
He put his mouth to her ear as he came into her. “You are everything to me.”
When they rested together afterward, he stared down her full breasts to her abdomen and thought of how amazing her body was compared to his. Her curves and feminine strength had created a whole new person, had provided the protective place for the alchemy of them coming together and making life.
The two of them.
“Nalla . . .” he whispered. “Nalla has . . .”
He felt her tense up. “Has what?”
“Nalla has my eyes. Doesn’t she.”
His shellan’s voice became soft and careful, like she didn’t want to spook him. “Yes, she does.”
Z put his hand on Bella’s stomach and rubbed circles over the taut skin, as she had done so many times while pregnant. He was ashamed of himself now . . . ashamed that he hadn’t touched her belly once. He’d been so worried about the birth that the looming roundness had seemed like a threat to both their lives, not something to rejoice in.
“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.
“What for?”
“You’ve had to do all this on your own, haven’t you. Not just these last three months, but before. When you were pregnant.”
“You were always there for me—”
“But not for Nalla, and she was a part of you. Is a part of you.”
Bella propped her head up. “She’s a part of you, too.”
He thought of the wide, bright yellow eyes of the young. “Sometimes I think she might look a little like me as well.”
“She looks almost identical to you. She has your chin and your eyebrows. And her hair . . .” Bella’s voice started to get excited, as if she had wanted to talk with him about all the ins and outs of the young’s makeup for a while. “Her hair is going to be exactly like yours and Phury’s. And have you seen her hands? Her fo
refingers are longer than her ring fingers, just like yours.”
“Really?” Man, what kind of father was he that he didn’t know all this.
Well, that was easy. He hadn’t been any sort of father at all.
Bella extended her hand. “Let’s shower, and then come with me. Let me introduce you to your daughter.”
Z took a deep breath. Then nodded.
“I’d like that,” he said.
EIGHT
As Zsadist breached the doorway of the nursery, he actually double-checked to make sure his shirt was properly tucked into his leathers.
Man, he loved the smell of the room. Lemon-scented innocence was what he called it in his mind. Sweet like a flower, but not cloying. Clean.
Bella squeezed his hand and led him over to the crib. Surrounded by satin bows that were bigger than she was, Nalla was curled up on her side, her arms and legs tucked in tight, her eyes shut hard as if she were working really, really, really diligently at being asleep.
The instant Z looked over the lip of the crib, she stirred. Made a little noise. In her sleep her hand reached out, not toward her mother, but to him.
“What does she want?” he asked like an idiot.
“She wants you to touch her.” When he didn’t move, Bella murmured, “She does this in her sleep . . . she seems to know who’s around and she likes a little pat.”
To his shellan’s absolute credit, she didn’t force him to do anything.
But Nalla wasn’t happy. Her little hand and arm strained for him.
Z wiped his palm on the front of his shirt, then rubbed it up and down a couple of times on his hip. As he reached forward, his fingers trembled.
Nalla made the connection. His daughter took his thumb and held it with such strength he felt a spear of pure, undiluted pride shoot through his chest.
“She’s strong,” he pronounced, his approval positively dripping off the words.
Bella made a little noise beside him.
“Nalla?” he whispered as he bent down. His daughter pursed her little lips and held on even stronger.
“I can’t believe that grip of hers.” He let his forefinger brush lightly on his daughter’s wrist. “Soft . . . oh, my God, she’s so soft—”
Nalla’s eyes flipped open. And as he looked into a stare the exact golden color of his own, his heart stopped. “Hi . . .”
Nalla blinked and waved his finger and transformed him: Everything stopped as she moved not just his hand, but his heart.
“You’re like your mahmen,” he whispered. “You make the world go away for me. . . .”
Nalla kept wagging his hand and let out a coo.
“I can’t believe her grip. . . .” He glanced up at Bella. “She’s so—”
Tears were streaming down Bella’s face, and her arms were locked around her chest as if she were trying not to shatter apart.
His heart moved again, but for a different reason.
“Come here, nalla,” he said, reaching out to his shellan, tucking her in against him with his free hand. “Come here to your male.”
Bella buried her face into his chest and her palm found his.
As Z stood there, with a hold on both his daughter and his mate, he felt eight thousand feet tall, and faster than his Carrera and stronger than an army.
His chest swelled with renewed purpose. They were both his, these two. His and his alone, and he had to take care of them. One was his heart and the other a piece of himself, and they completed him by filling voids he didn’t know he had.
Nalla looked up at her parents and the most adorable sound came out of her button mouth, a kind of, Well, isn’t this lovely, the way things have sorted out.
But then his daughter reached up with her other hand . . . and touched the slave band on his wrist.
Z stiffened. He couldn’t help it.
“She doesn’t know what they are,” Bella said softly.
He took a hard breath. “She will. Someday she will know exactly what they are.”
Before Z went down to see Doc Jane, he spent more time with his ladies. He ordered some food for Bella, and while it was being prepared he watched for the first time as his daughter was fed. Nalla zonked right out afterward, which was perfect timing, as Fritz arrived with the food. Z fed his shellan from his own hand, taking special satisfaction in choosing the very best parts of the chicken breast and the homemade rolls and the broccoli spears for her.
When the plate was clean and the wineglass empty, he wiped Bella’s mouth with a damask napkin as her lids fluttered down. Tucking her in, he kissed her, picked up the tray and his right shitkicker, and stepped out.
As he closed the door quietly and heard the knob click, a glow of contentment bathed him. His females were fed and sleeping and safe. He’d done his job well.
Job? Try mission in life.
He glanced toward the nursery door and wondered whether, as a male, you bonded with your children or not. He’d always heard it was only with your shellan . . . but he was starting to have some serious protective instincts over Nalla. And he hadn’t even picked her up yet. Give him two weeks of getting familiar with her? He was liable to become an H-bomb if anything threatened her.
Was that what being a father was like? He didn’t know. None of his brothers had young and there was no one else he could think of to ask.
Heading for the stairs, he limped down the hall of statues, boot, cast, boot, cast, boot, cast. . . . and he looked at his wrists as he went along.
Downstairs he took the dishes into the kitchen and thanked Fritz, then went into the tunnel that led to the training center. If Doc Jane had given up waiting on him, he was going to cut the cast off himself.
Stepping out through the closet in the office, he heard the high whining sound of a table saw and followed the scream to the gym. On the way he was looking forward to seeing how Jane’s new clinic was coming along. The three treatment bays, which were being constructed out of one of the facility’s audience halls, were designed to function as either surgical suites or patient bays, and the equipment was going to be state of the art. Doc Jane was investing in a CAT scan, digital X-ray imaging, and ultrasound technology, along with an electronic medical records system and a host of hi-tech surgical tools. With a supply room worthy of a fully functioning emergency department, the goal was to circumvent the Brotherhood’s use of Havers’s clinic.
Which was safer for everybody. The Brotherhood’s compound was surrounded by mhis, thanks to V, but the same couldn’t be said for where Havers practiced—as had been proven when the clinic was sacked over the summer. Considering that the Brothers could be tailed at any time, it was smart to keep as many things having to do with them in-house.
Z cracked one of the gym’s metal doors open and paused. Yeah, whoa. Doc Jane evidently had some serious Extreme Home Makeover in her.
Last night, when Z had been rolled in, everything had been as it always was. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, a six-foot-by-twelve-foot hole had been busted out of the cinder-block wall across the way. The opening exposed the audience hall that was going to be converted, and right in front of the chasm, V’s mate was taking a two-by-four and feeding it into a table saw, her hands solid, the rest of her ghostly transparent.
