by Laura Kaye
“I’m yours,” she whispered. At least, she wanted to be. If he would have her. If he would take her, as he’d threatened. If he’d fulfill the dark promise of passion he’d made.
In an instant, he pushed her away until she was upright on her knees. Still holding her wrists behind her back, he urged her upper body forward, forcing her rear out. The unexpected movement threw her off balance. She thought she’d fall, but she hung by Chrys’s grip on her wrists.
His heat radiated against her backside. He dragged the head of his cock through her wetness, then pushed into her entrance.
The sensation of fullness was immediate, and he was barely inside her. Laney moaned, so desperately excited her skin seemed to tingle. Gripping her hip with his free hand, he withdrew and thrust again, and again, and then he fully seated his cock inside her, the hair on his thighs tickling her rear.
He paused, and the lights in the room flared, the brilliant white visible even with her poor vision. But she couldn’t think on the meaning of it because the pressure within her was so deliciously intense. And maddening, too. Laney was just about to beg him to move when he ground out a curse in that foreign language and pulled out. Then slammed right back in.
Laney gasped and threw her head back.
He stroked into her again and again, the barely controlled full-withdrawal-and-thrust rhythm stealing her breath and blanking her mind of everything except him. His hips snapped against her bottom and his grip tightened on her wrists. She longed to touch him, to skim her sensitive fingertips over every inch of him, to dig her nails in his back, but not being able to forced every bit of her attention to the incredible dragging friction of his hard, thick length pumping in and out of her. Add her blindness on top of it all, and his cock literally became the center of her world.
His hold on her wrists tightened until it was nearly painful. The lights flared again. Nearby, something popped—a lightbulb? The sprinkling sound of glass followed. “I’m sorry,” Chrys grunted. “I’ve got to release some of this or I’ll hurt you.” Another bulb popped, then another. From outside, a sharp wind suddenly rattled the windowpanes.
“Whatever you need,” she rasped as his hard thrusts quickened.
“You feel so fucking good,” he said, voice full of gravel, punctuating his declaration with hammering strokes. Another bulb exploded, closer this time.
She gasped. “So do you.” She fisted and unfisted her hands in his grip, partly from the numbness settling into her fingertips, partly an outlet for the erotic energy flowing through her body.
Chrys grabbed her hair and wound it around his fist, forcing her to arch. She moaned as the change in her position had him hitting new places inside her. He was completely in control of her body. And she could say with complete certainty that she loved it.
Glass shattered again, and Laney’s eyes flew open. The room had almost no electrical light now, though Chrys’s aura shown so brightly, its yellow glow illuminated most of the room.
Chrys released her hair and stroked his fingers down her spine, once, twice. The third time, he caressed all the way to where her cheeks separated. His palm settled there, just above her crack, his fingers spanning her lower back, his thumb extended downward. The pad of his thumb paused over her rear opening.
Laney whined as instinctive fear and desperate, forbidden curiosity swirled within her stomach. She shoved the fear away. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want. But did she want this? No one had ever even touched her there. But she couldn’t deny how much that one simple movement of his finger had ratcheted up her arousal and made her juices flow.
“Shh.” He dragged his thumb over the opening, exerting a foreign pressure against the tight pucker with each pass.
“Chrys,” she whimpered, her mind in chaos over how damn good it felt.
“I want to take you everywhere. Over and over.”
He might not have done romantic, but he certainly did erotic. His words shot straight to her clit, and her body lurched toward an orgasm that promised to be bigger than she could possibly handle. Never before had sensation felt so intense, had she felt so out of control, had another person felt so in control of not just her body, but her mind and her heart.
Suddenly, his hand returned to her hip and his pace increased. A series of fast, frenetic strokes that rubbed the head of his cock against a place inside her that had her keening low in her throat. The sound joined the rapid, wet slapping of his skin against hers and the mumbled curses that spilled from his lips. Somewhere, more lights exploded. A strange humming buzz filled the air. The room smelled hot of electricity and summer and sex. Her shoulders started to ache from the demanding pull of her body toward his, but she wouldn’t have changed anything about their lovemaking for all the world. Even if he refused to call it that.
Laney’s heart squeezed. The physical intensity between them combined with their earlier emotional connection to shove her feelings further down a path she probably shouldn’t go. She was falling for him. She knew it. It was likely going to cost her. When he left—and he would leave, she knew that—her small, isolated life was going to feel that much smaller, that much lonelier. But that didn’t change what she was starting to feel.
The pain, the pleasure, the overload of sensation and emotion of every kind—she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt more alive.
“Jesus,” he groaned, and a blast of thunder cracked above the house. Laney cried out.
Chrys tugged her wrists hard enough to force her up onto her knees and back against his chest. The position had her nearly sitting on his damp thighs, which hammered up into her in slower, harder, precise strokes that felt so much deeper. His breath rasped in her ear, mixed in with a series of low grunts and curses. She reveled in the sound of his desire, in the press of more of his skin against more of hers, and thrilled at how amazingly hot he felt. Feverish, even.
In a hot hand, he cupped one of her breasts, jutting out because of how she was arched against him. He squeezed and massaged one, then the other. As she watched, he rolled her nipples between his fingers, tight enough that she caught her breath before releasing a long moan, but not so tight that it hurt. Then he skimmed his palm down her belly, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. She quivered in anticipation. His fingers curled between her legs.
“You’re going to come for me,” he growled.
“Yes,” she rasped, the command helping to ensure it would happen sooner rather than later.
He stroked her clit, his nails occasionally scraping the sensitive flesh and shoving her arousal higher. His hand moved faster, harder. She moaned, gasped, held her breath. She was so close, so close.
“Now, Laney.” He pinched and rolled her clit between his thumb and finger.
The third tug brought her orgasm slamming into her. She cried out, her head thrashing on Chrys’s shoulder, her body convulsing. His fingers still moved, dragging out her pleasure until it was hard to breathe.
“Damn, that was gorgeous,” he said, pressing a rough kiss to her ear.
The praise made her heart squeeze, but she couldn’t respond. Her muscles rebelled, refusing to hold up her weight. She went limp against him. He wrapped an arm around her chest and they fell forward onto her stomach, his muscular form atop her, his thighs going to the outside of hers. Their sweat added a slick friction to his thrusts.
He released her wrists and pushed up onto his arms, moving within the tightness the new position created. Fast. Hard. Driving. Chasing. Thunder rumbled low and long, growing louder and more intense. He grabbed her hips and yanked her body back to meet his demanding thrusts.
“So good, Chrys,” she managed. “I knew it would be.”
“Fuck,” he groaned. Then he withdrew completely. Glass exploded and thunder splintered the nighttime air as hot, liquid stripes fell across her back.
He came on her.
The thought released a wanton satisfaction throughout her tired body. She literally wore his desire on her skin. But why ha
d he— Holy crap, Laney! Never once had she thought of protection. Gratitude had tears pricking the backs of her eyes. How many times had he said he’d take care of her? And he had, again.
Leaning over her, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
As if she could move.
…
Chrys returned a moment later with a warm washcloth in his hand. She hadn’t moved an inch. Sleepy blue eyes peered up at him and Laney gave a small, crooked smile. “Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi,” he said.
He straddled her thighs and reached out. But then he drew back and just soaked in the image of this beautiful, brave, trusting woman lying naked on the floor, painted with his seed. He’d come so close to losing control with her. Excess energy still rippled through him, making him tremble, stirring up the wind outside. Glass littered the floor in every direction, like someone had sprinkled glitter all around them.
She’d very likely saved his life tonight, and it wasn’t the first time she’d risked herself for him. Tending to him when he’d fallen through her roof, terrified of the storm that raged around her but determined to help a creature in need. Hell, she’d even stepped in front of him when Zephyros had appeared in her room that day. Why did she keep doing it?
And how could he let her continue?
The question had a ready answer: he couldn’t. He needed to leave. He needed to find another way to protect her.
Immediately, every part of him rebelled at the idea. His brain ruled out the possibility that anyone else was better suited. His body demanded more of hers—her heart, her tight slickness, her touch. And Almighty Zeus if that last one wasn’t a head-spinner.
His heart… Aw, damnit all to Hades. His heart fucking ached at the idea of leaving her.
Had he…? No. No. What he felt was guilt that he’d caused her harm, over and over, and regret that he’d intruded upon the quiet, ordered life she led. Disgust with himself for endangering her when he should’ve just stayed the hell away in the first place.
It wasn’t the first time he’d fucked everything up for someone, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. And wasn’t that a real slap in the ass.
Laney shivered, refocusing Chrys’s attention on her.
The wet cloth he held had cooled, so he balled it within his fists and infused it with his natural warmth. Then he cleaned her off everywhere he’d soiled her. She hummed, a sound full of relaxed pleasure, and a little smile played around the corner of her lips. Her obvious trust and faith in him was like a knife impaling his chest. He was greedy for it, but that didn’t mean he deserved it. And he didn’t. He set the rag aside.
Calling heat to his hands again, Chrys massaged Laney’s shoulders.
“Feels good,” she mumbled, eyes closed, lips curved in a small smile. “Masseuse could be a fallback job, if you ever need one.”
“Good to know,” he managed.
He watched his hands move over her soft skin. He’d been rough with her. Too rough. He’d called on every ounce of restraint he’d ever possessed, but with all that energy overloading him, there was only so much he could hold back. Not to mention how fucking good it felt to be inside her. Not only had she accepted every demand he’d made of her body, but her enjoyment of it seemed to match his. It wasn’t the act that some of his lovers put on for him. With her, there was no agenda, no favor seeking, no notch carving. Just pure, honest arousal and real, uninhibited pleasure. So he wanted to do everything he could to take away the pain she’d likely feel in the morning from the way he’d used her.
Pain that he’d caused. Go figure.
He massaged her neck, her shoulders, her upper back. By the time he’d moved on to her arms, her slow, steady breaths told him she’d fallen asleep.
He worked down her limbs, gently kneading and caressing. His gaze zeroed in on the redness on her right wrist.
Thunder cracked low in the sky.
He’d fucking marked her. By morning, the red stripes of his fingers would bruise. As if her skin didn’t already bear enough evidence of his destructiveness.
Speaking of which…
He swung his leg so he knelt beside her. Crisscrossed black stitches still ran down the back of her thigh and calf, her bandages gone when he’d dispensed with her clothing.
The cuts, though, were almost entirely healed. From when he’d laid atop her and drew off her heat? His energy had certainly been potent enough.
She hadn’t wanted the cuts healed. She’d had perfectly good, human reasons for her position. But now that it had begun, he would complete it. Eurus’s attack changed things. Yes, she had the amulet, but still, given everything, she shouldn’t be injured. Not now.
The thought made him wonder if her blindness was correctable. He didn’t possess that level of healing power, to be sure. And he wasn’t sure if Zeph did, either. Hephaestus? Maybe. Zeph’s father-in-law, Mars? Almost certainly. He tucked the question away for another time.
Leaning down, he willed the stitches on her calf away and released a healing stream of his warmth over what remained of the wound. This close to her, the scent of her sex made it difficult to not want to take his time, linger, explore. Gods, she smelled so damn good. He would’ve liked nothing more than to spend a whole night with his face buried between her legs, worshipping her and drinking her down.
Shaking off the fantasy, he sat up and observed his handiwork. Scars remained, but at least she would be able to walk without pain.
But now what to do? He had to go after Eurus. He had to find his father. He had to get far, far away from Laney Summerlyn.
He couldn’t leave her unprotected, and he couldn’t leave her here, which meant he also had to violate her demand to be allowed to stay here through all this. Damnit.
There weren’t many great options, and certainly none that didn’t tear at a part of his soul. With regret pressing on his chest and making it hard to breathe, he reclothed them both, her in the pajamas he’d seen her wear before, since her clothes had been ruined in the attack. He rose and surveyed the room, which looked like a freaking war zone. Given what had happened, it wasn’t far from the truth.
He commanded the South Wind to come forth. It swirled through the space and pushed the shards into neat piles. One at a time, he marshaled the wind to scoop them up, carry them across the room, and dump them into the kitchen trash. Last thing he wanted was for her to cut a foot on broken glass after she returned home. Without him, his brain added.
Ignoring the sinking feeling closing in on him, Chrys scooped her into his arms, adjusted her amulet, and did the only thing he could think of that made any sense—for both of them.
Chapter Eighteen
Laney woke up on a moan, her bones, her joints, even her skin aching. Lifting her eyelids took more energy than she had, so for a long moment, she didn’t bother to make the effort.
Exhaustion weighed on her like a lead blanket. She tugged the covers over her shoulder and turned to her side.
She gasped and pushed onto an elbow. “Chrys?” She frowned. Everything was…wrong.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
The blanket balled in her fist was thick and chunky—an afghan?
Light streaked across her field of vision, followed by the soft murmur of an engine outside. A passing car?
Problem was, she didn’t own a ticking clock, a crocheted afghan, or a house that sat by a street.
As odd, she wasn’t dressed in the same clothes she’d worn earlier. Instead, she had on the pajamas she’d slept in last night.
Her heart hammered so hard she felt the beat’s echo under every inch of her skin. Where the hell am I? And what the hell is going on?
“Chrys?” she called, dread filling her stomach. Nothing. No answer. Just the torture of the ticking amid the silence. “Chrys!” She swung her legs off the bed. But she was totally blind, no idea where she was or what the room looked like, the darkness stealing what little vision she had. Tears sprung to her eyes.
Panic bubbled up her throat. Please let him be okay. She choked down the fear. Until she got her bearings, she had to hold it together.
Wood floor underfoot, she sank to her knees. Crawling was safer than walking blind. If she could find a lamp or a light switch, she could begin to figure out what the hell was going on. Hopefully.
Swinging her hand proved that the coast was clear, at least to start. She felt around for a night table and eventually found one. Walking her hands up the front, she prayed she’d find a lamp.
Her fist hit glass. Something clanked, splashed, and then crashed to the floor. Laney squealed at the unexpected noise and jerked back.
Footsteps thumped nearby. Laney froze, listening. The door to her room rattled, opened. Light poured through the opening, blinding her, but the sharp contrast between the dark and light did nothing to help her see. Dreadful anticipation shivered over her skin. She flew back against the bed.
“Are you okay?”
She choked on a scream. “Who are you?”
“It’s Megan Winters. We met last night. You’re at my house.”
As Laney’s brain struggled to process this information, a male voice called from the direction of the door. “Is everything okay?”
Megan sighed. “Not really. But, yes.”
“Why am I here?” she managed, her vocal chords strained by her panic. No response. “Megan?”
“Here. Let me help you up.” Fingers touched the back of her hand. She flinched, but then clasped hands with the woman and rose to her feet. “Chrys thought you’d be safer here. Please tell me he discussed this with you.”
“Uh, no. Last time I talked to Chrys—” Heat flooded her face as memories of the sex they’d had paraded through her mind’s eye. “No, he didn’t.” She sagged against the bed’s edge and hugged herself. Blood still pounded under her skin, and the flood of adrenaline left her shaky. “What time is it?”