Feral warrior 4- Rapture Untamed

by Pamela Palmer

  She groaned with annoyance, and he chuckled and yanked her shirt up under her arms. She fought him, trying to keep him from pulling it off her. So he drew claws and shredded the stretchy material without leaving a scratch on her skin.

  “Want to keep your bra?” he asked silkily.

  “Yes, damn you.”

  “Then take it off.”

  She tried to rise, and he let her. With another grumble, she sat up, her back to him. But as she moved as if to lift the bra, he prepared for an elbow to his jaw and almost got it. Grabbing her upper arms, he pushed her forward until she was off balance and unable to kick back.

  “Take it off, Red, or I’m ripping it off.”

  “Bastard,” she muttered, and yanked off the bra.

  Jag pushed her face-first into the bed before she could strike back at him, then drank in the sight of her lovely, silken back.

  He’d never thought himself a back man—legs, breasts, ass, oh yeah. But backs? Who in the hell was a back man? But there was something incredibly sexy about Olivia’s. The way her shoulders curved, small and slender, yet somehow strong as steel. The way her back dimpled beneath her nape, the way it narrowed as it fell to the sweet swell of her hips. And that glorious, creamy expanse of lightly freckled skin.

  Leaning forward, he gripped her forearms and pressed them to the bed, ensuring she didn’t rear up and clock him in the nose a second time. Then he continued what he’d started the last time he had her at his mercy, what he’d been obsessed with doing since he first saw her standing in the living room of Feral House, talking to Lyon like some little flame-haired high-powered lawyer—taste every inch of her creamy skin.

  His mouth dipped to her shoulder blade, his lips brushing her warm flesh as he inhaled her scent, a scent as rich and warm as her hair. Sugar and spice and everything nice. The ancient ditty ran through his head, and he decided it must have been written for her.

  A shiver rippled through her even as she struggled against his hold. He loved that she fought him, loved that he could be rough with her and get a kick in the nose for his efforts.

  His mouth trailed over the crown of her shoulder and down the top few inches of her arm, rewarded with her shiver.

  “Jag, let me go.” Her voice was low, husky, and filled more with anticipation than any dark emotion.

  “Nope.” Goddess, he enjoyed having her beneath him. The touch of her skin against his, the heat of her body between his thighs, the slender bones of her forearms safe in the cradle of his palms.

  He inhaled her sweet fragrance and buried his nose in her bright hair. She was becoming an addiction, this one. After only a few days, he could barely stand not to be touching her.

  But touching her wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  He captured both wrists in one hand, then lifted off her enough to flip her onto her back.

  She bucked, but he locked his thighs tight on hers and all she managed to do was brush his rock-hard balls with the sweet cream of her arousal.

  He sucked in a hard breath. Her eyes tightened with need. Gray eyes locked on his. In their depths he saw no fury, and only a little anger. Frustration, yes. And heat. Goddess, but heat sparkled and danced in those eyes until the gray shone as brightly as silver.

  He slid his finger between her thighs, closed against him by the tight clamp of his own. His finger brushed the hard nub of her passion, and she gasped, sucking in a ragged breath. He flicked that sensitive spot over and over, feeling the muscles in her thighs quiver and jerk even as her hips fought to rise, to give him better access.

  “You want me to fuck you, Red?”

  “If I say no?” she gasped.

  “I’ll torment you until you do.”

  “And if I say yes?”

  He smiled, his smile deepening as she raised one imperious brow. “Then I’ll torment you until I tire of the game.”

  “You’re a bastard.”

  “I am indeed.” He pressed his finger deeper between her thighs, encountering a slick wetness that eased his way. Finding the cave he sought, he pushed his finger deep inside her.

  She arched up, her plump, perfect breasts rising as if seeking his mouth, a soft groan escaping her throat. The sound drove his own need higher, tightening his balls as his cock swelled impossibly thicker.

  But he wasn’t ready to end this. He wasn’t nearly ready. Instead, he dipped his head and took one offered breast deep into his mouth, sucking the soft flesh until his body was so hard with need he feared he’d never be soft again. Two releases, three…no number would be enough.

  He didn’t want to feel this way, this need twisting inside him, demanding he touch her. Protect her. Possess her. She was his, dammit. His.

  His slave.

  A fist clenched high in his chest. A single word flickering in his mind like a spark igniting into a tiny, fragile flame.

  His mate.

  With a growl, he reared back.

  No. Hell no. He did not think that word.

  He shoved the thought aside, drawing the bitterness that lived inside him tight around him, like a rough, itchy, and all-too-familiar blanket.

  Olivia met him with eyes half-closed and drenched in desire, her mouth open just enough to suck in tiny gasps of air, her lips soft and pink and infinitely lush.

  His body tightened, demanding he claim that mouth as he’d claimed other parts of her. That fist high in his chest tightened, demanding he pull her into his arms and cradle her against his pounding heart.

  But the thing that lived within him, that swirling, writhing mass of bitterness and bile, wanted nothing to do with either.

  Driven by a need he could never fight, he flipped her onto her stomach yet again, released her wrists to grab her hips and wrench them high until she was on her knees.

  With his own he spread her thighs and slid his cock between them to stroke her swollen lips. “You want this, Red. You want me inside you.”

  “Yes, you jerk. You know I do.”

  “Say it.”

  “Fuck me, Jag. Fuck me!”

  He pulled his hips back, positioned himself at the mouth of her sheath, and drove home. Her body enveloped him, pulling him deep.

  She groaned, pushing her hips back against his, forcing him deeper as he thrust into her again and again.

  “More, Jag. More.”

  She was already starting to rise. It was so good. So damn good.

  Too damn good. The darkness inside him rebelled.

  Driven by a need he couldn’t explain even to himself, he pressed calming cool into her body through the hands on her hips, forcing back her heat and her enjoyment.

  “Jag, what are you doing?”

  He didn’t reply, for he had no answer. Only that contrary darkness urging him on as he thrust into her over and over.

  “Jag, let me come. Let me come, damn you.”

  “No.” As he continued to press the cool into her hips, her hot little sheath became tighter, less welcoming. Still, he took her hard until he reached his own blinding release. A release she didn’t share.

  The knowledge brought a small sting of satisfaction that quickly turned sour. Even he didn’t like himself very much sometimes.

  He pulled out of her and was about to slide his hand between her legs to bring her to orgasm when she drove her heel into his thigh, missing his balls by millimeters, then twisted away from him and off the bed.

  She stared at him, a small pissed off warrior with fire in her eyes. He tensed, ready for her anger. But when she spoke, her voice was low and strong as steel.

  “Every time we start getting along, you ruin it. Every time. You can deny it all you want to, but you don’t like yourself. And you can’t stand for anyone else to like you either.”

  Now he was the one pissed off. “Don’t presume to understand me, sister.”

  But she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “The sex between us could be good, Jag. Really good, and you know it. But you won’t let it be, will you? If I’m not mad when it’s o
ver, you’ve failed.”

  He stood and grabbed her shoulders, his fingers flexing in anger, digging into her flesh. “You’re my slave, Olivia, or have you forgotten that? The sex is for my enjoyment, not yours.” But the words were a lie, every one of them. He loved pleasuring her. Loved watching the releases break over her. Why then had he denied her? Denied them both?

  It had nothing to do with people liking him. That was crap and just proved she didn’t know him at all.

  “Let me make you come, Red. With my palm. A quick, violent release that’ll melt you from the inside out.”

  She met his gaze with weary eyes. “Are you giving me a choice this time?”

  Was he?

  The bile inside him spread, nearly making him sick to his stomach. He released her and turned away, knowing what her answer would be. She didn’t want him touching her.

  “Go take a shower, Olivia. The others should be here in an hour.”

  He heard her turn and pad to the bathroom, her steps nearly as silent as his own. But her voice refused to be still in his head.

  If I’m not mad when it’s over, you’ve failed.

  Bullshit. He liked what he liked, was all. Except, what he’d done had been intentionally mean-spirited. A new low, even for him.

  So why had he done it?

  Shit. To piss her off. Like she said.

  He lay on the bed and stared at the water-stained ceiling as he waited for the shower to go off and his turn to go in. He suddenly longed for the hot, stinging spray of the shower to wash away the cold that had come upon him suddenly. A cold that he knew deep down would never be chased away by hot water.

  Because this cold wasn’t of the body. Olivia was stripping him raw, forcing him to feel the layer of frost that had long ago formed around his heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia stood beneath the spray of the hot shower, feeling emotionally battered and physically tied in sensual knots that had never been released. Because he’d fought to keep her from coming. And won.

  The bastard.

  He’d wanted her angry with him. Every time they began to share any kind of closeness, he turned back into a jackass. And yet she saw a loneliness in his eyes sometimes, a deep and desperate need for a closeness he fought to deny them both.

  She stepped out of the shower and toweled dry, then wrapped the towel around her and returned to the bedroom, where Jag was lying on his back, still staring at the ceiling.

  He rose and swung his legs over the side, rising in a sensuous, catlike movement. But he didn’t move past her. He didn’t move at all except to look at her, his gaze roaming her wet hair, her face, her bare shoulders.

  His eyes were enigmatic, his expression pensive. “Did you make yourself come in the shower?”

  “That’s hardly your business.”

  “You didn’t. I can feel the tension coiled like a knot in your body.” He held out his hand to her, but didn’t take a step closer. “Let me make you come, Red.”

  Olivia sighed. “Just leave it, Jag. I’m fine.”

  He stepped closer, moving silently across the carpet to stand before her, then lifted his hand to twirl a lock of her wet hair around his finger. “I’m sorry. What I did was mean.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  His gaze dropped, then rose again as he twirled that lock of her hair around his finger. He shrugged, unhappiness etched on his face. “I don’t know.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “Let me make it up to you.”

  A better woman might have forgiven him and let him. “I’m not interested anymore, Jag.”

  She started to turn away, but his hand gripped her arm, holding her there.

  “Your body’s interested, and we both know it.” The devilish gleam entered his eye. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Sugar. But I’m a determined man.”

  Mr. Nice Guy has left the room. No, not really. They were back to their battle of wills, but this was a battle she was likely to win, either way.

  She met his gaze. “So I can fight you. Or I can spread my legs and let you make me come.”

  “That pretty much covers it.”

  She spread her stance, still keeping the towel tucked firmly around her. “Make it quick, please. We both need food before your friends arrive.”

  Devilment gleamed in his eyes, and she sighed. Goddess, when was she going to learn? Since she asked him to be quick, he’d probably do just the opposite.

  But he didn’t. He reached between her legs, his warm hand cupping her as she tensed for the rush of pleasure to come.

  Even before he sent the warmth racing into her body, his sheer maleness overpowered her senses, his hair brushing her cheek, his sleep-warmed scent sending heat spiraling low in her body, tightening the need that coiled deep within her.

  Yes, she needed this.

  His cheek brushed her temple in a surprisingly gentle caress a second before the heat poured into her from his magic hand, a rush of pleasure so powerful she cried out and grabbed his shoulder to keep from going down.

  Two of his fingers dove deep inside her at the same time his free arm curled around her waist, holding her against him as the orgasm roared up, crashing over her. Even as she shattered from the first one, he thrust his fingers in and out of her, pressing the pleasure into her until a second release rushed over her. And a third. Jag buried his face in her hair, his thumb caressing her bare back as he held her against him. Wave upon wave of glorious release tore through her body until she was a boneless mass kept upright only by the strong arm at her back.

  Finally, he pulled his fingers out of her and she came back to herself, her gasps turning to one deep, shuddering breath.

  He shifted his hold on her, the hand that had given her such pleasure was now the one at her back, holding her upright. His other was in her hair, caressing her scalp with light, gentle strokes. Her own arms had wrapped themselves tight around his waist and he held her cradled against him. As if he wanted her there. As if he cared.

  Longing welled up inside her, sharp and breath-stealing. Her eyes burned as the loneliness she’d long ago buried deep ripped free of its shell, swamping her. Jag’s arm tightened around her as if he felt it. As if he would slay the dragon that had long ago hollowed out her life.

  For a few precious moments, she gave in to the temptation and pressed her face tighter to his chest, seeking his warmth, and shelter from that terrible emptiness. But warmth from Jag could never be trusted. This sharp, strange connection was nothing but an illusion, no more solid than a Highland mist. She could pull away now, or wait for him to push her away.

  Slowly she straightened, and he released her. She ducked her head as she struggled to regain her composure. But as she turned away, tightening the towel around her, she felt a large, warm hand cup her shoulder.

  Olivia tensed as Jag turned her to face him. Their gazes met, and, for a single, brief moment, she glimpsed an ache in his eyes as deep as her own. And she felt that gossamer-thin connection between them strengthen and grow. If he’d opened his arms to her, she’d have stepped into them without hesitation.

  Instead, his brows lowered, a familiar, unpleasant twist returning to his mouth, and she braced herself for the inevitable. Once more, they’d connected. Once more, he’d do something to anger her, to push her away.

  But this time he only scowled, turned on his heel, and strode into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Olivia raked her hair back off her face, letting her towel fall to the floor as she heard the shower turn on. Then she pressed the heels of her hands against her hot eyes. Her body throbbed with echoes of pleasure, the damp heat lingering between her thighs along with the feel of his warm hand tucked tight against her. Her chest ached from the bone-deep longing she hadn’t even known she’d felt until he’d entered her life like a wild animal in attack mode.

  The man was shredding her. Stealing her secrets and her will, digging up emotions and vulnerabilities she’d shut out eons ago. Worse, he kept taunting
her with glimpses of something sweet and rare—a closeness, a trust, a caring—that could never exist. Not with Jag.

  Not with anyone.

  From the moment Jag walked into her life, he’d been systematically ripping it to shreds. She wanted it to stop. To be over. She wanted away from him, as far away as she could get.

  But would he let her go? And, more importantly, would he let her go with her life intact? She just didn’t know. The man she sometimes glimpsed deep inside him wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t destroy her unless he thought he had to.

  But that man wasn’t always in control.

  And the Jag she knew was a contrary beast.

  For now, she was stuck with him, her fate in his hands. Unless she ran.

  But running had never been her way.

  Jag let the hot shower soak his hair, washing away the previous day’s dust even as he wished he could somehow turn himself inside out and rid himself of the bile that ate at his insides.

  What was the matter with him?

  Olivia was getting to him, that was what. There were times when she looked at him that he could swear she saw all the way through him. Right down into the cesspit that acted as his heart.

  There were times when she went soft on him, and all he wanted to do was hold her against him, listening to her heart beat against his. Then the bile and bitterness swirled inside him, and he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

  He didn’t want her soft. He wanted her strong. Tough. Angry.

  The thought brought him up short. Why did he want her angry?

  For half a heartbeat, he didn’t know.

  Her accusation came back to him. You can’t stand for anyone to like you. You need them to hate you as much as you hate yourself.

  Bullshit. Life without a little conflict bored him, plain and simple. Watching the anger spark in Olivia’s eyes pleased him.

  Did it? Did it really?

  Hell, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. He’d never been so uncomfortable in his own flesh as he had since Olivia arrived.