No was not just out of her vocabulary; it was a foreign concept.
The kiss that came at her was brutal and she wanted it that way, Wrath’s tongue thrusting into her as he shoved her backward through the open doorway of their secret hideaway.
Slam!
Best sound in the world. Well, okay, second-best—number one being what her man made when he came inside of her.
At the mere thought of it, her core opened even further.
“Oh, f**k,” he said into her mouth as one of his hands slipped in between her thighs. “I want this—yeah … are you wet for me, leelan.”
Not a question. Because he knew the answer, didn’t he.
“I can smell you,” he groaned against her ear as he ran his fangs up her throat. “The most beautiful thing in the world—except for your taste.”
That gravel in his voice, the straining in his hips, that hard length pressing into her—she orgasmed right then and there.
“Fuck me, we need to do this more,” he gritted as she ground herself against his hand, working her hips. “Why the f**k haven’t we come down here every night?”
The thought of the mess that waited for them back in Caldwell drained some of the heat out of her. But then he started massaging her with his fingers, working the seam of her jeans against her most sensitive place while his tongue probed her mouth the way he did when he was … um, yeah.
Gee whiz, what do you know, surprise, surprise—everything about his being King and the assassination attempt and the Band of Bastards just floated away.
He was right. Why the hell didn’t they make time for this slice of heaven on a regular basis?
Giving herself up to the sex, her hands tangled in his waist-length hair, its softness at odds with the harshness of his face, the strength in his incredible body, that iron core of his will. She’d never been one of those silly chippies who dreamed about a Prince Charming or a fairy-tale wedding or any of that Disney musical bullcrap. But even for someone who had had no illusions and no intention of ever signing a marriage certificate, there was no way she would have pictured herself with Wrath, son of Wrath, King of a race that as far as she had known back then was nothing more than a Halloween myth.
Yet here she was, head over heels with a straight-up killer who had a trucker’s vocabulary, a royal bloodline as long as his arm, and enough attitude to make Kanye West look like a self-esteem reject.
Okay, he wasn’t quite that egocentric—although, yup, he probably would cut Taylor Swift off in a heartbeat, but that was because rap and hip-hop were his music of choice and not ’cuz he was being a hater.
Bottom line, her hellren was a his-way-or-no-way kind of guy, and the throne he sat on meant that personality defect was embraced on bended knee as the law of the land.
Talk about a perfect storm. The good news? She was the sole exception, the only person who could talk sense into him when he really got his hackles up. It was like that with all of the Brothers and their mates: Members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, the race’s elite group of fighters and meatheads, were not known for being easygoing. Then again, you didn’t want pussies on the front line of any war, especially when the bad guys were of the ilk of the Lessening Society.
And those goddamned Bastards.
“I’m not going to make it to the bed,” Wrath moaned. “I gotta be in you now.”
“So take me on the floor.” She sucked on his lower lip. “You know how to do that, don’t you?”
More growling, and a big shift in the planet’s orientation as she was popped off the ground and laid out on all that polished wood. The loft that Wrath had once used as a bachelor pad was right out of central casting: It had a cathedral ceiling, an empty warehouse’s decor, and the matte black paint job of an Uzi. It was nothing like the Brotherhood mansion where they lived, and that was the point.
As beautiful as that place was, all the gold leaf and crystal chandeliers and antique furniture could get a little stifling—
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
With that happy noise, she lost another outfit in her wardrobe—and wasn’t Wrath proud of himself: Flashing fangs long as daggers and white as the driven snow, he proceeded to turn her silk button-down into a Swiffer, shredding the thing off her naked br**sts, buttons flying everywhere.
“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Wrath tore off his wraparounds and smiled, exposing his dental hardware. “Nothing in the way…”
Looming over her, he latched onto her nipple while his hands went to the waistband of her black jeans. All things considered, he was pretty polite as he unhooked the catch and unzipped, but she knew what was coming …
With a violent jerk, he laid waste to what had been a two-week-old pair of Levi’s.
She didn’t care. Neither did he.
Oh, God, she needed this.
“You’re right, it’s been way too long,” she hissed as he went after his own fly, popping the buttons free, unleashing an erection that still managed to take her breath away.
“I’m sorry,” he bit out as he grabbed her behind the neck and mounted her.
As she opened her thighs wide for him, she knew exactly why he was apologizing. “Don’t be—Jesus!”
The blazing possession was exactly what she wanted—and so was the rough ride he gave her, his heavy weight crushing her, her bare ass squeaking against the floor as he pounded into her, her legs straining to link around so he could go even deeper. It was total domination, his great body pistoning in an erotic pump that got ever faster and more intense.
But as good as it was, she knew how to take things to the next level. “Aren’t you thirsty yet?” she drawled.
Total. Molecular. Stoppage.
Like he’d been hit with an ice ray. Or maybe a truck.
As he lifted his head, his eyes lit up so brightly, she knew if she looked on the floor next to her, she’d see her own shadow.
Digging into his shoulders with her nails, she arched up to him and cocked her head to the side. “How about something to drink?”
His lips curled off his fangs and he let out a cobra’s hiss.
The bite was like being stabbed, but the pain faded into a sweet delirium that carried her to another dimension. Floating and grounded at the same time, she moaned and pushed her fingers into his hair, yanking him even closer as he sucked at her throat and thrust into her sex.
She orgasmed—and so did he.
Duh.
God, after a dry spell of how long? At least a month—which was unheard of for them—she realized how much they both had to have this. Too much static from all the demands around them. Too much stress polluting the hours. Too much toxic crap they didn’t have time to process with each other.