“Maybe you…” She clamped her mouth shut before she suggested anything further. This was getting very dangerous. She had no idea what she was trying to do, but all she could think about was the way he’d touch her down there, and how amazing it would be.
He licked his lips—a long slow sweep—like a starving animal. The beast in his DNA shadowed his features, twisted the humanity into something harsh. So utterly provoking. “Maybe I should, what?” The rasp of his voice sounded animalistic and it made her pulse rocket into an elevated cadence. His thumb dipped below the band of her scrubs, edged under the elastic of her panties.
“Check,” she spoke so softly she could barely discern it herself.
“If I touch you, Nadia, I won’t be able to control myself.” He slipped his hand underneath her pants and splayed his fingers wide, tracking downward atop the cotton of her panties. “I’m losing control even now.”
Time stilled. Even her lungs seized. Every single one of her senses zeroed in on the slow descent of his hand, waiting and wanting, needing him to touch her. “What if I don’t want you to stay in control?”
He froze. His face twisted in agony as his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. With a shift onto his foot, he removed his hand from under her pants and speared his fingers through the loose hair at her nape, fisting the strands.
“Look at me.” The order came out rough and tense.
She blinked and forced herself to meet his eyes.
“I won’t do that to you.” His words were an emphatic promise. “But, I will give you everything that I can. It has to be enough, Nadia.” He shook his head, “But it will never be enough.”
She didn’t like what he’d said, even if it was the cold hard truth. For a moment, she wanted to be wicked and sensual. She wanted to throw caution to the wind and let him free to do anything he desired. Growing up in a strict society meant she had to obey the rules. The consequences for breaking their sacred traditions would damage Gunnar’s reputation and take everything from him. She could never do something like that to this male, no matter how badly she craved more. “Whatever happens right now, I will hold on to forever, Gunnar. It will be enough because it’s with you.”
He dropped his head to her shoulder as his heavy injured arm settled on her opposite shoulder. “I want to hold you close when you reach heaven, Nadia. Hell, if I’m going to talk about wishes, I’d also like us naked and on my bed. Ah damn, it’d be amazing.”
“I can imagine it.” Just that little statement had his breath expelling, the muscles in his chest tightening and she liked the way she provoked him. “Touch me again. I need you.”
Soft lips pressed against her collarbone, traveled to her throat where he paused, his fangs razing up and down the pulse point. The pinch of pain tore a shudder from her as he latched on and sucked hard. He didn’t break the skin; instead he rasped his tongue and took the damp spot between his blunt front teeth, nipping her with increasing force.
“Help me,” he whispered as his body trembled. With a slight motion, he pulled away and took her hand in his. “If I do it, I won’t stop.”
His index finger supported hers and the rest of his fingers curled around her knuckles. He slid their interlaced hands below her waistband and didn’t stop there. They moved below her panties where he pressed her fingers into the soft downy curls. Down further, he dragged their hands, stroking toward the throbbing bud aching for a deeper touch.
Starbursts lit up in her veins, her pulse raced in her temple as he directed their fingers in a little circle around the most sensitive crest. He repeated the motion, swirling below it and dipping into the moist heat at the core of her entrance.
“Ah hell, what does that feel like?” His ragged breathing made the words sound coarse, rough.
“Hot.” She could hardly form the words to speak. The way he continued to tease the bundle of nerves, never touching it but sliding around, dipping into her, wetting the tender flesh, made her body flood with arousal. She was strung taut, desperate and on the verge of begging. “Wet.”
“Mmm,” he mumbled. “It’s making me so hard, just thinking about it.” He dragged their fingers up and glanced off the tight peak. “Fuck.” His groan reverberated within her.
The swipe of her fingertip nearly buckled her knees. She cried out but he didn’t stop caressing her. The strokes grew quicker, harder, forcing her to brace on her toes while clawing his shirt to stay upright.
“That’s it. I can smell the beauty of your need. It’s like a sea breeze, tickling my senses until I can only think of one thing. Only you.”
She couldn’t respond. Couldn’t form a coherent thought. The rubbing changed, slowed and became short, jerky. Each upward motion drew something tighter, impossibly tighter, and an unbearable pulsating sparked deep within.
“You’re so close, aren’t you?” He traced around, pressed down and slid her fingertip just below the furled bundle. “Ready, kjaere?” He curved her fingers inward, three of them this time, and sped up the pace, until all her thoughts focused on the growing tension building under their fingertips.
“Now,” he growled.
Sound vanished except for the chaotic beating of her heart. All sensations zeroed in on the aching tension between her thighs. A tether coiled, tauter and rigid, and her core lit up with a wave of scorching heat. The rough pad of Gunnar’s thumb slipped from his hold on her hand, brushed across the aching center and with an agonizing cry she shattered against the warmth of his skin.
“Holy God,” he groaned, his chest heaving.
She felt like crying and laughing and sleeping, all at the same time.
But, his body was hard as iron, unyielding and ramrod straight. She dared a glimpse at his face and his stare filled with unmasked, animalistic awareness of her. His lips parted with long fangs stretching the dusky flesh, his chest rose and fell with tense inhalations.
“Gunnar?” She placed her hand on his chest and his heart slammed against his ribs, the racing beats echoing against her palm. “What can I do?” She reversed course with her palm, skating it lower, over his ribs and to his midline. “Let me help you.”
Just as her hand hit the waistband, he grabbed her wrist and held on with shaking fingers. He shook his head and ducked his chin. “Don’t.” The tone of his voice had changed to something feral and gravely.
Fingering the warm brass button, she plucked at it, sliding it through the hole. She wanted to touch him, to feel the hard length he’d kept locked behind thick denim. “But—”
He shoved her hands away and backpedaled, his speed slamming him against the wall. Shaking his head, he wrung his hands and ran the uninjured one through his messy hair. “You can’t. I won’t stop. I don’t have the power to keep myself from losing it and taking you.” With a groan, he flung himself into the little sofa tucked into the corner. With his eyes squeezed shut, he leaned an elbow on his knee and pressed his forehead to his fist. Every muscle in his body seemed to vibrate, quavering as he fought his preternatural impulse to mate.
Nadia scrubbed her face with her palm and pushed her sleeves up. She spun her watch around her wrist, stared at Gunnar and then the floor. Her body was languid, yet stirred. She hungered for more. More of his kisses, his touches, his fangs…
“Oh, God.” She dropped into the wooden chair to her right, thankful that she could lean on to the table top and stop fighting the exhaustion racing through her body. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to touch you like you did for me.”
“Kjaere, there’s nothing I want more than to do that, but then, I’d tear your clothes off and be on you so fast. I’d be in you, nothing could stop that. Nothing.”
He crossed the space and came beside her. His fingers speared through her hair, twisted at her nape and directed her to look at him. He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Emotion crashed in his gaze, turbulent and intense. A little tug brought her forward until a sliver of an inch separated them. “You can kiss me.” The undisguised hunger in his voice colored
every syllable he spoke.
Yes! She’d kiss him and hold him close and savor every single second of being in his arms. Closing the gap, she pressed her mouth to his and couldn’t stop the whimper tangling in her throat.
“I feel it, too.” He pushed into her thoughts, never pausing in the fusing of their mouths, the dueling of their tongues.
Her body began to warm, primed for his touch. Need wended its way to her core, tingling and yearning with an emptiness she couldn’t ignore. Squeezing her thighs together, she dug her nails into his shoulder and held on to him, craving this connection.
“Easy,” he cajoled, slowing their kiss.
“No!” She nipped his lip.
He bracketed her jaw in his strong hand, stroked her lower lip with his thumb and slid back to watch her. One side of his mouth tipped up. With his fangs elongated and that little half-smile, he looked devilish, like a rogue. His eyes twinkled, too.
“I don’t want this to end.” She pouted. Actually pouted. And, she didn’t care. Not one bit.
“Me either.” The other side of his lips curved until he smiled fully. “This isn’t the end. I don’t intend to walk out of this room and never look back.” Something in his eyes flashed, a fey light pricked through the vibrant blue. “In any other circumstance, I’d be taking you out first thing tomorrow and making sure I proved myself to you as an honorable, capable, first-rate catch.”
She bit her lip, but she couldn’t stop the giggle that worked its way out.
One of his eyebrows arched. He jabbed his thumb into his chest. “Are you saying I’m not a catch?” The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as his fangs retracted. Predatory eyes watched her closely.
“First rate, for sure!” She put as much assurance into her words as she could.
With a wink, he captured her hand and brought it to his mouth kissing the delicate skin there. “I won’t let you go. I’ll try to find a way. In the meantime, you call me whenever you want. See me, whenever you want. Touch me…” his voice trailed off as a shiver tore through him.
She placed a hand on his bicep, rubbing gently. “The same for you.”
“We’ll take it slow, kjaere. Safe. I won’t compromise you. I promise.”
Everything in his countenance showed he spoke the utter truth. Everything inside her revolted at the strictures of their society making it impossible for her to be with him. She longed to touch him, to explore this attraction, to do whatever they wanted and be free to take things as far as they liked.
When he leaned closer, feathering kisses across her chin to her ear, he paused and murmured, “Touch yourself tonight, like we just did. And, I will do the same, thinking what it would be like to have your hands on me, taking me to heaven.”
The illicit thought had her pulse racing once again. She swallowed but a lump in her throat made it difficult. The skin on her palm tingled as she imagined doing what he’d asked. “I will.”
A strong arm lashed across her back and tugged her close. Chest to breast, she reveled in the way his scent wrapped around her and his warmth enveloped them. “’Til next time, kjaere.”
She nuzzled her head into the hollow between his throat and collarbone and pressed a kiss to his pulse point. “Yes, until next time.”
There’d be a next time. She’d make sure of that. One little tryst with Gunnar would never, ever be enough.
Chapter Eight
It was hard to act normal. Not when deep inside her little tremors still quaked, and Gunnar’s masculine scent clung to her skin. Every breath she took brought a hint of his cologne back into her senses and triggered her memory. The volatile images in her head danced in the periphery of her thoughts, provoking her to want his arms around her again. His body flush against hers and his fangs… Oh God, his fangs. Heat suffused her veins, warming her skin and burning her cheeks. With a jerk, she flipped on the AC all the way to max.
Once she knew the intense pleasure Gunnar could incite, she’d silently begged him for more. It was only as he’d kissed her and touched her in such an intimate manner that she’d lost her ability to think or even speak. Pleasure became her focus. And, he’d given it to her. Raw and heady, addictive.
Who’d have thought pleasure could be such an irresistible drug?
Everyone who’d ever experienced it. She rolled her eyes at her reflection in the rearview mirror. At her age, she really shouldn’t be this naïve. While she’d seen plenty of movies with romantic elements and even read her fair share of romance novels, there was nothing remotely as stirring as actually enjoying the pleasure.
As she drove home, the bustling traffic and ever present L.A. congestion was a blur. It felt as if she was on autopilot. Somehow, she made it to her street and turned into her driveway. Absently, she hit the button to open the garage door and angled the car into the tight one-car space.
It was more like a dilapidated storage compartment than an actual garage. The wooden beams across the roof sagged from years of termite damage. Holes in the roof were patched with crumbling plaster and the discoloration of rain damage yellowed the surrounding popcorn ceiling. Neatly stacked storage bins lined each wall with bloated sides distorting their rectangular appearance.
All her family’s meager belongings had swelled throughout their years in the U.S. When the terror of the invasion of the village in Abkhazia hit its zenith, there was little time to grab mementos and superfluous belongings. Each of them had filled a knapsack with essentials and they’d slipped out into the frigid night hoping only for escape. She still remembered the heavy weight of the bag on her slight ten-year-old shoulders, but there’d been no complaining from her. The situation had been beyond dire.
Now, they had knickknacks and decorations stored in plastic bins, forgotten and neglected. Grabbing her purse, she exited her banged-up coupe, wincing as the door hinges squealed.
It took but three steps to reach the first door leading into a homemade sally-port. Long ago, when they’d first moved into the West Hollywood craftsman bungalow, her father had sketched out a design for the double-door entry which would ensure no males inadvertently had sun exposure. His drawing was minimalistic and contemporary, almost art-deco. Circumstances and lack of money had put that on the back-burner and nearly three decades had past. Instead, the lopsided corridor of chipped dry-wall and two-by-fours greeted her each morning as she arrived home from work. With a long sigh, she paced through the cramped vestibule and made sure to shut the second door behind her.
The house was quiet except for the rattling of the out-of-date air conditioner. Various scents of ham and freshly baked bread wafted through the small kitchen. Bright lights illuminated the space, accenting the cheery strawberry décor. Some of the wallpaper border curled at the edges, flapping in the current of the central air vent. A pot on the stove simmered with a dark glaze, probably for the ham. Her stomach growled as the rich aroma of the cooking food tantalized her mounting hunger.
She hung her keys on the little metal hook screwed into a combination year-to-date calendar and artsy note board. Typically, she’d toss her sweater into the dirty-clothes bin for a quick wash but today she kept it tightly scrunched against her side. It had his scent on it. She wanted to bury her face in the soft material and inhale deeply for a “take me away, Gunnar” moment but resisted the urge.
Once in her room, she kicked off her scuffed clogs and deposited her sweater on the seat of her hammock chair. She left it there for later when she might need comfort. One benefit of their house was that she had her own bathroom. It was tiny, with a minuscule glass shower angled into the corner. She’d applied tulip stickers around the base to give it a whimsical look. A pedestal sink with a floral skirting hid her toiletries from view. Her father had installed a simple white Ikea storage unit above the toilet and she’d found some baskets on clearance at the craft store to line each shelf and stock with clean towels. It wasn’t a sprawling fancy bath-retreat like one would have in Beverly Hills but it gave her privacy and she found the fam
iliarity comforting. Pulling off her scrubs, she tossed them through the narrow doorway onto her bed. After dousing a washcloth with some cool water, she dabbed her cheeks and throat, wincing with an unexpected sting. She moved closer to the mirror and inspected the scratch that ran along her collar bone to the juncture there. She closed her eyes remembering the twinge of Gunnar’s fang. He’d left a slight mark there. She wanted it to be glaring and imagined double puncture wounds encircled by a vibrant bruising. Like a mated female would have.
Her throat clogged with a wash of emotions. She forced herself to breathe slowly, clear her mind of anything so impossible. Holding on to the lip of the sink, she leaned near to the mirror and stared at herself. Get it together before you tailspin into dangerous emotional territory. Best thing for her was to dress, get into the dining area, and forget about her forbidden tryst with Gunnar.
Easier to say than do, she reminded herself.
Raised voices reverberated through the thin walls. The deeper intonation clipped the higher pitched ramble cutting off a long-winded diatribe. Great, her parents were arguing. Again. She bit into her lower lip and tried to make out what they were saying. Snippets of their fight were in Turkish and her father’s low rumbling accent constantly interrupted her mother’s agitated statements. They spoke fast, their mother-tongue melodic and intense. She picked out a few words here and there. Once, she’d spoken it fluently and with confidence. Since her time in the USA and the use of English in all her day-to-day experiences, she’d allowed herself to forget the old ways of her life, including Turkish. Exasperated by her lack of understanding, she threw on a pair of Pink sweats and a loose tank. In a few seconds, she left her room, crossed the hallway and took the two steps down into the sunken living room area.
Dressed in a knock-off Ann Taylor dress, her nan sat on the edge of the occasion chair, plucking at the nap of the simple blue fabric. Opaque nylons and matching shoes finished off the affluent vibe. She sat with perfect posture with her legs crossed and angled to the side. An envelope and a thick rectangular notecard the color of lilac rested in her lap. Her furrowed brow and nearly closed eyes gave away her frustration. She rocked slightly—a sure sign of her growing animosity.
Mated in Treason Page 10