Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  ‘‘No.’’ He couldn’t know that she wanted him all the time every day. That was too humiliating.

  ‘‘Yes. And I know when I do this’’—once again his hand slid into her panties—‘‘the smell of fear retreats, and the scent of sweet arousal rises from you to fill my head and drive me half-mad.’’

  ‘‘I’ve been aroused before, and you’ve always seemed sane enough to me,’’ she said tartly.

  ‘‘But never for me. It wasn’t truly me who aroused you.’’ He chuckled again, and his finger stirred the dusting of hair above her clit.

  She closed her eyes, trapping the sensation inside her. Her brief burst of good sense faded, and her lips barely moved as she said, ‘‘Who else?’’

  ‘‘For a dream man that didn’t exist. Because I’m not your dream man.’’ As he had threatened, his finger slid all the way inside her. ‘‘I’m your worst nightmare.’’

  Chapter 6

  How did Jasha know Ann had thought exactly that? He was part wolf, part man—did he read minds, too?

  Then he rubbed strongly with the heel of his hand. He stroked her inside and out, and as surely as he had transformed, she changed, too. She became a creature composed of passion and lit by an inner fire.

  She dug her heels into the ground. Her back arched. She lifted herself, pressed herself against him, grinding her hips against his hand.

  Abruptly, he took his finger away and stripped off her panties. Rising to his knees, he moved close between her legs. His eyes closed, his neck corded with strain, and his expression was exquisite agony. He held her thighs in his palms, and pressed the length of his erection to the softest part of her. As he rocked back and forth, he grew damp. Not from the rain, but rather from the torturous pleasure he forced on her.

  Then—oh God—his penis probed, and he almost slipped inside. Except he didn’t slip—her body resisted. Resisted and informed her, far too clearly, how painful their joining would be.

  She whimpered. She couldn’t help it. She was a born coward, and he . . . he was a wolf.

  He shuddered. Opened his eyes and glared. ‘‘Virgin, ’’ he whispered.

  ‘‘So?’’ She glowered back at him.

  ‘‘So.’’ He lowered her to the ground. ‘‘I’m a barbarian, the son of barbarians, a predator—’’

  ‘‘A killer.’’ She flung the words as a challenge, hoping he would deny them.

  Deep in his golden eyes, she saw a flare of murderous red. ‘‘Yes. A killer.’’

  Lightning flashed and thunder blasted, reminding her—as if she could forget—where she was, and why. Vividly she recalled the yellow-eyed wolf, the terrifying chase . . . the blood on his mouth. He’d chased her down through a storm that roared around them, striking down great trees and shaking the earth. She’d left the trappings of civilization far behind, and her first time would be in the woods on the ground with a man who might at any moment turn on her and kill her—or who might give her the greatest pleasure a woman had ever known.

  Her teeth chattered with sudden chill, and she tried to scoot out from underneath him.

  But he captured her with his body.

  ‘‘Are you afraid, Ann?’’ he crooned as he settled between her legs. ‘‘You should be. Because what I want from you isn’t your death, but your surrender.’’

  When he talked like that, his lips moving against her neck, he made her panicky. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘I mean I’m not going to take your virginity.’’ Lifting his head, he smiled, and his teeth shone white and sharp. ‘‘You’re going to give it to me.’’

  ‘‘No!’’ For three years, she’d been his administrative assistant, and she’d never seen him fail any challenge.

  ‘‘I swear you will.’’

  ‘‘I . . . will . . . not!’’ She aimed the heel of her hand at his nose.

  Barely in time, he jerked away.

  She slammed his cheekbone. Her hand skidded up to smack his eye.

  He caught her hand, and all semblance of the civilized man disappeared. ‘‘That’s the third time today you’ve landed a blow on me. Since the day I became an adult, that’s twice more than anyone else.’’ Catching her other hand, he lifted them both above her head and pinned them in one of his.

  For the first time, she felt the weight of a man: heavy, muscled, hard. He held her down, keeping her in place to do with as he wished.

  ‘‘No more secrets.’’ With his free hand, he loosened the button that kept her bodice together. As if he were unwrapping a present, he lifted the two halves away from her body.

  The expression on his face made her swallow nervously.

  He looked as hungry as the big bad wolf.

  But when he cupped one breast and placed his mouth on the other, he was as gentle as a whisper. He was more of a breath than a touch, and every nerve in her body sighed in response.

  The earth cradled her below. His body heated her above. The rain fell directly on her upturned face. Everything about this moment was primal, intense . . . primitive. She was a victim of nature’s fury. She was a sacrifice to Jasha’s need. Yet a willing sacrifice: Each time his tongue circled her nipple, she yielded more wholly.

  The discomfort of unwilling arousal and the dampness between her legs grew, and she twisted beneath him, fighting to free herself before she gave him what he wanted.

  Everything.

  He pressed his cheek on her collarbone and chuckled. ‘‘Wrap your legs around my hips and you’ll be more comfortable.’’

  And open herself to him even more? She was already uncomfortable with this level of intimacy—and uncomfortable was an understatement. ‘‘How dumb do you think I am?’’

  He lifted his head from her chest. The rain blistered down. His hair dripped, and water beaded on his face. Behind him, lightning zigzagged so brightly, a negative photographic image of him seared her retinas. He smiled, but that smile told her all too clearly that this was another battle he intended to win. ‘‘I have never thought you were dumb. But I do think— know—that before this is over, you’ll do as I command. Ann . . .’’

  Even the way he said her name had changed. In the office, he used it as a helpful piece of furniture, like ‘‘File cabinet’’ or ‘‘Copy machine.’’ Now his warm tones lingered over the single vowel, the double consonant, transforming a name she’d always considered the ultimate in dull into something exotic and tempting.

  He used his voice to possess her.

  He kissed each one of her eyelids closed, then put his mouth to hers.

  Her eyes sprang open.

  Jasha and Ann were naked, as close as a man and woman could be, yet they’d never kissed. How often she dreamed of a single kiss, intense, deep, immediate. . . .

  How wrong she’d been! For he savored her lips as gently as he’d savored her breast. He stroked his tongue along the seam of her lips, and when she refused to open, he stroked again in a rhythm that echoed the rumble of the thunder and the heartbeat of the earth . . . or was that her heartbeat she heard?

  She found her eyelids drooping. She tried to focus on his unbearably large forehead—large from this angle, at least—but she couldn’t focus her interest on his face. Not when his tongue slipped so neatly between her lips and caressed the inside of her mouth, or when his fingers caressed her earlobes—when had he released her hands?—or when he whispered, ‘‘Ann, come out and play.’’

  Come out and play? What did that mean?

  But he answered the question immediately when the tip of his tongue swirled around hers, and when she followed, he drew her into his mouth and let her . . . explore.

  She clutched his wrists, her fingers barely circling the bones, sinews, and muscles. A sensible woman would realize that a man as large as this would dominate her in the act of love.

  But he wasn’t dominating; he was seducing, and he was good at it. When she opened her eyes again, his mouth had wandered back to her breasts.

  And she’d wrapped her legs around
his waist.

  He’d won.

  But she hadn’t lost. With his every movement, she won, too.

  She didn’t intend to give him her blessing or her permission, yet irresistibly her hands crept up his shoulders, relishing the stretch of smooth skin over warm muscle. When her fingers tangled with the silky curl at his neckline, he froze, and for a moment all she could feel was his warm breath against her damp breast.

  ‘‘Touch me some more.’’ His voice wasn’t loud, yet she heard it above the thunder. Pulling her nipple into his mouth, he suckled hard, assaulting her senses with his lips and tongue until she forgot to be timid and released the faintest moan.

  A betraying moan.

  Then he sank his teeth lightly into her flesh, scraping across the fragile nerve endings.

  Her fingers clutched at his hair, tugging hard. And when she grew used to his mouth on her breast, he somehow knew . . . and moved on, kissing his way down her rib cage, across her belly, taut with anticipation, and between her legs. He licked her, a wolf claiming his mate with pleasure. He thrust his tongue into her body, imitating intercourse. Tenderly he sucked on her clit, and when she battled against the rage of passion, he held her still and forced her to accept his attentions.

  She wasn’t unconscious; she knew what she was doing, but he conjured an orgasm beyond anything she’d ever imagined. One glorious spasm followed another. Her fragile control crumbled completely. All the moans she’d restrained could no longer be suppressed. She strained, struggled, panted, conscious of her body, the earth, the storm, the crash of thunder in her ears, and of Jasha.

  ‘‘Jasha . . .’’

  ‘‘What?’’ He slid up her body, grasped her shoulders, massaged them in his large hands. ‘‘What? Ann, tell me what I should do.’’

  He made it sound as if he would do what she wanted, when in fact he had not only chased her down and held her captive to his body; he’d also forced her to relinquish her will.

  ‘‘Jasha, please.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ He used his thigh to keep the rush of her climax tumbling through her veins. He kissed her ear, and his voice was tender, gentle, encouraging. ‘‘Tell me, Ann. What do you want?’’

  She lifted her lids, the effort almost more than she could manage.

  He sounded gentle.

  He looked fierce, his yellow eyes narrowed, intent, unrelenting. He looked like a man, and he moved like an animal, all sleek, oiled muscles moving beneath glorious damp skin.

  Rain slid down his cheek, and moved by some previously undiscovered instinct, she licked the droplet. It tasted salty.

  He stilled. Slid into position, his legs between hers, his arms beneath her shoulders, his hand cupping her skull, holding her so he could look into her eyes.

  The storm, the earth, the skies, stilled as he made his plea; his voice was hoarse, gravelly, desperate. ‘‘Ann, for shit’s sake, ask me.’’

  ‘‘Jasha, please, please’’—she skimmed his hair with her fingers—‘‘make love to me.’’

  The triumphant smile he flashed showed far too much of his white teeth, reminding her of the predator.

  But it was too late for panic. He thrust into her, a hard, steady push.

  And the storm raged again.

  It was too much. He was too big. He hurt her. The world narrowed to the two of them, and as he possessed her with his body, he dominated her with his gaze. His body moved on hers, pulling back, coming in, farther and farther each time, touching new places inside her, his teeth and eyes gleaming with triumph. He was slow, savoring each motion, giving her time to adjust yet proceeding relentlessly.

  And she resisted the pain, fighting him, cries breaking from her, and at the same time she struggled toward something—satisfaction, or joy, or maybe the joining of two bodies and two souls.

  Finally he was all the way inside. His chest heaved with effort, and the way he watched her . . . as if she were now a part of him.

  She shuddered. Never in her life had she been part of anything. Somehow she had thought that sex would be the same, that she would retain her identity, be the outsider looking in. Instead they were joined so closely she didn’t know where she ended and he began. He moved, slowly at first, then faster, each movement long and deep, provoking sensations too raw for her to comprehend. She wanted to run again, to escape the onslaught of passion, but he held her close. His chest rubbed against hers. He seduced her with desire and dark, sexual words muttered in her ear. The rain fell on her face, and mixed with her tears of pleasure and exaltation, and it seemed the earth moved, not from the roar of thunder, but from the cataclysm of her joining with Jasha.

  This was sex. This was possession. This was wild and feral, nothing like she’d imagined—and so much better.

  The storm reached its height, a cacophony of lightning and thunder, of purple clouds fleeing across a sky black with turmoil.

  At the same time, his body moved on hers, dragging her through anguish to climax.

  He groaned, deep in his chest, as he thrust and thrust again, and shuddered as he came.

  Lightning struck nearby; she heard the blast, smelled smoke and fire. As she came, the whole world changed.

  She changed.

  The lightning surrounded her. It was in her. It heated her, fused her . . . to Jasha.

  Red flared in his eyes, and she saw his face, transformed by passion.

  He had changed, too.

  They were one.

  Then, little by little, her body calmed. Jasha’s breathing slowed. They came to rest.

  Slowly he pulled away from her; she couldn’t believe how hollow she felt. But good . . .

  Right now he looked totally human. If you didn’t count being outside and doing it on the ground in the storm, they’d made love normally, without any weird doggy-style positions or any animal-eyed metamorphosis. If she wanted to, she could pretend she’d never seen him transform. Pretend everything was normal.

  Then he did something she didn’t believe; he placed his palm between her legs. He showed her his hand, red with her lost virginity. Carefully he placed it on the boulder beside them, leaving a smear of blood. ‘‘An offering to the earth,’’ he said. And he was serious.

  Normal?

  Nothing would ever be normal again.

  Chapter 7

  Moving with a care for the ache between her legs, Ann sat up and without taking her gaze off Jasha, she scooted away from him.

  He knelt where he was and watched her, his gaze knowing.

  He saw too much, heard too much. . . . According to him, his sense of smell was acute.

  How was she supposed to keep her secrets?

  As with their passion, the violence of the storm had abated, leaving a steady drizzle that wet the sunset and made her wonder with melancholy if she’d imagined everything.

  Jasha . . . a wolf? Her boss . . . a ruthless seducer?

  Yet here she was, sitting in the trackless wilderness as the sun dipped toward the horizon, a virgin no longer.

  And she was afraid of the man who’d taken her.

  Not because he’d hurt her, although he had, but because she hadn’t hallucinated. He had been a wolf. In what universe did that make sense?

  He looked as if he wanted to speak.

  She avoided his gaze. Tried to wrap her dress around her. Realized it was ruined—the black silk skirt see-through and muddy, the white bodice torn.

  ‘‘Stay here.’’ He rose.

  ‘‘What are you doing?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be back,’’ he said.

  She noted that he didn’t answer her question. Didn’t even make a token attempt.

  ‘‘Promise me you’ll stay here,’’ he insisted.

  If he didn’t have to respond to her, she didn’t have to promise him. ‘‘What else am I going to do? Run away? You’ve already proved that doesn’t work.’’

  ‘‘Promise,’’ he repeated. Without the words, he didn’t trust her. Yes, he did know too much.

  ‘�
��What makes you think I will keep a promise?’’

  He chuckled and leaned down to look into her eyes. ‘‘You’ve worked for me as my assistant for how many years, Ann?’’

  ‘‘Three.’’

  ‘‘Do you think I don’t know you at all?’’

  All her defiance collapsed. ‘‘I promise.’’

  ‘‘Don’t sulk.’’ He kissed her lightly, then vanished into the woods, and not even a branch wiggled to show where he’d gone.

  No matter how much her legs trembled with the desire to rise and flee, she wouldn’t do it. She didn’t want to incite him again. Last time he’d just chased her down and screwed her. Next time, he might . . . kill her.

  She couldn’t believe that thought even crossed her mind, much less that she was giving it due consideration. But a girl had to be sensible, especially when she was sleeping with a wolf.

  She had the marks to prove it. Her feet hurt; somewhere on the run through the woods, she’d stubbed every one of her toes. Her legs ached; vaguely she remembered scratching her thigh on an outstretched branch. Her hand . . . she stared down at the pale, whorled skin. The painted tile had sliced her fingers and her palm.

  She’d hit Jasha with the tile. It had flown out of her hand.

  All too clearly Ann remembered the Madonna’s dark, serene eyes, the golden halo, the cherry red robes.

  Where had the painting gone?

  She studied the little cove, and hidden between two boulders, deep within a crevice, she spotted a glint of white in a crispy-brown pile of last autumn’s leaves. She cleared the debris away, freeing the lady from her hiding place. Carefully she lifted the tile, turned the picture toward the failing light, and studied it.

  It was a historic rendering of the Virgin Mary. In the little vignette, the Madonna had surrounded herself with family, and that . . . that spoke to Ann’s innermost desires. Turning it over, she saw faint burn marks along the edges of the unfinished clay.

  Where had it come from? How old was it?

  How had it come here, now, to her?