by Lori Devoti
“Where to now, witch?”
Where to… She was comfortable right here, flying above the city, confident that Joarr wouldn’t let her fall.
“The hotel or your home? I’ve asked enough of you. You’ve done enough. I’ll find the Collector and the chalice on my own.”
Without allowing herself to think, she replied, “I have no home. I told you that.”
“That you did. So, where?” There was tension in his voice, as if her answer was important to him, as if she would be making a declaration or a choice when she made it.
And maybe she was.
“The hotel, but a new one without visiting dwarves.”
Joarr laughed. “Yes, I agree. I’m done with dwarves…for tonight.”
For tonight. She was done with them, too. Done with everything except Joarr. Tomorrow things might be different. They might be back where they were before, but for now, for tonight, it was just about her and her dragon.
Chapter 14
Back in his human form, Joarr checked them into a hotel—one he had located while flying over the city. Unlike the last place, paying by the hour wasn’t an option and the desk clerk didn’t talk to him through a glass window. The clerk did, however, stare past him at Amma still in her club-girl outfit with a look of distaste on his face.
When he shifted, Joarr had replaced his tight dark outfit with his normal wardrobe—all white pants, shirt and shoes. He hadn’t been sorry to see the other clothes go, but now seeing how the desk clerk looked at Amma, he wished he’d stayed in them.
Joarr leaned forward, his palm on the reception desk’s marble top. “Is there a problem?” he asked. He held the man’s gaze, dared him to challenge him.
Fear darted through the clerk’s eyes. He shook his head and gazed down, sliding two key cards toward the dragon.
With the cards in his pocket, Joarr slid his arm around Amma’s waist and led her onto the elevator.
* * *
Joarr’s arm ran around Amma’s back, his skin touching hers where her shirt rode up. Two women, obviously fresh back from a jog, entered the elevator with them—right before the doors slid closed.
Amma bit her lip and tried not to look at them. Tried to keep herself from thinking too much about what she was doing and feeling.
While she and Joarr had flown over the city, she’d felt nothing but elation. She’d known she wanted nothing but to be with him, didn’t care what else was going on, what she had to lose.
But now, after being left alone for even a few seconds in the hotel’s cold lobby, feeling the desk clerk’s judgmental gaze, reality was crashing back around her.
She was crazy. What she was feeling was crazy. Yes, she might want Joarr physically, find him powerful and exciting, but that was it—and was that worth risking her secret?
He could read thoughts. She went cold. Could he read them now? He’d said it was only when in his dragon form, but what if he had lied? And even if that were true, he could shift without warning, could read her mind and discover why she’d agreed to help him—exactly what treasure she wanted from him in payment.
And then what? He wouldn’t just walk away from… She stopped herself from thinking the word. He wouldn’t. Not with his past. Her secret. He would want it as his own, and the entire dragon army would support his claim—unless she could find the chalice and officially have Joarr declare the pick of his treasure was hers.
The elevator doors opened and the women walked off.
Joarr spun her in his arms.
“You didn’t leave,” he murmured.
“I couldn’t.” It was the truth—she didn’t know why, but she couldn’t leave him.
“And the fire didn’t burn you.” He ran his hands down her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. “Maybe you truly are indestructible.”
He was referring to everything the elves had done to her body, when they tried to destroy it—but he was wrong, she wasn’t indestructible. At least not all of her. She suddenly realized just how vulnerable part of her was.
Her mind swirling, she tried to step away, but he stopped her, placed a hand on each side of her head and stared down into her eyes. “You didn’t run before. Why would you now?”
This time he was right. As much as she knew she should, she couldn’t run from him, not now. She placed her hands on his chest and stared up at him. Without shifting his gaze from hers, he reached out and flipped the elevator to off. An alarm squealed.
He leaned down and blew hot air over her neck. Then ran his hand down her shoulder. The torn T-shirt slipped lower, baring her collarbone. He traced it with his tongue.
The alarm blared again.
“Maybe we should…” He leaned as if to switch the elevator back on, but Amma grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“No. I have a better idea.” Power flowed from her palm; she blasted the switch. When the noise didn’t stop, she aimed her hand right then left, taking out the entire panel.
Silence—sweet, golden silence—followed.
“Now.” She turned back to Joarr. “What were we doing?”
* * *
Joarr pulled Amma back into his arms, and ran his hands over her back and down her hips. With her against him, held tight, he let his magic and fire flow. He stared into her eyes, snapping now with power. “This,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his lips to hers.
She moved against him, her hands wandering over his chest, pulling his shirt free from his pants. Her movements were quick, almost frenzied, but he felt the need, too, knew if she had let him flip that switch, restart the elevator, he would have died, or at least alarmed a few hotel guests. He couldn’t have waited to get to their room to touch her.
“I stopped the alarm, but someone’s going to notice the elevator isn’t working,” she murmured against his lips.
“Let them notice,” he replied. His fingers found the bottom of her skirt, which barely covered her butt. He pulled it up, baring more skin. There were mirrors on the walls and ceiling; even the polished metal doors reflected their image back at him, giving him a full view of skin and the white lace panties that barely covered any of it. He cupped her buttocks, kneaded them, his gaze never leaving her reflection.
Her skin was soft, her butt firm. He loved that, loved feeling the power in her whether from magic or muscle. His erection did, too; already painfully hard, it shifted in appreciation.
“You look so helpless, but you’re not. You know that?” he whispered against her ear.
He expected her to agree, to claim it all was an act that she’d perfected over time, but she didn’t reply. Instead she shook her head as if shaking some thought from her brain, then her hands flat on his chest, she shoved him against the elevator wall and pulled at his clothes. Buttons popped off his crisp shirt and pinged against the mirrors.
She pushed his shirt open and shoved it off his shoulders. He was forced to release her, but only for the second it took to jerk his arms free of the sleeves. Then his hands were back on her hips, pulling her higher so her sex rubbed against his and his tongue tangled with hers.
Her arms went around his neck and he shifted his hands, too—to push her shirt up and over her head. He dropped it onto the floor, waited as she reached behind her back and unsnapped her bra. He stood still, his back pressed against the corner of the car, his hands on the metal bar that circled the small room—like a fighter waiting for his turn in the ring.
Her bra fell forward; her breasts, ivory mounds tipped with rose, tumbled out. She held the strip of white lace and elastic to the side, then dropped it to join her shirt on the floor.
She ran her hands up her own stomach and over her breasts, stretching as she touched herself, as if offering herself to him. Her nipples peeking through her open fingers, she looked at him. Her eyes were wide and innocent, but what she offered was so obviously not.
He groaned and his erection jumped.
She licked two fingers, then touched her nipples again, caused the tips to harden.
He hardened, too—even more, so much that he couldn’t move, could only stand there waiting for her to come closer.
With a smile she did, her hips swaying—reminding him what was under that skirt, how much he wanted to remove it, see her in her delicate lace panties, her borrowed kick-ass boots and nothing more. As if reading his thoughts, she stopped and placed her thumbs under the waistband. She wiggled, causing the skirt to slip down and her breasts to bounce.
He swallowed. Fire was building inside him; he fought to keep it contained. One building incinerated today was enough.
She wiggled again; the skirt inched lower. He could see the curve of her stomach and the strip of lace that kept her panties in place. Another wiggle and the skirt fell. She stepped free, then turned and bent over slowly to pick it up. Giving him a clear view of ass, thigh and boot.
He grabbed onto the polished steel bar. Heat from his fingers softened the metal; he could feel it crimping and didn’t care. Still bent over, Amma looked up. She caught his gaze in the mirror across from him, then stood, her hands again caressing her own curves.
Her hands at her sides, she turned and walked toward him—strong and confident in nothing but that tiny slip of white lace and black thigh-high boots.
“How do I look now?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. There were no words. Instead he grabbed her by the ass and spun, sat her in the corner propped on the bar. She draped her arms over his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
He kissed her. Heat exploded inside him, roared. His tongue tangled with hers and she fought back, shoved her fingers into his hair and leaned closer. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs caressing the nipples she’d touched and teased him with.
She ran her fingers down his back, her nails scratching, her power snapping.
He pulled his lips from hers and found her breasts. He pulled her nipple into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it. A shudder passed through her body; she dug her nails into his back. A hiss escaped her lips. He moved to the side, repeated his attentions on the other breast. Still perched on the bar, she wiggled. Her sex, concealed by nothing but the thin lace, brushed against him. Her hand lowered, found the bulge threatening to burst through his pants. She stroked him through the material. He sucked in a breath and pressed against her. She moved her lips to his ear, nibbled his lobe and blew hot, almost fiery breath along his neck.
Not magic. Fire. She had fire. The thought barely had time to form. Her fingers found the zipper of his pants and his sex sprang forward. She wrapped her fingers around him, rubbed his tip against the rough lace that concealed her core.
He sucked in a breath, let the fire that had been building in him grow even more. He reached for her panties, jerked the tiny strip of cloth free so she was naked, open and ready.
He shifted so he could stroke her folds with his fingers, test the intensity of her heat. She was wet and hot. Dragon-hot.
She murmured and moved, her shoulders pressing against the wall, her breasts jutting upward. In the mirror above he could see her, all of her—breasts, her stomach and the curls that covered her sex. He stroked her there, watched as she twisted in pleasure. Her breasts were flushed, her curls damp. The scent of their lovemaking filled the small room.
He shoved three fingers inside her and brushed his thumb over her nub. She grabbed the bar then his shoulders and called out. Her eyes flew open—blue and intense with emotion, pleasure, fear… He couldn’t read them all. She turned her head to the side and wiggled again, reached down and stroked his hand. Touched herself, too.
His sex jumped. He shoved his pants to the floor and stepped back. Let her look at him as he had looked at her. Her hands clung to the smooth walls; her feet still encased in the high-heeled boots were braced on the wall below the bar—keeping her naked form pushed against the corner.
Her legs open, she touched herself again. Her fingers brushed over her curls, parted them. Moisture glistened on her skin. She stroked her folds, dipped deeper and circled the nub. Her lips parted, moist, too. Her eyes widened, and still stroking herself, she held out her free hand, called for him to come and join her.
She didn’t need to ask twice. Standing close, he swept his hand down her body. She radiated heat. He responded, releasing new heat of his own. Her legs wrapped around his waist, the leather of her boots cool against his backside. His sex nudged against hers, and unable to wait, he positioned himself to plunge inside her.
She clung to his shoulders. He placed his hands under her thighs, but she did the work, raising and lowering her body. She pressed her face against his neck and flicked her tongue over his skin, tasting him. He wanted to taste her, too. He swirled his tongue over the skin between her breasts, savored the saltiness of it. He inhaled; she still smelled of spring—of sun-warmed earth.
He slid his hands up and down her thighs, encouraging her as she moved. Her speed increased; their fire increased. And the fire was theirs this time, something they had created together. There was no sharing; they were past that. This heat was from both of them and from neither of them—it was just theirs.
Her speed increased and he helped her along, raising and lowering his arms to increase the depth of each plunge. Ragged breaths left her lips; puffs of smoke escaped his. Fire tickled at his throat, threatened to erupt.
Her head fell back and her body arched. The walls inside her constricted, hugging him with such sweet pressure he did explode. She shuddered again and again. His arms trembled; his body trembled. Then when he knew his fire was exhausted, they were exhausted, he pulled her tight against him and enveloped her in heat.
Chapter 15
Amma didn’t want to move. Being curled around Joarr’s body felt right, more right than anywhere she had ever been. Even naked, except for her borrowed thigh-high boots, in an elevator, she felt good.
Still, she had to move. This moment couldn’t last. She couldn’t pretend forever, couldn’t block out reality forever.
Joarr pressed a kiss against her shoulder. A sweet touch of his lips. So in contrast to the frenzied way she’d attacked him. She smiled.
He’d said she looked delicate, although he knew she wasn’t. It was a compliment, she supposed, but it had lit something inside her, a need to show how strong and unrepentant she could be. She’d wanted him, and she’d let him know. She wanted her baby and she would have him. Him she could keep, but only if she kept his existence from Joarr.
Joarr she could only have for now, and she’d decided to make the most of it.
He lifted her off the bar she’d been perched on. Her legs slid down his hips and thighs until her feet touched the ground.
From somewhere above them there was a bang, then someone pounding—with the flat of their hand against the closed elevator shaft’s door.
“They found us,” Joarr murmured.
“Yes.” Amma sighed and bent to retrieve her clothing. Without glancing at Joarr, she pulled them on—except the panties. They were nothing but a scrap now. She tucked them into her bra. When she looked back, Joarr was dressed, too, or as dressed as he could get without shifting and creating a new wardrobe. With buttons littering the floor, his shirt hung open.
He looked wild and raw—not at all the under-control male he normally presented himself as. His hair was ruffled and she could see the muscles of his chest. She wanted to touch them—again. But she folded her hand closed and forced herself to keep it at her side.
His pants, she realized, weren’t completely closed, either. The button that had joined the waistband had disappeared, too, revealing a V of skin. Hair that was sprinkled across his chest condensed into a line there—like an arrow pointing lower, reminding her what they had done and with how much abandon she had embraced the act.
