The Shadow Guard

by Diane Whiteside

  Jake caught her and swung her against the solid brick wall.

  Strength poured back into her from deep within the earth, through the bricks’ ancient clay. Her legs steadied and held her. Light and life tumbled over and over each other through her veins, faster and faster every time their eyes met.

  He cupped her cheek in his hand and threaded his fingers through her hair. His gaze was unfathomably deep and dark, like a forest pool she could swim in for days. He delicately caressed her scalp and she shivered, tiny spears of pleasure racing through her skin. Her eyes drifted shut in sheer delight.

  His mouth came down on hers and his hot breath stole her few remaining wits away. He kissed her as if they had all the time in the world, as if nothing mattered more than this moment, as if this kiss alone would satisfy him.

  She answered him as openly, more than willing to enjoy the moment’s diversions.

  His hands swept down her back and pulled her closer. He stroked the long sweep of muscle until his fingers dared to slip inside her trousers’ waistband.

  She hummed her pleasure into his mouth, lust sparking like fireflies in her blood. She was surrounded by masculinity, enveloped by it—his wool jacket, cashmere sweater, trousers, the bricks behind her—sinking into her every time she writhed against his hard chest, stroked her leg over his, or kneaded his shoulders.

  His cock was heavy and hard between them, hot and thick in its cage behind his fly, imprisoned like her by his will.

  She slid her leg up his hip, lust drumming through her veins faster than any rock music.

  “Astrid, dammit.” His breath stopped in his lungs and he caught her thigh. He dragged his lips away from hers with a muttered curse.

  She went still, startled by his reaction.

  Then he kissed her throat, tossed her up into his arms, and left the room at a dead run.

  She gulped and clutched his shoulders, a shamefully eager burst of hunger tightening her breasts. Surely this simple display of barbarian tactics should not impress an experienced sahir like her.

  Her long-practiced discipline, which had turned cohorts of previous sexual partners into eager fodder for her magick, was now far less important than the salty-sweet aroma of his musk. Or the smooth thrust of his legs under her ass as he carried her forward through the simple living room. Or his heated breath ruffling her hair every time his feet trod on the narrow stairs, steep as any guardhouse tower.

  She was captured and on the way to his lair, yet more vibrantly alive than she’d been an hour ago.

  What kind of body did he have anyway? His torso looked as if he subsisted on a cop’s classic diet of doughnuts, coffee, and cheeseburgers. But when she was tucked this close, his chest offered the same massive reassurance that a weightlifting machine would.

  She nuzzled his shoulder, soaking up the contrasting textures of rough wool jacket, soft sweater, and crisp collar, all draped over the taut lines of his collarbone.

  “Yummm,” she purred and pressed a kiss in between his shirt and sweater.

  He jolted, then chuckled a little hoarsely. “Hedonist.”

  “Oh, you have no idea,” she said honestly. He’d certainly never dealt with a century-old sahir before, let alone one eager to recharge her magick. She curled her hand around his nape, the same way she would with a kubri, and let her sheer, reckless enjoyment of this moment flow into him along with a bit of her magick.

  “Pretty lady.” His eyes darkened before his mouth came down on hers again, hot and possessive. She answered him eagerly, more than pleased that he welcomed a two-way flow of magick, unlike most farashas.

  She came up for air when he sat down on an enormous bed. A very modern TV sat atop a smoothly carved cherrywood chest that any antique dealer would have coveted. The streetlights’ reflections danced like tiny candles among nicks and scars in the dark red furniture.

  Photos covered the walls, of a laughing family with two sons and also exotic locations with no people visible. All were carefully framed, as individual as the photos themselves.

  The room was efficient, well worn, and made Astrid’s heart skip a beat.

  “Astrid, sweetie.” Jake lifted her chin with a finger and kissed her eyes. She closed them far too willingly, happy not to look at his tempting lair.

  He kissed her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose, her temples and her cheekbones, her forehead and her upper lip.

  Her breath stuttered and stopped. She turned to come up onto her knees and rubbed herself over him, only to meet with jacket and sweater and shirt.

  “Jake!” She pulled back, disgruntled, then reached for his waistband. Dammit, she knew exactly how to deal with this problem.

  “Astrid!” he mimicked and caught her by the wrists.

  “You’re wearing too many clothes.” She glared at him. She was probably stronger than he was, especially with her magick. Did she want to betray that? Probably not. She frowned even harder.

  “We are both wearing too many clothes,” he pointed out, still holding her in that inexorable grip.

  She glanced down at herself and beheld a matching array of jacket, sweater, and trousers. At least her jacket was a casual sports jacket, rather than a suit jacket. Then again, she was wearing high boots, unlike him.

  “True,” she agreed. “Do you want to undress together or one at a time?”

  “What do you think?” He shifted slightly under her and his cock nudged, hotter and far larger than the flames dancing within the furniture.

  She flushed—and a far stronger surge of lust knotted her belly.

  “Together,” she said hoarsely.

  “Smart girl.” He dropped a single kiss on her tousled curls, then released her wrists.

  She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, then slid off his lap. She’d have to take off her boots quickly, never easy with a pair that reached her knees. And then there were her skinny jeans, which peeled off slowly—if one was lucky.

  She sat down on the chest under the windows and let Jake have the bed. She’d never get any traction on the boots if she was perched high atop that mattress.

  The first boot came off without too much sweating and tugging.

  A piece of dark woolen cloth flew across the room, hit the TV, and draped the chest of drawers.

  Astrid froze, her heart pounding, then slowly went back to tugging off her second boot. If she thought about what Jake looked like, or the night’s possible activities, then she might not get her boot off at all.

  She gripped the heel a little harder, pulled more strongly, and—eureka! Her foot moved inside the boot. Another wriggle, another tug, and another piece of cloth flew past her head.

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head, her heart thudding in her chest like a steam engine driving for the station.

  Then she muttered a simple housekeeping charm under her breath, a trick utterly forbidden in any encounter with a farasha.

  The boot promptly loosened and came off.

  She looked up at Jake in triumph, more than ready to reclaim the advantage over her pounding pulse.

  Barefoot and shirtsleeves loosened, Jake stood next to his bed. His crisp, cotton shirt and trousers outlined a body sculpted in muscles.

  “Jake, perhaps you should . . .” Her throat closed down when her mind refused to supply words, only deeds. Astrid’s fingers itched to undo that precise row of buttons marching down his shirt, that shiny buckle closing off his trousers, that crisp collar blocking his throat . . .

  “Yes?” He slid his hand into his back pocket and accentuated an incredibly delectable ass.

  Astrid’s mouth watered. The boot dropped out of her hand, onto the floor.

  A worn black leather wallet appeared in his palm. He flipped it open, checked the golden star inside, and snapped it shut.

  Whap!

  The rich scent of salt and sweat and Jake rolled over Astrid. Her knees almost buckled and she bit back a moan.

  “Astrid?” Jake’s voice deepened to a slow, enticing purr. “A
re you a badge bunny, sweetheart?”

  “A what?” She blinked at him, baffled, and tried desperately not to rub her legs together. How could she be creaming when all they’d done was kiss? This was the first time they’d met in person, dammit, even if they had known each other for six years.

  “Somebody whose fetish is police badges.” His Virginia drawl hadn’t sounded that attractive back at the courthouse. “And cops.”

  “Certainly not!” A woman didn’t live more than 130 years without understanding her own kinks.

  “Sure? This here’s my department-issue Sig Sauer.” His hand came slowly out from behind his back carrying a large automatic, like a dildo on a salver.

  Her core clenched again, and heat rocketed through her veins. Dear heavens, she was wet.

  She gave a long, heartfelt moan.

  “Getting eager, honey?” Jake teased.

  Thank God he, too, sounded hoarse.

  Astrid nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.

  “And the magazines for my Sig.”

  She shot a frantic look at the small, ferocious boxes. Would he delay matters by loading and unloading his gun, marking his mastery of the situation—and her—by the soft thud of those deadly bullets sliding home?

  “These are my department-issue handcuffs.” Perfectly polished steel gleamed across his callused palms like the path to untold delights.

  Far, far too many delicious scenarios immediately ran through her mind, all of them involving those handcuffs, her naked body, and his wicked grin. Her hips rocked toward him, borne by an irresistible current.

  She was scorching hot, and her nipples were chafing her camisole. Impatient and desperate, she peeled her long alpaca sweater over her head. She wanted the man who effortlessly controlled those deadly items. Now. Before she crawled to him, as she’d never done to any man.

  He caught his breath, and his brown eyes widened.

  A purely feminine note of triumph, mixed with anticipation, ran through her. Two could play this game—but she still didn’t know what he looked like under all that clothing.

  She rose and thrust her fingers inside her waistband. She could unbutton it slowly, of course—right? Maybe not, especially when he was watching her like a hungry tiger eager to pounce.

  Astrid’s fingers grew clumsier and clumsier, her breath tighter and tighter.

  He yanked his sweater off. His shirt was stretched tight over a broad chest that her family blacksmith would have envied.

  She whimpered and forced her jeans down over her hips. If she didn’t hurry, she’d hurl herself at him fully clothed and denim was a more effective barrier than any condom.

  “Holy fuck, Astrid!”

  Her head came up and she stared at him. She stayed bent over, her thumbs hooked into her jeans where they’d stalled just above her knees. “What do you mean, Jake?”

  “A ruffled black thong?”

  “Why not?” She shimmied her jeans down a little farther and wiggled her ass at him. “Have any objections?”

  “No, of course not.” He gulped audibly. Buttons popped and he tore his shirt off. “But how do you expect a man to overlook ruffles?”

  She blinked.

  “Why should I want you to?” she answered reasonably and kicked off her jeans. An instant later, his trousers covered hers.

  “Minx!” He smacked a handful of items down on the nightstand. “Will you ignore this?”

  He slid his hands underneath her camisole and kissed her again, harder and hotter than before. She answered him eagerly, pushing against him in a frantic quest to join herself to him in any way she could. He chuckled hoarsely into her mouth and caressed her freely, his rough hands fondling her, shaping her body to his, exploring her possessively.

  She moaned into his mouth and rubbed herself over him. His breath heated hers, and his nipples caressed her chest. Even the rough hair on his legs incited her, sending hot jolts up her thighs and into her core to send her soaring.

  He half lifted, half tossed her onto his bed and came down onto her. He was so big that he effortlessly covered her, yet every sensation focused more mind-shattering delight.

  He knelt between her legs and rained kisses over her eyes, her throat, her breasts. She twisted restlessly, desperate to reach the heights that he alone held the key to. But he held her hips until she stilled.

  Then his tongue swept lower, down her belly, along her thighs, across her mons . . .

  “Jake, please,” Astrid begged, too hungry for him to care about anything except satisfying them both.

  He tasted her, delving between her folds as if she was the finest treat in the world. She thrashed under him, frantic for more, desperate to be closer to him. Her pulse thundered through her and she wrapped her legs around him.

  He gave a choked laugh and pulled free.

  Before she could blink, he returned. There was a snick! of torn foil and a condom packet fell onto the nightstand, beside his Sig Sauer.

  She whimpered, too far gone in pure lust to cast her usual contraception spell.

  A moment later, he was finally—finally!—in her arms, and his big cock nudged her entrance. She shifted, and he slid inside, to be promptly welcomed by her greedy muscles. He stretched her from the inside out in all the most deliciously wicked ways.

  She threw back her head and loosed a heartfelt moan. Heaven.

  “Come on now, babe,” Jake said, “gotta give a fellow just a little time to prove he’s not a pig.” He started to thrust slowly, varying his angle and intently watching her face.

  Oh, dear God, was he hunting for her G-spot, too?

  A sudden shock wave ran through her, brighter than shooting stars. “Ah, Jake!”

  “Better.” His voice sounded tighter. But she wasn’t listening, not really, not when he started moving again and again, faster and faster. Always against that one perfect spot, always triggering that shock wave, always breaking and re-forming her ideas of what pleasure truly was until—

  Her bones shattered and she tumbled upwards like a child rocketing over a Ferris wheel. She shouted for joy and their voices mingled, his hot liquor pulsing again and again within her, deep inside his condom.

  She clung to him afterward, content to lay her head against his chest and listen to their pulses slow down together from a mad gallop to the merely frantic.

  He began to caress her hair, drawing each lock through his fingers slow and easy like a banker counting coins in his strong room.

  If she didn’t say anything, surely it was only because she needed to catch her breath. Not because he’d made her rethink what she needed to be happy.

  Right?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Even the sun was smarter than to haul itself out of bed to greet Jake the next morning. Not that it mattered; he’d rubbed the cobwebs out of his eyes many times to make a predawn rendezvous with his fellow cops.

  But his cock had never grumbled so much before about leaving a lover.

  And how often had a woman simply brushed off his apology for waking her and rolled out of bed herself? Never. They’d always grumbled or complained or, worse, pleaded for another meeting, until he couldn’t wait to shut the door on their sorry asses.

  Astrid’s ass—well, that was another matter, as it accompanied a beautiful face and a mouth that didn’t say too much. Like right now.

  Or that gorgeous body he hadn’t had time to fully explore last night. Shit, you’d think he was a teenage boy the way he’d crashed and burned after one orgasm.

  Don’t think about that, Jake. Just finish getting dressed; you don’t have much time left before the CSI van picks you up.

  She swept her brush through her hair again, then shook her head to test the tangles. The golden locks swung free in a rustling mass of silk—and Jake’s cock immediately surged hard against his guaranteed-to-meet-any-test tactical trousers.

  He muttered a bitter curse, dictated by Murphy’s Law. But logic insisted he’d see her again. After all, he had her address and phon
e number on her witness statement. She’d return to testify when he caught the killer, right?

  “Jake?” She glanced at him, all green-eyed innocence.

  “Nothing.” He latched his belt buckle with an unnecessary snap and ordered his unruly body to restrain itself.

  Even if the prosecutor didn’t call her in, he would still know where to find his guild mate for another round of Argos. Now he could suggest that they game in person, which would make questing together more intense.

  His stuttering heartbeat refused to listen. His skin heated everywhere she came close, dammit. He threw a veil of words over his dawdling, rather than say he lingered over memories he hoped to repeat.

  “Just double-checking my gear for today to make sure I have everything.”

  “Oh.” She looked him over again, her eyes lingering approvingly on every inch of his rough garb.

  He almost preened but controlled himself in time.

  The horrified nudist colony had freely agreed to a search of its grounds, as long as its name wasn’t mentioned. Jake was now dressed to explore dense woods and swamps in high boots and heavy trousers, plus a long-sleeved turtleneck and many-pocketed vest. He’d add a jacket just before he arrived at the scene with his team.

  “You look as if you have everything you need,” she remarked. She dropped her hairbrush into her bag and drifted forward to stand behind him.

  His stupid pulse sped up again, intrigued by her proximity. What else could he want for today’s search, that might interest her? Even if he didn’t have an item on, he had its spare in his kit.

  “I was wondering if—” He glimpsed the old jewel chest in his socks drawer. “I could wear my ear cuff.”

  “Ear cuff?” Curiosity sparked in her eyes. “You, a cop, wear that kind of jewelry?”

  “Hey,” he protested, “it’s not a heavy piece of metal, like a tin can bent around my earlobe.”

  She raised a single eyebrow, elegant as a judge lifting her gavel to eliminate a nonsensical argument.

  “Plus, I always concentrate better when I’m wearing it. You know, like acupuncture.” God knows that was true. His intuition always flashed brightest with this jewelry. There was only one problem.