Sentinels: Leopard Enchanted (Harlequin Nocturne)

by Doranna Durgin

  Compared to the Core posse members who demanded that she wait on their every need even when they weren’t sick, she thought he was doing just fine. But it interested her to see how close he skirted to telling her the full truth of his nature—that, in fact, he’d not come right out and lied to her. Of course a strong-blooded Sentinel wasn’t used to being sick. Given the unnatural rate at which they healed, it would be a wonder if they ever were.

  Ana herself had been blessed with a naturally quick rate of healing—or cursed with it, rather. It was one reason Lerche felt free to leave his mark on her. But she got sick as often as anyone else, with the same clusters of cold and flu and a stomach that could be touchy. She made sure she was always a very good patient, requiring as little from the Core physicians as she could. But she said merely, “If things don’t get better, you probably should.”

  Ian caught himself rubbing his temple and gave a rueful laugh, if not much of one. “It’s probably something going around.” He didn’t look convinced, and she wasn’t surprised. Field Sentinels like Ian Scott didn’t catch such things, even if the light-bloods did. “Fernie wasn’t looking well this afternoon, either. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen, helping her clean up after one of her bake-fests.”

  Her fork hovered in midair as she tried to imagine it...and found that she could. Found that she could easily see this sharp-edged man putting aside his work to help the retreat manager on a tough afternoon.

  She couldn’t say the same for Hollender Lerche.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” he said, mistaking her hesitation. “If it’s catching—”

  She laughed and speared the fork into her salad. If he noticed how carefully she’d been chewing, he didn’t mention it. “If it’s catching, then I think I’ve already got it, don’t you?”

  He grinned. “There’s something to that.” And then they talked quietly of favorite old movies while she pulled her laptop open and rented them a Bogart flick—Key Largo, of course—and Ian demonstrated that whatever the state of his headache, his casual mastery of tech also included hooking a laptop up to the house TV so they could watch on the larger screen. By the time they finished the last forkful of their cheesecake dessert, they shared the couch as if they’d always done so.

  Only when Ana was fully nestled in under Ian’s arm, her legs curled beneath her while he stretched the length of his out on to the kitchen chair he’d appropriated for that purpose, did she realize she hadn’t yet invoked the second amulet—and that she didn’t dare do it now, for fear he would sense it, no matter its silent nature.

  It didn’t matter. Surely Hollander Lerche wasn’t interested in murmured chitchat over a classic movie. Surely he couldn’t expect her to delve into a conversation of more substance until Ian was more comfortable with her—more confident with her.

  Although he was, most obviously, comfortable and confident enough to fall asleep on her couch.

  She realized it as the film credits began to roll. She drew back from beneath his arm to consider him in the flickering light of the television, pulling her feet up on the couch to wrap her arms around her legs and rest her chin on her knees. Knowing that she ought to be curled up on the other end of this couch, trembling in fear. And that she ought to trigger the amulet, shortening the time she was exposed to Ian and his entitled, arrogant ways.

  He was, after all, a man who represented everything about a race of people who considered themselves more than and better than and quite evidently above the law altogether.

  But Ian’s touch had given her choice. Brought her pleasure. Inspired her napping dreams. Protected her from a mugger.

  It startled her to realize that Lerche’s man had known Ian would leap to her side when the cyclist grabbed at her—that he’d counted on it. She frowned, thinking that one through—or trying to. Instead, she found herself distracted by the way dark lashes swept a shadow across Ian’s high, strong cheek. And by the way his mouth, in repose, relaxed to show the definition of lips that pleased her—their shape, the little hint of a curve at one side that revealed his habitual dry humor. The faint cleft in his chin, the unlikely perfection of the way silvered bangs scattered across his forehead, the equally unlikely short, dark hairs that defined his hairline at sideburns, nape and even buried beneath the lighter strands.

  The movie credits ended and the sudden silence alerted him; she saw the glimmer of his awakening gaze and smiled. She felt the promise of that look and of his interest in her. She felt her body warming to awareness—not of the Sentinel, but of the man.

  Then again, the Core had always considered her to be weak of heart and mind, hadn’t they?

  “Hey,” she said, and even her quiet voice seemed loud in the house. “Feel better?”

  He stretched—an indulgent thing, right down to his fingers—and relaxed utterly again. “Hey,” he said. “Much better.” But then his eyes narrowed, and for an instant she felt pinned by his gaze—she felt all the fluttering uncertainty she’d told herself she ought to. “Ana...are those bruises?”

  “Bruises?” she said, sounding as stupid as she felt. How could he...darkness had fallen, and she hadn’t turned on any lights. Only what came from the TV, where the bubbles from her laptop screen saver drifted over the surface. Between the makeup and the darkness, she should have been safe from questions about the marks Lerche had left.

  “You didn’t have those this morning.” He no longer reclined, relaxed, but now sat straighter, tension filling his shoulders. He tapped a quick pattern against his leg and nodded at her jaw. “I should have seen them earlier, but that headache...”

  Of course. Right. Because Sentinels had that vaunted night vision—a spillover from the beast they carried within. What had Lerche been thinking?

  But Ana knew the answer to that question. He hadn’t cared.

  “Are they that bad?” She touched her jaw, and a wince gave her the answer. Still, she addressed the bigger elephant in the room. “I can’t believe you can see them in this light.”

  “Just one of those things,” he said, making no attempt to explain it—but not making anything up, either. “Ana, who—”

  “I’m here alone,” she told him, and realized with those words that she was the one who lied to him, who had lied to him from the moment they’d crossed paths. “It was just one of those stupid things.”

  He searched her face as if he might find the truth there.

  Well, it was one of those stupid things. She knew better than to show disrespect to Hollender Lerche. That was on her, that she’d done so. But she also knew that sometimes Lerche’s mood meant there was no avoiding his temper. That was on him.

  Ian let it pass, in a way she thought meant he wasn’t actually going to forget it. He rose to his feet, so fluidly she couldn’t believe he’d been deeply ensconced in the couch an instant earlier, and prowled to the window—looking out into the darkness and seeing who knew what.

  “You are feeling better,” she said. “And I guess I have the answer to my question.”

  He turned his head just enough to offer a puzzled frown. “Which question is that?”

  “The one where I wondered if you ever sat still,” she said drily.

  He laughed, short as it was. “No,” he said. “Not often. When I sleep. And...” He gave her a thoughtful look, and quite obviously didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Oh, come on,” she said, unclasping her hands from around her legs and letting her feet slide to the floor. “Now you’ve got to tell me. Even if it’s embarrassing. Especially if.”

  He padded back to the couch; somewhere along the way he’d lost his shoes, and the barefoot movement only added to the prowl in his walk.

  He killed a man. I should be frightened.

  But she wasn’t.

  She was alive.

  Her fingers tingled as he reached down to offer
his hand. She took it; her body pulsed as he drew her to her feet. Warmth suffused her, instilling just a hint of weakness in her knees—a delightfully liquid sensation.

  “And now,” he said, pulling her closer—not with so much strength she couldn’t hold her own, but with enough ease to demonstrate the strength still lurking. He touched her face; he skimmed his fingers along her jaw so lightly that she felt only their presence and not the pain of the bruises beneath. “Now,” he said, and kissed one eyelid, and then the next. “Now,” he added, and brought his mouth down on hers, kissing her with a gentle assertion—and kissing her, and kissing her, until she threaded her fingers through his hair and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him back, so caught up in the firm sensation of his lips, the tease of tongue and teeth, the impression of being...not taken, but worshiped.

  He bent over her and she trusted. He dipped her as if they were in a dance, and she gave herself up to his strength. He settled her perfectly over the cushions of the couch, and she never stopped reaching for him.

  She had no idea how much time passed before he groaned and drew back—and said, with no little wonder, “Now. I can’t explain it... I never—”

  She silenced him with boldness, slipping her hand inside his shirt to caress skin and feel it flutter beneath her fingertips, a sensitive flinch that came with a grin. She suggested, “Just feel...and follow it?”

  He searched her eyes. For once she didn’t feel like the vulnerable one—not with the uncertainty she saw there, or his eyes gone so dark with what she’d done to him. Or for him. Definitely not with the hard tremble of his arms and body—a tremble that in no way came from weakness. “Is that what you want?”

  Yes. Because what she felt right now was safe and enclosed and accepted. As if, in that moment, she was everything she needed to be.

  How could she do anything other than follow that feeling?

  “Yes,” she said, surprised by the husky sound of her own voice. “Yes, please. Let’s.”

  “Let’s,” he agreed, and laughed just a little—in relief, she thought. Not that she had much time to think about it. He lowered himself over her only enough so she could wrap her legs around him, ruing the impediment of clothing—and then surprised her when he slipped his hands more firmly beneath her and pivoted to sit, putting her squarely in his lap. Squarely against him and his quite obviously already straining erection.

  Pleasure speared through her, startling her into a cry—one she’d not heard herself make before. And then when he moved against her, another, this one echoed by the faint snarl of Ian’s expression—just as surprised as she was, his fingers clamping down on her hips.

  Such a pure, hot lightning, striking so deeply within... Her fingers dug into his shoulders, gathering the material of his shirt—but only briefly, because the more she felt, the more she wanted to touch him. Fumbling at buttons, pushing the shirt back to expose the planes of his chest—a lean man’s muscled body, layered in strength without bulk, crisp pale hair scattered to tease her fingers and fade across his abs to reappear in a narrow line above his belt.

  As it had before, his skin twitched, more sensitive than she’d imagined. When she spread her fingers across his belly and went seeking beneath the belt, he made a disbelieving sort of sound, half laugh and half gasp, and rolled them over again. The soft couch cushions enveloped her just as he found her mouth. He kissed her with fiercely thorough attention, his fingers at her blouse buttons and then tangling with hers. He moved his mouth to her neck, nipping, as she reached for his belt, and he reached for her slacks button. She tugged his pants over his hips; he deftly yanked hers out from beneath her, his mouth still on her neck, on her collarbones, dipping lower to ignore her bra and find one nipple right through the soft material.

  She bucked up against him and reveled in it—reveled in watching herself and her response to him. No man had evoked such response in her...no man had ever tried.

  Ian laughed again, this time with a growl in the background. He lifted his head to capture her gaze, and she stilled under the impact of it—bright intensity, heated desire...

  “Please,” she told him, understanding the question behind that look. “Yes. Most definitely yes.”

  He drew a sharp breath—relief or fettered passion, she wasn’t sure. But then she didn’t want to wait any longer. She kicked her pants aside, shoving her panties off with them, and then went after his boxers. In a moment they were both free, both already warm and wet with the wanting, and she didn’t think twice. She wrapped her legs around his hips and reveled in his unrestrained grunt of pleasure as flesh met flesh.

  And then Ian surprised her all over again, flattening himself on her, muttering—grasping for his pants while the couch all but swallowed them both. He made a sound of triumph and emerged with a condom. She shared his breathless victory with a grin, and between the two of them they got the thing unwrapped and in place, and then he was in place again, and with a single nudge of adjustment, they slipped together.

  Ana stopping thinking. She stopped being able to think. She barely realized it when Ian swung her upright again, thrusting upward as her knees sank into the couch cushions. Pure hot lightning... Ana reached for more of it, finding a rhythm with him, barely aware of her own cries. She shot straight through that pleasure to sensations she’d never even imagined, and found herself with a sudden new awareness.

  His response to her. His gasps and his expression, cords of muscle straining in his neck and his face flushed, his eyes widening with the same sort of startled recognition that suffused her own body. An utter vulnerability that he seemed to fight against and lose to with every thrust, with every breath.

  “Ian,” she breathed, and it was a kind of plea, an understanding that she was in an unfamiliar place and didn’t know where to go from there. His hand slid from her waist to cover her pubic hair, thumb sliding downward to touch her just so.

  Lightning struck. She cried out in abandon and lost herself to it, a flood of sensation that tugged at her toes and filled her from the inside out, every muscle clenched or throbbing in the best possible way. She dimly heard Ian’s shout, feeling the pulse of his release in a way that had never mattered before but now suddenly did. She opened her eyes just soon enough to see it on his face—ecstasy ripping right through him, laying him as bare as it had laid her.

  That’s when she understood, even as the final throb of pleasure ebbed through her body, leaving her limp in its wake.

  Being with Ian wasn’t just about seeing where things went or following along in an adventure or feeling, even pulling the most possible pleasure from it all.

  It was about doing those things together.

  Chapter 4

  Ian gulped for air, reveling in the sensation of Ana’s body draped over his. Not to mention the pulses of lingering pleasure and the distinct memory of her expression as orgasm had washed over her. His breathing steadied; his mind steadied.

  Quiet. Replete.

  A completely unfamiliar inner silence.

  He floundered in it, uncertain—looking for some mental handhold, even if it brought him back to the plague of internal noise he couldn’t remember being without.

  She stirred, pushing off his chest to look at him with her face still flushed and now blushing on top of it, her hair a delightful disarray. “Oh, my God,” she said, putting a hand over her mouth. “I... I screamed.”

  He smiled, finding his anchor in her expression. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

  “I never—” She stopped herself. “I...never...”

  It caught his attention. There was more here than the aftermath of great sex. Stupendously great sex. Even he knew that much, still floating in the physical satisfaction and silence. “What?”

  “No, I—” She shook her head, looking around—bringing herself back to the details of what had happened. He knew what she’d see—scatter
ed clothes, scattered couch cushions and a man she hadn’t known all that long still lying beneath her.

  He stopped her just before she would have removed herself from it all, his hands over her thighs—enough to encompass, not enough to force compliance—and asked it again. “What?”

  She covered her face, only briefly, and then flipped her hair back. “I’ve never come with anyone before.”

  He frowned. “At the same time? Because technically, you beat me to that finish line.”

  She laughed, but it sounded sad. “No, I mean...when I’ve been with someone. Ever.” She took a breath as he tried to absorb this. “I’m ‘too hard to please.’”

  He half sat, his hold on her legs keeping them just as together as they’d been. “Who said that? Because—” Then he stopped, suddenly aware of the depth of his reaction, his protective response. “Never mind. That’s not what I want to say. But just so you know, whoever said that is obviously fucking nuts. Pardon me.”

  She laughed again, this time sounding as if, just possibly, she’d been freed from something. But she quickly turned uncertain. “Ian,” she said. “Seriously. Is this how it should always be?”

  “Babe,” he told her, still awash in the aftermath of silence within himself, “this is how we always wish it would be. But it should always be good. A man makes certain of that.”

  Blessed, blessed silence...

  She said, “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Don’t,” he said, and was a little hard pressed to explain when she raised a brow at him. “Think, I mean. Just stay here with me a little while longer. Not thinking.”

  “Look who’s talking. I got the impression that you never actually do stop thinking. I bet you run calculations in your sleep.” But she smiled, relaxing the fraction that told him she’d stay. She made another attempt to tame her hair back and gave up on it, instead turning her attention to his chest—chasing whorls of hair with her fingertips and the edges of short, practical nails painted something faintly pink. His skin pebbled in response, all the way down to his balls; he twitched faintly inside her. She laughed, disbelief at the edge of it.