Guardian

by Knight, Angela

  He waited until they came up for air. “But for the record”—he leaned in close and showed his impressive teeth—“if you hurt my kid, I’ll rip out your heart and eat it.”

  Nick blinked at him. “That’s fair.”

  They left Nick alone to get dressed in a dark green civilian tunic and pants Riane had obtained from a unit in the wall. Everything fit like a glove and sealed with something like Velcro, except without the Velcro—he’d have loved to know how that worked. After sliding his feet into a pair of soft black boots, Nick stepped out of the dome to look for Riane, her wolf, and Charlotte.

  He found them waiting just outside.

  “I wish I could stay,” Charlotte told him without preamble, “but I need to get going.” She looked tense, anxious, a little grim.

  “Back to the Sela?” Nick reached for her hand. Her skin felt too cool, and he frowned at her in worry.

  “No.” She lifted her chin, her gaze level and determined. “I need to find your father.”

  Nick tensed. “Vanja told you who he is?”

  Charlotte’s smile was so slight as to be almost invisible, but her gaze was warm. “No, but I figure he’s a tall, handsome devil. Like his son.” Her smile turned a bit sad. “Not a bad one-night stand.”

  “Charlotte . . . Mother . . .”

  Her hand tightened around his. “Listen to me, Nick. I’m proud to know I’ll become your mother. I can think of no finer accomplishment. And I know my life with you will give me a great deal of pleasure and pride.”

  He dragged her into his arms for a fierce hug. She held him close, then pressed her lips to his cheek and stepped away. His eyes stung.

  Riane promptly pulled her into a warm embrace. “Thank you for him.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened in surprise, then she hugged the taller woman back. “And thank you for loving him.” When Riane released her, she took a deep breath.

  “But what about the T’Lir?” Nick frowned down at the still-darkened gem that hugged his upper arm, wondering if he was supposed to give it to her—and what use it would be if he did.

  Charlotte pulled up the loose sleeve of her shirt. An identical armband clasped her upper arm, though considerably brighter, its metal lacking the scratches of his own. Green sparks danced in its depths. “Vanja gave me this before I left. Apparently it just changed shape all on its own.” Catching his confused frown, she explained, “It used to look like a snow globe. It’s the earlier version of yours.”

  Nick touched his, frowning. “What about mine? Did the spirits . . . ?”

  “Vanja said that you saved them when you let the Guardian draw on your life force. They’re really weak, though, so you need to avoid using the T’Lir for a while. It’s going to take them time to recover.”

  He sighed in relief. So her future self survived still, inside the Stone, waiting to be reborn. Some of his grief lifted. “Good.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath and blew it out. “Well, I’d better get going, or I’ll never want to leave.”

  A green glow flooded the corridor, and she was gone.

  Frieka looked up at them. “Which officially makes me the third wheel here. Since judging by the pheromones”—he sneezed explosively—“mating will soon commence, I’m out of here. I think I’ll go find Dona and cheer her up.”

  As they watched, he trotted out of sight.

  Frieka was right. They almost didn’t make it back to Riane’s quarters.

  Nick and Riane were in each other’s arms before the door slid completely closed. It was a hard kiss, flavored with joy, fierce relief, and a lingering sadness for Charlotte’s sacrifice.

  Tasting that last, Riane instantly resolved to make Nick forget his losses. At least for a while.

  She stripped his tunic off over his head and bent to give one of his pecs a promising nibble. He chuckled in pleasure and anticipation, threading his hands through her hair. “God, I love you.”

  Riane lifted her head to grin up at him. “And I love you.” Her eyes stung suddenly, and she cleared her throat, a little surprised at the sudden fierce intensity of the emotion. “More than I can say.”

  Nick bent and hauled her up into his arms. Chuckling, Riane wrapped her legs around his waist and dove into another kiss. Tongues stroked, teased, swirled hungry circles around each other. By the time they drew apart, they were both panting.

  “I hope there’s a bed in here somewhere,” Nick told her, a glitter in his eyes. “Or one of us is about to end up butt-down on the floor.”

  Riane laughed. “Right behind you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Ahh. There it is.” He turned and carried her over to the bunk, then tumbled both of them onto it.

  They got busy for a while, dragging off clothes and boots, laughing as various items went flying. Finally, they were both blessedly naked.

  Riane sighed in pleasure at the feeling of his warm bare skin against hers, hard-muscled and strong.

  And so deliciously alive.

  “For a while there,” she told him, “I was afraid we weren’t going to make it.”

  Green eyes narrowed. “Well, we did. And we’re going to stay that way. I’ll kill any fucker that tries to take you away from me.”

  His mouth crushed down on hers again, hot and fierce with promise. Fingers tangled in her hair dragged her head back, and he began nibbling his way down the length of her neck. Paused to swirl his tongue over the jut of her collarbone, then give it a quick nip before continuing downward.

  Feeling decadent in her pleasure, Riane let him work his way to her breasts. “You have,” he told her between teasing licks and nibbles, “the most delicious nipples I’ve ever had the pleasure to taste.”

  “What a coincidence.” Riane sat up on her elbows to watch. His dark hair felt like silk as it fell across her breasts. “I like your jutty bits, too.”

  He looked up, a grin dancing around his mouth. “Jutty bits? Jutty bits? Any part of mine that juts is not a ‘bit’!”

  She smirked. “Jutty kielbasa? Jutty man snake? Jutty . . .”

  He dug his long fingers into her ribs, and she shrieked out a laugh. “Watch it, you! A little respect for the intercontinental ballistic missile of passion!”

  Riane stared at him. “Two things. You call your dick an ICBM? And second, if you can even pronounce ‘intercontinental ballistic missile’ right now, your blood supply is not where it’s supposed to be.”

  “Blood supply?” An expression of mock outrage on his face, he sat up and grabbed his cock. Which, judging by its length, breadth, and rosy rigidity, was more than up to the task she had in mind. “I’ll show you blood supply!”

  Quick as a blink, Riane planted a hand in the middle of his chest and shoved. He toppled over on his back with a shout of laughter as she pounced. A hand curled around his cock, and she swooped in to engulf as much of that delicious length as she possibly could.

  Riane’s mouth felt so hot, wet, and staggeringly delicious that he almost came on the spot. “Wait a minute!” he protested, managing, with a effort of will, to pull his cock free. It definitely wasn’t happy to leave her mouth.

  She glared at him in grumpy frustration. “What do you mean?”

  “Sixty-nine!” he gasped, and rearranged himself. Riane wasted no time straddling his face while she scooped his cock up and popped it into her mouth again.

  The sensation of that clever tongue dancing over the head of his erection made his eyes roll back in his head. God, she was good at that.

  Determined to give her every bit as much pleasure, Nick parted her delicate nether lips and lifted his head for a long, slow lick. To his satisfaction, she jerked against him and moaned.

  As if challenged, she took him deeper, her throat working around his length in mind-blowing ripples. Her long fingers found his balls, rolled them tenderly, cupped, and stroked. Each movement of that talented hand coiled his building orgasm another fraction tighter.

  He slipped a finger into her depths and began to stro
ke as he licked slow circles around her clit. Riane quivered, loving the pleasure that jolted through her with each thrust, the wet delight in every flick of his tongue.

  She took him down again, enjoying the way he jerked in luscious reaction. The soft hair on his chest teased her hard nipples, adding another sweet flourish of delight. Riane closed her eyes, savoring the salty, slightly bitter taste of his pre-cum, the clean male scent of his body.

  Her exotic warrior, with all his power and hidden vulnerabilities . . .

  And hers. As she was his. Body and soul and heart.

  The climax took her by surprise, roaring up out of that hungry part of her soul that had been lonely too long, despite the best efforts of family and friends and Frieka. Long, rippling pulses of orgasm, pumping hard through her core. She lost her grip on his cock as she threw back her head to scream.

  Suddenly she was flat on her back, and he was rearing over her, his green eyes wild. He drove into her in one long thrust, sweet and ruthless, filling her so completely she yowled.

  “God, Riane!” he gasped, and began to pump. Riding hard between her legs in deep, powerful drives.

  “Nick, I love you!” She cried out in pleasure and wrapped arms and legs around him, drawing him close, wanting to touch every inch of him with every inch of herself. “Mother Goddess, I love you!”

  “Love you . . .” he panted. “Love you . . .”

  Shuddering, convulsing at the sharp, fierce bursts of delight that jolted through them with every thrust, they surged and rolled together.

  And came simultaneously with one long, chorusing scream.

  Panting and exhausted, Riane and Nick lay in a deliciously sweaty heap. Listening to his heartbeat slow, she picked up a long curl of his hair and stroked it absently between her fingers.

  They had a long road ahead of them, she knew. He had three centuries to catch up on now—he didn’t even speak Galactic Standard after all. Knew nothing about life in the twenty-third century. Luckily, all that could be taken care of easily enough. A few educational data implants, and he’d know everything he needed to learn in a few hours.

  Learning to use all that knowledge would take longer, but he was more than up to the job. He’d already learned to do something similar with the help of the Stone after all. He . . .

  “Riane . . .” he began, his tone hesitant.

  “Mmm?”

  “I realize I’ve got a long way to go before I can pull my own weight in this time . . .”

  Riane snorted. “Judging by what Charlotte said about the coming trouble with the Victor, I suspect you’ll be more than pulling before long.”

  “Which brings up another problem. There’s going to be war, and it’s probably going to be ugly.”

  “Wars usually are.”

  He took a deep breath. “Marry me anyway.”

  She froze, breath held. “What?”

  “Uhhh . . .” He met her gaze, his own worried. “Do you even have marriage in this time?”

  “Oh.” She blinked, stunned. “Yeah, we get married.”

  “Good. So.” He licked his lips, vulnerability in his eyes. Swallowed. “Will you marry me, Riane Arvid?”

  The grin that spread across her face was so broad, it almost hurt her cheeks. “Yes!” She whooped and threw both arms around his chest. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  “Good.” He closed his eyes in relief, gathering her close. “That’s very good.”

  The kiss went on a long, long time.

  Turn the page for a special preview of

  KISSING MIDNIGHT

  By Emma Holly

  Coming June 2009 from Berkley Sensation!

  Paddington Station, 1933

  Graham Fitz Clare was a secret agent.

  He had to repeat that to himself sometimes, because the situation seemed too ludicrous otherwise. He was ordinary, he thought, no one more so, but he fit a profile apparently. Eton. Oxford. No nascent Bolshevik tendencies. MI5 had recruited him two years ago, soon after he’d accepted a job as personal assistant to an American manufacturer. Arnold Anderson traveled the world on business, and Graham—who had a knack for languages—served as his translator and dogsbody.

  He supposed it was the built-in cover that shined him up for spy work, though he couldn’t see as he’d done anything important yet. He hadn’t pilfered any secret papers, hadn’t seduced an enemy agent—which wasn’t to suggest he thought he could! For the most part, he’d simply reported back on factories he and his employer had visited, along with writing up impressions of their associated owners and officials.

  Tonight, in fact, was the most spylike experience he’d had to date.

  His instructions had been tucked into the copy of The Times he’d bought at the newsagent down the street from his home.

  “Paddington Station,” the note had said in curt, telegraphic style. “At 11:45 tonight. Come by Underground and carry this paper under your left arm.”

  Graham stood at the station now, carrying the paper and feeling vaguely foolish. The platform was empty and far darker than during the day. The cast-iron arches of the roof curved gloomily above his head, the musty smell of soot stinging his nose. A single train, unlit and silent except for the occasional sigh of escaping steam, sat on the track to the right of him. One bored porter had eyed him when he arrived, shaken his head, and then retired to presumably cozier environs.

  Possibly the porter had been bribed to disappear. All Graham knew for sure was that he’d been waiting here fifteen minutes while his feet froze to the concrete floor, without the slightest sign of whoever he was supposed to meet. Doubly vexed to hear a church clock striking midnight, he tried not to shiver in the icy November damp. His overcoat was new, at least—a present from the professor on Graham’s twenty-fifth birthday.

  That memory made him smile despite his discomfort. His guardian was notoriously shy about giving gifts. They were always generous, always exactly what the person wanted—as if Edmund had plucked the wish from their minds. He always acted as if he’d presumed by wanting to give whatever it was to them. The habit, and so many others, endeared him to his adopted brood more than any parent by blood could have. The professor seemed to think it a privilege to have been allowed to care for them.

  All of them, even flighty little Sally, knew the privilege was theirs.

  Though Graham was old enough to occasionally be embarrassed by the fact, there really was no mystery as to why Edmund’s charges remained at home. Graham’s lips pressed together at the thought of causing Edmund concern. If tonight’s business kept him waiting long enough to have to lie to the professor about where he’d been, he was not going to be amused.

  Metal creaked, drawing his eyes to the darkened train. Evidently, it wasn’t empty. One of the doors had opened, and a dainty Oriental woman was stepping down the stairs of the central car. Her skintight emerald dress looked straight out of wardrobe for a Charlie Chan picture. Actually, she looked straight out of one, too, so exotically gorgeous that Graham’s tongue was practically sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  He forced himself to swallow as her eyes raked him up and down.

  “Hm,” she said, flicking a length of night black hair behind one slender shoulder. “You’re tall at least, and you look healthy.”

  Graham flushed at her dismissive tone, and again—even harder—when she turned her back on him to reascend the stairs. Holy hell, her rear view was smashing, her waist nipped in, her bum round and firm. Graham knew he wasn’t the sort of man women swooned over, not like his younger brother Ben, or even the professor, whose much-younger female students occasionally followed him home. No, Graham had a plain English face, not ugly but forget-table. Normally, this didn’t bother him—or not much. It just seemed a bit humiliating to find the woman who’d insulted him so very attractive herself.

  That green dress was tight enough to show the cleft between the halves of her arse. His groin grew heavy, his shaft beginning to swell. The sight of her lack of underclothes was so inspiring
he forgot he was supposed to move.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she said impatiently over her shoulder. “Follow me.”

  Shoving The Times into his pocket, he followed her, dumbstruck, into a private compartment. She yanked down the shades before flicking on two dim sconces.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing to the black leather seat opposite her own. Her hand was slim and pale, her nails lacquered red as blood.

  Graham sat with difficulty. He was erect and aching and too polite to shift the cause of the trouble to a different position. Hoping his condition wasn’t obvious to her, he wrapped his hands around his knees and waited.

  The woman stared at him unblinking—taking his stock, he guessed. She resembled a painted statue, or maybe a mannequin in a store window. In spite of his attraction to her, Graham’s irritation rose. This woman had kept him hanging long enough.

  “What’s this about?” he asked.

  She leaned back and crossed a pair of incredibly shapely legs, a move that seemed too practiced to be casual. Her dress was shorter than the current fashion, ending just below her knee. Graham wasn’t certain, but from the hissing sound her calves made, she might be wearing real silk stockings.

  “We’re giving you a new assignment,” she said.

  “A new assignment.”

  “If we decide you’re up for it.”

  “Look,” Graham said, “you people came to me. It’s hardly cricket to suggest that you’re doing me favors.”

  The woman smiled, her teeth a gleaming flash of white behind ruby lips. Graham noticed her incisors were unusually sharp. “I think you’ll find this assignment more intriguing than your previous one. It does, however, require a higher level of vetting.” She leaned forward, her slender forearm resting gracefully on one thigh. The way her small breasts shifted behind her dress told him her top half had no more undergarments than her bottom. Graham’s collar began to feel as tight as his pants. The space between their seats wasn’t nearly great enough.