Heart Of Darkness

by Maggie Shayne

  He’d wanted to taste her and now he was. She was delicious, like the apple she’d just eaten, only sweeter, headier, like his favorite wine. He should make her stop. This was too much. But the wetness of her mouth wasn’t messy in the least. It was electrifying.

  More, a little voice said in his head.

  “Yes,” she rasped, as if he’d spoken aloud.

  When she rubbed her lower body against his, every sensation intensified. His hands fisted at his sides. He couldn’t touch her. Shouldn’t touch her. Should stop this as she’d stopped him, as he’d already tried to convince himself.

  A moan escaped her. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His scalp, an area he’d never considered sensitive before, ached, soaking up every bit of attention. And when she rubbed against him again, he almost moaned.

  Her hands fell to his chest and a fingertip brushed one of his nipples. He did moan; he did grab her. His fingers gripped her hips, holding her still even though he wanted to force her to rub against him some more. The lack of motion didn’t slow her kiss. She continued to dance their tongues together, leisurely, as if she could drink from him forever. And wanted to.

  He should stop this, he told himself yet again.

  Yes. Yes, he would. He tried to push her tongue out of his mouth. The pressure created another sensation, this one new and stronger than any other. His entire body felt aflame. He started pushing at her tongue for an entirely different reason, twining them together, tasting her again, licking her, sucking her.

  “Mmm, yeah. That’s the way,” she praised.

  Her voice was a drug, luring him in deeper, making him crave more. More, more, more. The temptation was too much, and he had to—

  Temptation.

  The word echoed through his mind, a sword sharp enough to cut bone. She was a temptation. She was his temptation. And he was allowing her to lead him astray.

  He wrenched away from her, and his arms fell to his sides, heavy as boulders. He was panting, sweating, things he had not done even in the midst of battle. Angry as he was—at her, at himself—his gaze drank in the sight of her. Her skin was flushed, glowing more than ever. Her lips were red and swollen. And he had caused that reaction. Sparks of pride took him by surprise.

  “You should not have done that,” he growled.

  Slowly she grinned. “Well, you should have stopped me.”

  “I wanted to stop you.”

  “But you didn’t,” she said, that grin growing.

  His teeth ground together. “Do not do it again.”

  One of her brows arched in smug challenge. “Keep me here against my will, and I’ll do that and more. Much, much more. In fact…” She ripped her shirt over her head and tossed it aside, revealing breasts covered by pink lace.

  Breathing became impossible.

  “Want to touch them?” she asked huskily, cupping them with her hands. “I’ll let you. I won’t even make you beg.”

  Holy…Lord. They were lovely. Plump and mouthwatering. Lickable. And if he did lick them, would they taste as her mouth had? Like that heady wine? Blood…heating…again…

  He didn’t care what kind of coward his next action made him. It was either jump from the cloud or replace her hands with his own.

  He jumped.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LYSANDER LEFT BIANKA alone for another week—bastard!—but she didn’t mind. Not this time. She had plenty to keep her occupied. Like her plan to drive him utterly insane with lust. So insane he’d regret bringing her here. Regret keeping her here. Regret even being alive.

  That, or fall so in love with her that he yearned to grant her every desire. If that was the case—and it was a total possibility since she was insanely hot—she would convince him to take her home, and then she would finally get to stab him in the heart.

  Perfect. Easy. With her breasts, it was almost too easy, really.

  To set the stage for his downfall, she decorated his home like a bordello. Red velvet lounges now waited next to every door—just in case he was too overcome with desire for her to make it to one of the beds now perched in every corner. Naked portraits—of her—hung on the misty walls. A decorating style she’d picked up from her friend Anya, who just happened to be the goddess of Anarchy.

  As Lysander had promised, Bianka had only to speak what she wanted—within reason—to receive it. Apparently furniture and pretty pictures were within reason. She chuckled. She could hardly wait to see him again. To finally begin.

  He wouldn’t stand a chance. Not just because of her (magnificent) breasts and hotness—hey, no reason to act as if she didn’t know—but because he had no experience. She had been his first kiss; she knew it beyond any doubt. He’d been stiff at first, unsure. Hesitant. At no point had he known what to do with his hands.

  That hadn’t stopped her from enjoying herself, however. His taste…decadent. Sinful. Like crisp, clean skies mixed with turbulent night storms. And his body, oh, his body. Utter perfection with hard muscles she’d wanted to squeeze. And lick. She wasn’t picky.

  His hair was so silky she could have run her fingers through it forever. His cock had been so long and thick she could have rubbed herself to orgasm. His skin was so warm and smooth she could have pressed against him and slept, just as she’d dreamed about doing before she’d met him. Even though sleeping with a man was a dangerous crime her race never committed.

  Stupid girl! The angel wasn’t to be trusted, especially since he clearly had nefarious plans for her—though he still refused to tell her exactly what those plans were. Teaching her to act like him had to be a misdirection of the truth. It was just too silly to contemplate. But his plans didn’t matter, she supposed, since he would soon be at her mercy. Not that she had any.

  Bianka strode to the closet she’d created and flipped through the lingerie hanging there. Blue, red, black. Lace, leather, satin. Several costumes: naughty nurse, corrupt policewoman, devil, angel. Which should she choose today?

  He already thought her evil. Perhaps she should wear the see-through white lace. Like a horny virgin bride. Oh, yes. That was the one. She laughed as she dressed.

  “Mirror, please,” she said, and a full-length mirror appeared in front of her. The gown fell to her ankles, but there was a slit between her legs. A slit that stopped at the apex of her thighs. Too bad she wasn’t wearing any panties.

  Spaghetti straps held the material in place on her shoulders and dipped into a deep vee between her breasts. Her nipples, pink and hard, played peek-a-boo with the swooping make-me-a-woman pattern.

  She left her hair loose, flowing like black velvet down her back. Her gold eyes sparkled, flecks of gray finally evident, like in Kaia’s. Her cheeks were flushed like a rose, her skin devoid of the makeup she usually wore to dull its shimmer.

  Bianka traced her fingertips along her collarbone and chuckled again. She’d summoned a shower and washed off every trace of that makeup. If Lysander had found himself attracted to her before—and he had, the size of his hard-on was proof of that—he would be unable to resist her now. She was nothing short of radiant.

  A Harpy’s skin was like a weapon. A sensual weapon. Its jewel-like sheen drew men in, made them slobbering, drooling fools. Touching it became all they could think about, all they lived for.

  That got old after a while, though, which was why she’d begun wearing full body makeup. For Lysander, though, she would make an exception. He deserved what he got. After all, he wasn’t just making Bianka suffer. He was making her sisters suffer. Maybe.

  Was Kaia still looking for her? Still worried or perhaps thinking this was a game as Bianka had first supposed? Had Kaia called their other sisters and were the girls now searching the world over for a sign of her, as they’d done when Gwennie went missing? Probably not, she thought with a sigh. They knew her, knew her strength and her determination. If they suspected she’d been taken, they would have confidence in her ability to free herself. Still.

  Lysander was an ass.

  And most lik
ely a virgin. Eager, excited, she rubbed her hands together. Most men kissed the women they bedded. And if she had been his first kiss, well, it stood to reason he’d never bedded anyone. Her eagerness faded a bit. But that begged the question, why hadn’t he bedded anyone?

  Was he a young immortal? Had he not found anyone he desired? Did angels not often experience sexual need? She didn’t know much about them. Fine, she didn’t know anything about them. Did they consider sex wrong? Maybe. That would explain why he hadn’t wanted to touch her, too.

  Okay, so it made more sense that he simply hadn’t experienced sexual need before.

  He’d definitely experienced it during their kiss, though. She went back to rubbing her hands together.

  “What are you wearing? Or better yet, not wearing?”

  Heart skidding to a stop, Bianka whipped around. As if her thoughts had summoned him, Lysander stood in the room’s doorway. Mist enveloped him and for a moment she feared he was nothing more than a fantasy.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  In her fantasies, he would not be angry. He would be overcome with desire. So…he was here, and he was real. And he was peering at her breasts in open-mouthed astonishment.

  Astonishment was better than anger. She almost grinned.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked, smoothing her palms over her hips. Let the games begin.

  “I—I—”

  Like it, she finished for him. With the amount of truth that always layered his voice, he probably couldn’t utter a single lie.

  “Your skin…it’s different. I mean, I saw the pearlesque tones before, but now…it’s…”

  “Amazing.” She twirled, her gown dancing at her ankles. “I know.”

  “You know?” His tongue traced his teeth as the anger she’d first suspected glazed his features. “Cover her,” he barked.

  A moment later, a white robe draped her from shoulders to feet.

  She scowled. “Return my teddy.” The robe disappeared, leaving her in the white lace. “Try that again,” she told him, “and I’ll just walk around naked. You know, like I am in the portraits.”

  “Portraits?” Brow furrowing, he gazed about the room. When he spotted one of the pictures of her, sans clothing, reclining against a giant silver boulder, he hissed in a breath.

  Exactly the reaction she’d been hoping for. “I hope you don’t mind, but I turned this quaint little cloud into a love nest so I’d feel more at home. And again, if you remove anything, my redesign will be a thousand times worse.”

  “What are you trying to do to me?” he growled, facing her. His eyes were narrowed, his lips thinned, his teeth bared.

  She fluttered her lashes at him, all innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Bianka.”

  It was a warning, she knew, but she didn’t heed it. “I think it’s my turn to ask the questions. So where do you go when you leave me?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  Was he panting a little? “Let’s see if I can make it my concern, shall we?” She sauntered to the bed and eased onto the edge. Naughty, shameless girl that she was, she spread her legs, giving him the peek of a lifetime. “For every question you answer, I’ll put something on,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Deal?”

  He spun, but not before she saw the shock and desire that played over his harshly gorgeous face. “I do my duty. Watch the gates to hell. Hunt and kill demons that have escaped. Deliver punishment to those in need. Guard humans. Now cover yourself.”

  “I didn’t say what item of clothing I’d don, now did I?” She gave herself a once-over. “One shoe, please. White leather, high heel, open toe. Ties up the calf.” The shoe materialized on her foot, and she laughed. “Perfect.”

  “A trickster,” Lysander muttered. “I should have known.”

  “How did I trick you? Did you ask for specifics? No, because you were secretly hoping I wouldn’t cover myself at all.”

  “That is not true,” he said, but for once, she did not hear that layer of honesty in his voice. Interesting. When he lied, or perhaps when he was unsure about what he was saying, his tone was as normal as hers.

  That meant she would always know when he lied. Did things get any better than that?

  This was going to be even easier than she’d anticipated. “Next question. Do you think about me while you’re gone?”

  Silence. Thick, heavy.

  Wait. She could hear him breathing. In, out, harsh, shallow. He was panting.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, grinning. “But since you really didn’t answer, I don’t have to add the other shoe.”

  Again, he didn’t reply. Thankfully, he didn’t leave, either.

  “Onward and upward. Are angels allowed to dally?”

  “Yes, but they rarely want to,” he rasped.

  So she’d been right. He didn’t have firsthand knowledge of desire. What he was now feeling had to be confusing him, then. Was that why he’d brought her here? Because he’d seen her and wanted her, but hadn’t known how to handle what he was feeling? The thought was almost…flattering. In a stalkerish kind of way, of course. That didn’t change her plans, however. She would seduce him—and then she would slice his heart in two. A symbolic gesture, really. An inside joke between them. Well, for herself. He might not get it.

  Still, she couldn’t deny that she liked the idea of being his first. None of the women after her would compare, of course, and that—Hey, wait. Once he tasted the bliss of the flesh, he would want more. Bianka would have escaped him and stabbed him—and he would have recovered because he was an immortal—by then. He could go to any other female he desired.

  He would kiss and touch that female.

  “I’m waiting,” he snapped.

  “For?” she snapped back. Her hands were clenched, her nails cutting her palms. He could be with anyone; it wouldn’t bother her. They were enemies. Someone else could deal with his Neanderthal tendencies. But gods, she might just kill the next woman who warmed his bed out of spite. Not jealousy.

  “I answered one of your questions. You must add a garment to your body. Panties would be nice.”

  She sighed. “I’d like the other shoe to appear, please.” A moment later, her other foot was covered. “Back to business. Did you return so that I’d kiss you again?”

  “No!”

  “Too bad. I wanted to taste you again. I wanted to touch you again. Maybe let you touch me this time. I’ve been aching since you left me. Had to bring myself to climax twice just to cool the fever. But don’t worry, I imagined it was you. I imagined stripping you, licking you, sucking you into my mouth. Mmm, I’m so—”

  “Stop!” he croaked out, spinning to face her. “Stop.”

  His eyes, which she’d once thought were black and emotionless, were now bright as a morning sky, his pupils blown with the intensity of his desire. But rather than stalk to her, grab her and smash his body into hers, he held out his hand, fingers splayed. A fiery sword formed from the air, yellow-gold flames flickering all around it.

  “Stop,” he commanded again. “I do not want to hurt you, but I will if you persist with this foolishness.”

  That layer of truth had returned to his voice.

  Far from intimidating her, his forcefulness excited her. I thought you didn’t like his Neanderthal tendencies.

  Oh, shut up.

  Bianka leaned back, resting her weight against her elbows. “Does Lysandy like to play rough? Should I be wearing black leather? Or is this a game of bad cop, naughty criminal? Should I strip for my body-cavity search?”

  He stalked to the edge of the bed, his thick legs encasing her smaller ones, pressing her knees together. He was hard as a rock, his robe jutting forward. Those golden flames still flickering around the sword both highlighted his face and cast shadows, giving him a menacing aura.

  Just then, he was both angel and demon. A mix of good and evil. Savior and executioner.

  Her wings fluttered f
rantically, readying for battle—even as her skin tingled for pleasure. She could be across the room before he moved even a fraction of an inch. Still. She had trouble catching her breath; it was like ice in her lungs. And yet her blood was hot as his sword. This mix of emotions was odd.

  “You are worse than I anticipated,” he snarled.

  If this progressed the way she hoped, he would be very happy about that one day. But she said, “Then let me go. You’ll never have to see me again.”

  “And that will purge you from my mind? That will stop the wondering and the craving? No, it will only make them worse. You will give yourself to others, kiss them the way you kissed me, rub against them the way you rubbed against me, and I will want to kill them when they will have done nothing wrong.”

  What a confession! And she’d thought her blood hot before…“Then take me,” she suggested huskily. She traced her tongue over her lips, slow and measured. His gaze followed. “It’ll feel sooo good, I promise.”

  “And discover if you are as soft and wet as you appear? Spend the rest of eternity in bed with you, a slave to my body? No, that, too, will only make my cravings worse.”

  Oh, angel. You shouldn’t have admitted that. A slave to his body? If that was his fear, he more than craved her. He was falling. Hard. And now that she knew how much he wanted her…he was as good as hers. “If you’re going to kill me,” she said, swirling a fingertip around her navel, “kill me with pleasure.”

  He stopped breathing.

  She sat up, closing the rest of the distance between them. Still he didn’t strike. She flattened her palms on his chest. His nipples were as beaded as hers. He closed his eyes, as if the sight of her, looking up at him through the thick shield of her lashes, was too much to bear.