Delilah looked over at him, studying him in the firelight. Whatever she saw amid that flickering gold she must have liked, for she reached out and traced a fingertip along the curve of his jaw, over his lips. Gentle, so gentle. "You're pale," she said.
"I'm always pale."
"More so than usual. Are you injured? More than I can see, that is?"
"I'm fine." His strength pleased her. No way in all of Hades he would admit to weakness now.
"Do you need more of my blood?"
"No," he lied, unwilling to risk taking more from her for any reason. He captured her hand and placed a soft kiss on her wrist, where her pulse suddenly leapt to erratic life. Blood was rushing through her veins, a sweet scent drifting from her skin.
His mouth watered.
"Wh-why did you do that?" she asked.
"What?"
"Kiss my hand?"
"I wanted to." Truth. "Did you not like it?"
"I liked it, more than I should, but you've never touched me willingly before."
A crime. "I have wanted to," he admitted.
The long length of her feathered lashes lowered to half-mast, shielding her vibrant gaze. "I'm supposed to stay away from you."
Unable to stop himself, he leaned toward her. He would not kiss her lips--couldn't, wouldn't succumb to this attraction so deeply, intently--but he needed his lips on her. Somewhere. He pressed softly into the line of her jaw, her chin, inhaling her sweetness. "Why?" He knew the answer, though. Tagart. Remember what I told you, the dragon had said.
A shiver moved through her. "Why what?"
"Must you stay away from me now?" Out flicked his tongue, tracing the same path his mouth had taken. Smoothness, sweetness, heat. His cock hardened painfully.
"My team," she breathed, arms wrapping tentatively around him.
They would kill her next if she was seen with him again, he realized. "We won't let them find us, then. Not tonight." She needed him as much as he needed her. That was clear with every heated breath she took. "Tomorrow...tomorrow we can act as strangers."
Her fingers glided up his back, over the ridges of his spine, then she stopped, her nails digging into his shoulders. She arched forward, meshing her breasts against his chest. He hissed in a breath.
"You will not mind?" she asked.
Now he could not recall where the conversation had left off. "Mind what?"
"Loving tonight, being strangers tomorrow."
Her words should have delighted him. That was what he wanted, what he needed to return to his cold, isolated world. It was exactly what he'd just told her had to happen. Hearing her easy acceptance and even willingness to forget his touch, however, irritated him. Caused every possessive bone in his body to roar.
"No," he said through clenched teeth. A small protest from her would have been nice. Wouldn't it? "I will not mind."
"Unlike my sisters, I've never wanted the short-term from a man." She swung her leg around and hefted herself up so that she was straddling his waist, her hot core poised directly over his straining cock. He hated their clothing. "But I can't seem to stop. You, I will have, if only for the night. So, tell me. What do you plan to do with me?"
What had she wanted then? Forever? His chest lurched, because a tiny part of him would have loved to give it to her. "First we will bathe." He would be nothing less than perfect for her. When she thought of him in the years to come, and he hoped that she did, he wanted it to be with fondness, perhaps arousal.
She nibbled on her bottom lip. "Considering what we just endured in the water, are you sure you want to go back in?"
"Oh, yes. We'll go to our waterfall."
She offered him a half smile. "And after? What will you do to me?"
He studied her. Dirt streaked her bruised face and her partially dried hair was in tangles around her arms, curling, a bit frayed. Yet she suddenly pulsed with vitality, as if the thought of being with him gave her all the energy she needed. Her lips were soft and red, her violet eyes luminous, sensual. Erotic. The sight of her always made his chest ache. He didn't like it, but he craved that ache, grateful for the reminder that he was still alive, not dead and buried.
"Well?"
Rather than answer her, he asked a question of his own. "Are you nervous? Is that why you wish to know?"
"Not nervous. Curious. Excited."
"Then I will explain and hopefully increase your excitement. I will taste you here." He circled her nipple with the tip of his finger.
She gasped in ecstasy.
"And here." He inched a bit lower, staying atop the tiny leather skirt that shielded her feminine core from his gaze.
"I--Yes. That's an excellent plan." Licking her lips, she leaned toward him. Almost, almost...she would taste so good, so very good. "Tonight you will love me," she whispered.
Love her. The words trembled through him and he turned his head away before he drowned in her, sinking deeply, sinking completely, losing himself. Her kiss landed on his cheek, and then she pulled back and blinked in disappointment.
Once more, he'd hurt her.
He pushed to his feet--don't fall, don't you dare fall--and she slid down his body. Pleasure speared him, lancing him more surely than a weapon ever had. "Come," he said roughly, harshly, holding out his hand. You can walk away, he found himself projecting. You do not have to do this. "Unless you've changed your mind?" Do not change your mind. Please, do not change your mind.
Her fingers curled around his. Without a word, they walked to the waterfall.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A THOUSAND EMOTIONS SEEMED to swirl through Delilah--excitement, joy, sorrow, tenderness, passion, anger, regret, confusion, even the nervousness she'd told Layel she didn't feel. She wanted this more than she'd ever wanted anything. Would have killed for this moment with Layel, harshly and without remorse.
She was going to be with the man who'd captured her interest. Would know him as intimately as a woman could know a man, allowing him inside her body, perhaps her soul. For once she would be the prize and not the conqueror. And yet...
She wanted to cry.
He would walk away afterward without a backward glance. Once again she would be nothing more than a pleasurable encounter, easily forgotten.
She had shed tears only once in her life: the day her mother sent her away to begin training as a warrior. Her first tutor had beaten her for those tears. Since then, she had not cried. Not in pain when her body was abused beyond recognition, not in sadness when she buried several of her sisters after battle, not in shame when Vorik left her. Tears were a sign of weakness. But weakness had mattered little when Layel turned his face away to avoid her kiss. He had turned his face away exactly as her sisters turned their heads when their slaves tried to kiss them.
As if she wasn't good enough for more than a quick tumble--she'd known that.
As if she meant nothing--she'd suspected.
As if he would remain distanced from the act, while she gave everything she had to give--that, she had not expected.
The knowledge had burned hotter than dragon fire, scraped deeper than a demon's claw and slashed harsher than a vampire's teeth. He was willing to take her body, but not her mouth, even though he'd kissed her before. Why? Had the first been a mistake? No, his actions were fueled by loyalty to his mate, she suspected, and that just intensified the hurt. But she couldn't bring herself to halt what they were about to do.
Just once, she told herself. Just once, she had to know what it was like to be utterly possessed by a man. Vorik had taken her body, but he had not consumed her. She and Layel remained in the shadows, careful not to allow anyone to see them. They remained quiet, careful not to allow anyone to hear them. After an eternity, they broke through the trees and the waterfall came into view, dripping cool liquid into a decadently fragrant pool.
Her hands began to sweat, her body to tremble.
"Bathe," he said, his tone flat. "I will check the area to make sure we are truly alone." He didn't give her time
to respond, just released her and strode out of sight.
"Now there's another emotion to add to the ever-growing list," she muttered. Bereavement.
With a sigh, she stripped and padded into the water. Her skin seemed to soak up every drop, drowning, muscles softening. She washed her hair with the flowers blooming at the edge and cleaned the rest of her body with the glistening white soap-sand. At least the gods weren't denying them nature's sweetness.
Scrubbed from head to toe and unsure how much time had passed, she eased up onto the bank and sat upon a smooth silver rock, knees drawn up to her chest. Where was Layel?
As if her thoughts had summoned him, he appeared beside her. She hadn't heard him, which meant he'd floated, and she hadn't smelled his scent, which meant he'd bathed with the same sand and blooms she had. He wasn't naked, though. Actually wore his pants. But they were unfastened and sat low on his lean, sinewy waist.
His hair hung in dripping chunks, white and glorious. There was a smear of blood on his lips.
"You fed." Frowning, she pushed to her feet.
"Yes." His gaze slowly raked over her, lingering on her breasts--nipples hard and straining--and between her legs.
"On who?" She meant to snap the words, but they emerged breathless. His eyes were so vibrant with arousal it was palpable. The nymph?
"No one. An animal."
Her jealousy melted away, leaving only an arousal equal to his. Her stomach fluttered, her skin heated and her limbs shook. "You could have taken mine."
"Pretty," he said, reaching out and rolling one nipple between his fingers.
She bit her tongue to silence a guttural moan, a plea for more. "Why not use me? For blood, I mean?"
"You've lost enough." His eyes never left her breasts; they were glazed, as if he were entranced. "I need you strong."
"Aren't you afraid I'll beat you at the next challenge?"
He chuckled, but it was a harsh sound. Strained. "If I cannot beat you fairly, I don't deserve to be here with you." The moment the last word left his mouth, he stiffened. Stepped backward.
He was going to leave her, she realized. Why, damn him? Because he didn't feel he deserved her now? Her eyes widened, her anger mutating into tenderness. Yes, that was exactly what he thought, but she would have none of it.
She closed all distance between them, leaving only a whisper that was conquered every time she drew in a breath. They were body to body, skin to skin. Only his erection and thighs were covered. And that wasn't good enough. She wanted to feel them, too.
As if he couldn't tolerate brushing against her with his inhalations, he stopped breathing, becoming as still as a corpse.
"Did you come here to reject me?" she asked. "Again."
He flinched. "No."
"Do something, then. Before I change my mind and leave."
His nostrils flared. "Don't pressure me, woman."
Rising on her tiptoes, she pressed their lips together. His were soft, moist. His eyes never closed, only narrowed. He allowed the contact briefly before turning his head away.
"No kissing there," he said. "I have to keep some part of me removed from this. That is the only way I can allow it to happen."
"You've kissed me before."
"That was a mistake. A mistake I will not make again."
No hurting, she told herself. "All right. No kissing you on the mouth." She pressed her lips to his cheek next. "What about here?" Then his jaw. "And here?"
Once again he began breathing. Choppily. Harshly. Sweat broke out over his skin. "Fine. Those are fine."
The hard tips of her nipples rubbed against his chest, creating a dizzying friction. Yes, oh, yes. Lowering, she concentrated on his neck, laving her tongue over the graceful column.
He inhaled sharply as his arms banded around her waist, clutching, the nails digging into skin.
"Take off your pants," she commanded fiercely. "I want you naked."
His fingers slid to her bottom and cupped, spreading her a little to hold her up. "Do you think to be in charge?"
"Yes." She arched forward, grinding herself on the massive erection straining so proudly from the waist of those unwanted pants.
"No." His grip tightened, holding her in place, keeping her still.
"But I ache," she told him before licking one of his nipples. The hard tip abraded her tongue deliciously.
A groan of pleasure sprang from him, the sound echoing in the night. "Lay down."
"You first. I would--"
"Lay down, Delilah."
His tone was hard, uncompromising. She should have bristled. She didn't. She tingled, her knees going weak. Breathless, she obeyed. He didn't move, just stared down at her.
What did he think of her?
Did he compare her to his mate?
Former mate, her mind supplied on a jealous burst. Tonight, he belonged to Delilah, only Delilah. "Well. Do you plan to join me?"
"Spread your legs. I want to look at you, all of you."
Cradled by moonlight and moss, she slowly...slowly...moved her thighs apart. She drew up her feet, bending her knees and anchoring her weight against her elbows. She was as vulnerable as a woman could be and surprisingly thrilled to be so.
His hot gaze raked over her thoroughly and soon those crystalline irises were glowing, practically surrounding her in a cerulean halo. She could feel the heat of it invading every inch of her needy body, blanketing her.
"You're wet," he said.
The reverence in his tone stroked her as expertly as a caress, and she shivered. "Yes."
"You want me."
"Yes."
"What do you want me to do to you?" As he spoke, he gripped the waist of his pants and slid the material down...down...then stepped out of them, leaving him bare.
"I--I--" Dear gods. His raw masculinity enthralled her. He was lean, yet so muscled he could probably have crushed her with his strength. There was no hair on his body, just mile after mile of perfect skin and sinew. His cock was long and thick--mine--and his testicles were drawn up tightly, heavy and proud.
"Like what you see?" he asked huskily, almost sounding drugged.
Unable to speak past the heated breath blistering her throat, she nodded. The length of her hair tickled her now sensitized skin, her beaded nipples, and she tore her gaze from Layel to study herself. To see what he saw. A thick blue lock of hair was curled around one hard, pink tip, stroking lovingly with the breeze. Her stomach was flat, her thighs firm and tattooed, quivering.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She did. Oh, gods, she did. Need was like a storm inside her, his every command hers to fulfill. Here was everything she'd ever wanted, dreamed about, craved, offered to her on a night of moonlight and bliss, starlight and dreams.
"What do you want me to do to you, Delilah?"
Took some coaxing, but she finally found her voice. "Touch me." A broken plea.
"Where?" He fisted his cock and moved up, down, in a measured stroke.
I want to be the one to pleasure you. "Everywhere."
"You asked me before what evil things I had done, if I had killed a woman."
Her gaze snapped up, clashed with his. "That--" hardly matters now, she was unable to say.
"Not only did I slay Marina, I slayed the wife of a dragon," he interjected. "He was there...that night...he was there. He escaped before I could take his heart and hack it to bits. But I followed him. I watched him. He had a family. A wife, a child."
"Layel--" She made to sit up but he was suddenly on top of her, pushing her back into the moss, his knees pinning her shoulders, his cock rising just in front of her face. She yelped in surprise, but didn't protest. She simply peered up at him, silent, beckoning him to finish. For he had sounded torn, part of him thinking--hoping--she would reject him, part of him...afraid? Afraid that he would die if she did? "Tell me."
His eyes glazed with the darkness of his memories, a darkness still infused with passion. "I was infuriated. Crazed. The bastard had violated
my woman, had laughed while she screamed and fought and then returned to his own woman for comfort."
Delilah bowed her wrists and caressed as much of his thighs as she could, offering her own comfort.
His fangs lengthened, sharpened.
"And?" she prompted softly.
"I snuck inside his home that night. I drank from the two of them to weaken them and then I tied them up. I meant to take her, use her, as he had done--as he--" Layel drew in a labored breath, released it. "But I couldn't. She was crying, pleading. So I killed her instead, right in front of him. I didn't give him the same courtesy, though. I dragged him back to my palace and locked him up, letting him live with the image of what he'd done, what I'd done."
As Layel had had to do, she thought, aching for him.
"But as the days continued to pass, his life...offended me. I couldn't tolerate breathing the same air as him. So I called my people forward and let them drink from him, tear him limb from limb, his screams of agony in my ears. I laughed, but his pain wasn't enough, not nearly enough."
"I'm sorry."
"I burned him until there was nothing left but bones. And then I used those bones to make my throne, and every time I sit on it--him, all of them responsible--I pray he is rotting in Hades."
When his words faded, silence enveloped them, laden with tension.
"Do you still desire me? Do you still want such evil inside of you?" Again he sounded as if he was at war with himself, wanting two different things from her. Exactly as she had felt when she'd first met him.
"You're not evil. But, yes, I do." And that was the truth. She wouldn't have thought it possible to desire him more, but she did. The fierceness of him, the darkness...they called to her, drew her. They represented the very thing she'd always craved for herself: to be loved so inexorably, no act was too vile when it came protecting her--or avenging her.
But because of that ferocity, Layel would never be an easy man. He would always be brutal, savage. He was conflicted and complex, hurt and broken, would probably never be whole. He wasn't misunderstood, and there could be no deluding herself about who and what he was. There was no denying he'd done an evil thing. Many evil things.
"Yes," she repeated, confident. "Yes. I still want you inside of me."
He jerked as if she'd punched him. Not the reaction she'd expected. "What did you say?"