by Nadine Mutas
Almost twelve hours and a marathon of all three Lord of the Rings movies later, Rhun was indeed well-entertained and—in spite of his prejudice against movie adaptations of his favorite books—positively surprised. It had also lifted his mood, which had made a free fall for the basement after his argument with Merle.
Happily humming a tune, he was in the process of putting Bahram’s DVD collection in alphabetical order—as it should be—when Merle came back in the living room. He’d heard her shuffle and move about the apartment earlier, using the bathroom and probably raiding the kitchen for food, but she hadn’t come to talk to him in between, and he’d left her alone, too, figuring they both needed some space. Him probably more than her, though.
During the past hours, he’d been trying to get his head straight again, and—most importantly—his heart. It had taken up the annoying habit of beating faster for a certain witch, a witch who now leaned in the doorway, eyeing him with an unreadable expression on her beautiful face.
Dammit, he shouldn’t feel such joy at seeing her. Gritting his teeth, he focused on the DVDs again.
In fact, there was a lot he shouldn’t be feeling when it came to her, for it would only make it all the harder to use and discard her as he planned. If he could, he’d keep his distance from her to retain some semblance of control over his feelings, but ironically fucked up as this situation was, he had to get even closer to her in order to get what he needed.
Breathe, Rhun. You can do this. He’d never had a problem with being a cold-hearted bastard when the situation called for it. This wouldn’t be any different. Right?
“Find anything in your grimoire, little witch?”
“No such luck. Would have been too easy, I guess.”
He clucked his tongue and resumed rearranging the DVDs.
“Enjoyed the movies?”
“Surprisingly so, yes,” he said. “Though I am begrudging the fact they omitted Tom Bombadil. Gollum, however, was a piece of art. He should win an Oscar for that split personality performance.”
Silence.
Slowly, Rhun turned to Merle, his neck prickling with suspicion. She’d come closer, her eyes fixed on him in a way that made him wary. Wary as one would be of a cobra, curled up in feigned relaxation. He’d never wished for his demon powers more desperately than now—the sun had long gone up and dulled his senses, those senses that usually allowed him to read her mood quite accurately. Now, he only had the means of a mere human to guess what she was feeling. Not for the first time in his life did he pity those clueless males of her species. How did they ever survive around their females?
She still stared, all cobra-like.
“Merle?”
She blinked, slowly. “What?”
“Are you…okay?”
“Why?” Her face still had that strange expression.
“Because you look like you either want to choke me or eat me alive.” Or both?
“Neither,” she said, and her voice had that husky note, the one it got when—
All further thought abruptly dissolved into nothingness as Merle closed the distance between them, grabbed the upper hem of his T-shirt and pulled him down for a kiss. Not a peck or a chaste meeting of lips, but a full-blown, no-holds-barred, passionate kiss infused with all the fire his witch volcano possessed.
And—fucking hell—it inflamed him faster than a burning match thrown into dried grass.
Tangling his hand in her hair, he took control of the kiss, of her body, of her, and with a groan he whirled them both around and pushed her up against the wall. She moaned, panting, and jumped up to wrap her legs around his waist.
Whatever plans he’d had to play it cool, to use her without blinking, they burnt to cinders along with his soul as she nipped at his lower lip, her fingers digging into his hair, her soft body rubbing against his hardness.
And he knew it right then.
Yep, this witch would be his undoing.
Chapter 13
Merle couldn’t breathe. Well, not exactly. Pinned to the wall by a gorgeous bulk of uncompromising maleness, her mouth being ravaged in a way that turned her core to liquid fire, all she could do was gasp for air when that damn delicious demon gave her a second’s reprieve.
Though what she inhaled then wasn’t air—it was Rhun. It was him she drew in with every choking breath, and his essence—raw, sensual, dark—burned a path down to her soul, a scorching heat settling inside, taking possession.
She rubbed against him, aflame with a hunger she’d never felt before, not like this. Every lick of his tongue, every nip on her lips sent her farther down in a spiral of desire and need threatening to rip her apart.
His hand slid under her sweater, cupped her breast, squeezed. An erotic demand echoing her own.
Gods knew, she’d tried to stay away from him. She’d tried to tamp down her desire for him in their time apart, but he was her drug of choice. All those dull hours working through the grimoire, only to come to another dead end and find herself back in square one, had merely intensified the simmering hunger she had for him. With every passing minute, the gnawing need to feel him, the craving for his touch had deepened, until she’d been aware of nothing else but his presence in the adjoining room.
And that was when she’d decided to damn it all to hell and take what she needed more than her next breath.
She now luxuriated in the feel of him, the silken strands of hair underneath her fingers, the dark, spicy scent of him, the rasp of stubble on his chin against her throat as he kissed a trail from her mouth to her neck. And—gods have mercy—all that male muscle and contained strength pressing against her, between her legs, all but crushing her to the wall.
But she needed more.
Her hands travelled down his back, came around to the front of his jeans. He tightened his grip on her hair when she opened the button.
“Merle.” A raw, guttural warning.
She met his eyes, almost black with desire, the pupils fully dilated. Every line on his face was taut, and she knew how much he still held back. Not that she wanted him to.
She lowered the zipper, not taking her eyes off his. Her pulse raced, her blood was infused with maddening want, as she closed her hand around the hard length of his arousal. Hissing out a breath through clenched teeth, he grasped the back of her neck and squeezed, his other hand punching the wall.
“Fuck.” His breathing turned erratic, mirroring the speed of hers.
“Yes.” The corners of her mouth curved in mischievous amusement, seemingly misplaced amidst the swirl of carnal desire inside her. “Let’s.”
Something flashed in his eyes. His hand on her neck moved up to cup her cheek, a gentle touch, so at odds with the whisper of brutal strength in his tense muscles. “Dammit, little witch, I wanted to do this slow.” His voice was hoarse, deeper than usual, rasping over her senses that were already too sharp, too sore. “But, fuck that, I can’t do slow right now.”
“Good. I don’t want you to.” Her voice was husky, too, and it seemed to erode the last of his control.
Within seconds, he’d stripped her of her jeans and panties, and before she could draw her next breath, he had her up against the wall again, her legs around his hips. He grabbed her thighs, spreading her open. His erection nudged at her entrance, which was slick with her desire.
“Wait,” she breathed, her hands slamming against his chest. “Wait!”
To his utter credit, he did. Trembling with the effort it apparently took him to pause, he held himself poised, staring at her. “Changed your mind?” It was a barely intelligible growl. “If yes, I’ll let you go, but Bahram will not like what I’m gonna do to his furniture then.” His hand tightened on her thigh.
She shook her head, heart hammering in her chest. “Do you—you’re infertile, right?” Wow, she’d actually managed to retain some common sense in the throes of her Rhun fever.
His eyes flashed as he understood her intent. “Right. As long as I’m unmated.”
Her fingers curled into his T-shirt.
“And,” he added before she could pose her next question, “my kind doesn’t carry human diseases.”
“All right,” she breathed, relaxing—and then she deliberately scratched a circle pattern on his chest.
He groaned, slammed her back against the wall and thrust inside her. She cried out, her hands clutching his shoulders. He was heat and power, pleasure laced with pain, and he strained her with a demand for submission running in tremors through her body. And, oh, was she happy to oblige.
Her breath was a whispered moan as she melted against him, as he withdrew and thrust back in, setting up a rhythm of primal urgency. She clutched his shoulders, relishing the flex of his muscles underneath her hands. All of him, his lethal power, that bruising strength that could hurt and maim, now focused on her with a whole other intent. He took her with a ferocity skirting the line between rough and brutal. Her legs tightened around him, need and pleasure coiling inside her.
She was hungry for him, so, so hungry. And this raw outburst of lust, this clash of cravings too long denied, was just what she’d wanted.
With every hard, fast thrust, she held on tighter, her nails scratching over his skin underneath his T-shirt, no doubt leaving marks. A part of her wanted to draw blood. Ached to tear off his skin until they both merged as one. It was a desperate need to connect with him, the likes of which she’d never known.
He took her mouth with unbridled possessiveness, with such rough passion, she felt his claim stamped on every cell in her body.
“Mine.” A murmur against her lips, in time with a shove of his hips, hard, unleashed, branding. “You’re mine, Merle. Mine.”
Her breath hitched. Her heartbeat thudded in every inch of her heated skin. Muscles tightening with pleasure, she dug her nails in his back, feeling his skin break.
His hand closed around her throat, impossibly controlled, almost gentle. His voice was anything but. “Say it.”
“Yes! Yours!” She cried it out, coming apart with a climax that left her shattered in the best of ways.
He thrust even faster, harder, slamming her hips against the wall, and when he came with a groan, his face buried in the curve of her neck, he tangled his hand in her hair in a devastating mix of violence and tenderness.
It broke down the last of her defenses.
For a minute, he remained still, his breath coursing the skin of her neck, his hand in her hair. She was torn open to him on a level she didn’t quite grasp, a new, deep vulnerability, as if he’d broken her down to put her back together. Fear sliced through her, kicking up her pulse.
And then, just like that, he put her back together in all the right places by massaging her skull in the way that made her toes curl.
“Rhun.” A whispered prayer.
He lifted his head, his eyes still dark with need, his breathing not quite back to normal. “Not enough,” he said, his hand coming down to stroke her neck.
She frowned at him, uncurling her toes. “What?”
He released her and took a step back, only to hoist her up on his shoulder the next instant. “I want more.” His voice was scraped gravel. Patting her bare butt, he carried her off toward the bedroom.
“Oh,” was all she could say before the breath rushed out of her. Not that she’d wanted to say any more. She was very much okay with his intention.
Walking past the kitchen, he did a double take, stepped back and snatched something off the sideboard. She angled her head to see what it was, and he held up the water bottle for her to look at.
“You’ll need that,” he simply said and walked on, stroking his fingers up the back of her thigh, to the wet spot between her legs still pulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.
She bit back a moan at the teasing touch on her exposed, intimate skin, squirmed with the overload of sudden sensation—and received a slap on her behind for her wiggling.
Her breath caught on a gasp of incredulity. “Did you just spank me?”
“Affectionately, my little witch volcano,” he said, dark amusement echoing in his voice. “I swatted your lovely ass affectionately.”
His hand now rubbed gently over the sensitive skin of her butt cheek, turning the lingering sting of his slap to something else entirely—something insidiously pleasurable. Heat and excitement rose in her core, shot down to the thrumming beat between her legs. Face flushed, her heart pounded faster, and a totally unintentional sound of pleasure escaped her lips. Dammit.
“Liked that, didn’t you?” Rhun murmured, and the warm appreciation in his tone almost did her in.
He reached the bedroom and set her down on the mattress, putting the water bottle on the nightstand.
“Now we can do slow.” He looked at her with molten heat in his eyes, a promise of sensual depths that made her all weak and needy inside.
Sliding back to sit against the headboard, she pressed her naked thighs together as he took off his T-shirt. The sight of him, it was a feast for her eyes. Ivory skin—so bitable—stretched taut over toned muscles the lines of which she wanted to trace with her tongue. Every movement, however small, was a quiet testament to the strength he contained, the deadly power humming underneath the surface. And his face—that smug glint in his gaze, the smirk on his lips, spoke of an arrogance that should have infuriated her. Instead it only enhanced his allure, made him all the more damnably attractive.
Fire licked at her veins, ignited her blood. Gods, if he had the slightest idea of how he really affected her, of how far she was head over heels lost to him, it would be nothing short of devastating. For right here, right now, she’d let him do about anything to her.
He prowled toward the bed, his jeans half-fastened, riding low on hips that would tempt angels to fall. The bulge in the front was barely covered, revealing enough to make her drool like a dog over a treat. Swallowing, she closed her eyes, her cheeks heating. She’d never, ever, wanted to lick a man so badly. What was happening to her?
“Interesting face color, little witch.”
Her eyes snapped open, focused on him. Lips curved upward, head tilted, he studied her closely with too perceptive eyes.
“What were you thinking about?” He’d prowled closer still, now putting one knee on the mattress, coming after her.
Her face, already scorched, became impossibly hotter. “I can’t tell you.” Even though she might have been so forward as to jump his bones, she hadn’t shed all her inhibitions yet. Thinking about it was one thing, doing it another—but saying it? And dammit, he was cocky enough already—she almost snickered at that pun—there was no need to tell him how mouthwatering his—“I can’t.”
Grabbing her ankles, he pulled her down toward him, until she lay flat on her back underneath his overpowering frame. “Yes, you can.” His hands, hot, branding, running over her hips, up to her waist, pulling off her sweater. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“Hmm.” A kiss on her belly. “Later, then.” It sounded like a mix between a promise and a threat.
He nuzzled the curve of her waist, one hand sliding under her back, unhooking her bra. A sigh escaped her as the material loosened and softly rubbed over nipples that were too tight, too sensitive. They ached to be touched, soothed, so much so that when Rhun removed her bra and then flicked his tongue over one hardened bud, Merle couldn’t help moaning—not in relief, but in sensual agony. He licked the other one, blew a breath on it, and her body shook with the teasing sensation that wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.
“Rhun,” she ground out. She was this close to begging—which was probably exactly what he wanted.
The wicked gleam in his eyes was proof to her suspicion. “Yes, dear?”
She had the sweetest urge to strangle him for his arrogant calm. “Stop teasing me!”
He clucked his tongue. “Bossy, much?”
“You can handle it.”
His smirk made her stomach flutter with a thousand fairy wings. “I can indeed, little witch of mine.” And
then, without warning, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head.
Squirming, she wiggled against his hold, but his grasp was adamant, absolute, and she didn’t gain an inch. She couldn’t move. The realization of it, it sent shivers of pleasure over her skin, a tingling surge of heat down to where his thigh was wedged between her legs. He shifted by a fraction, and the sensation of the rough material of his jeans on her bare, intimate flesh zinged more pleasure up and down inside her.
“Now,” he said with languorous relish, “where was I?”
“You were torturing me?”
“Torture is such a harsh word.” He held her wrists in place with one hand, using the other to circle her nipples with his fingers, making her pant. “I prefer the term playing.”
She gave him her darkest glare. “I’m not having much fun.”
“Really?” He rolled one tight bud between his thumb and forefinger, pinched it.
A sharp bolt of excitement seared through her, and her back arched, pushing her breast toward him. “Well,” she breathed, “maybe a little.”
“Hmm.” Eyes glowing with mischievous enjoyment, he bent down to suck on the neglected nipple, grazing it with his teeth.
Merle whimpered, need building inside, an avalanche of pleasure in the making, and all she wanted was for it to bury her. Rhun came up to kiss her, slowly, thoroughly, moving his thigh between her legs in the same rhythm as his tongue stroked her lips, invaded her mouth. It nearly drove her insane.
“Rhun, please.” Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her pretense of being too proud to beg. She needed to feel him, all of him, a visceral craving to have him claim her once more.
“I do like to hear you say that,” he muttered.
That cocky grin, it made her want to slap him—and kiss him at the same time. But—gods be thanked—he stopped teasing her and unfastened his jeans. She wiggled her hips in anticipation, her body tense, so tense with need, and when he pushed in, her head fell back on the mattress. How could anything feel so sinfully good?