Wild Cat

by Christine Feehan

  His eyes were dark with concern, but he smiled at her, his teeth very white, his lips defined. "Sweetheart."

  The single word turned her heart over. Without thinking she lifted her hand and traced his lips. "You have a beautiful mouth, Elijah," she whispered. Her heart pounded hard. From the nightmare, or from how close he was, how gorgeous he was. How much of a dream man he was. She tasted the echo of her nightmare in her mouth. The terror. The moment the leopard dragged her down. The sound of the gun. The sight of her grandfather. Paolo kicking her with his elegant, Italian, pointed shoes.

  "No, baby." His eyes intent on hers, he pulled her finger into his mouth, his tongue curling around it, distracting her completely from the web of terror she'd been trapped in. He shook his head, releasing her, but his hands went back to framing her face. His eyes darkened even more. "He doesn't get any part of you. Not when you're awake and not when you're asleep. Give him to me, everything he said. Everything he did. Give all of it to me."

  There was no looking away from the intensity of his eyes. He was wholly focused on her, his gaze holding hers captive.

  "I don't know how." She wanted to. She was tired of being afraid. So very tired of it. She hated fearing going to sleep, knowing Paolo would be there. Knowing guilt over her grandfather's death would eat at her. Knowing fear would consume her.

  "Look at me, mi amorcita, sweetheart. Really look at me. I'm not the kind of man another man messes with. I'm standing between you and anyone who wants to hurt you. I'm putting myself there."

  God. God. He felt like he owed her because of what happened between them. He was the type of man who would do that too, put himself in harm's way because he felt he'd done something wrong. She let herself really look at him, taking in everything from the width of his shoulders to the heavy muscles of his bare chest. He was a man who looked invincible. Looked as if he could stop bullets. But he couldn't. Her grandfather couldn't.

  "Elijah, you don't owe me anything. I was doing exactly what you accused me of doing when you threw me out. I was there to distract you so Marco could get in to kill you. I don't want you to put yourself in harm's way for me."

  "I'm telling you to look at me, Siena. See who I am. I'm that man you're afraid of because I can be that scary man when I need to be. And I'll be him for you--to protect you any way I have to. I'm taking your nightmare. I'm choosing to stand between you and any enemy because I choose you. Every time, my choice is you, and it has been for years. I don't want you ever to feel fear again--not from Paolo Riso, not from anyone. Not ever again."

  Just because Elijah ordered it didn't mean the fear would go away, but somehow, looking into his eyes, that terror inside her diminished. The tight coils in her belly unraveled. She found herself breathing easier. Looking at him. She didn't have a clue where the fear went, only that lying beside him, feeling his hard body surrounding hers, his arm locked around her, his gaze so intense and dark with real emotion, she knew she could let it go for the first time.

  He must have seen the relief on her face, or felt her body relax. Satisfaction crept into the hard lines cut into his face. "Is it gone? The nightmare?" He closed the two-inch gap between their faces, his lips brushing back and forth across hers. Coaxing.

  He didn't have to work hard to get her to open for him. The moment her lips parted, his tongue swept inside, and the last of the nightmare was gone. He could kiss. Seriously kiss. And he did. Her fingers found his hair and dove deep. She kissed him back, losing herself in him the way she always did. Melting so she didn't think. Only felt. Every cell in her body responded to Elijah's kisses.

  His arm locked around her waist, pulling her tight against the front of his body. She felt him wrapped around her, so close. So hard. So hot. But careful. She had ignited, gone a little wild, a little out of control. His mouth did that to her. He felt wild. Out of control, but he never once brushed against her leg or hurt her back when he pulled her closer.

  He lifted his head and stared down into her face, eyes intense as he studied her closely, looking for signs of distress.

  "Thank you, Elijah," she whispered, her voice a thread of sound. Her heart was pounding all over again. Her belly somersaulted. All good. "Thank you for making that go away for me." Her nightmare. Not even a small aftertaste was left. He'd driven it away with his mouth, his tongue and his hand so tight in her hair. He'd driven it away by the strength of his will, and his beautiful declaration that he stood between her and Paolo.

  "Are you okay, baby?"

  The room was dark. The bed was warm. His soft, sexy voice, roughened with sleep, curled her toes and melted her insides. His body was hot, so tight against hers, and the leopard snarling and tearing at her had been driven back.

  "Yeah. I'm good." She was and she wasn't. The nightmare was gone, but she was very, very aware of him. Her body had suddenly come alive and taken notice of the fact that he was hot. Sexy. And male.

  "Then settle."

  She had the unexpected urge to laugh. That was so the Elijah she was coming to know. Sweet as honey one moment and demanding the next.

  "And if I can't?"

  "Then I might have to do something about it," he warned softly. "You need your sleep. Doc said to make certain you give your body the time it needs to heal."

  His soft warning sent a little thrill through her body. There was something very sensual about waking up next to him. He was hard and hot and smelled all male when she inhaled deeply. She silently cursed her back. The stitches were gone and the rake marks were healing, but lying flat on her back would be a problem because they were still sore.

  She bit her lip and her gaze slid away from his. She was actually thinking about positions. Sheesh. Her body was beginning to feel the slow burn that had gotten her in so much trouble before. The burn that didn't allow her to think. Only feel.

  "Stop." He breathed the word. "I'm not a fucking saint, Siena." Even as he ordered it, his hand moved up her bare thigh, proving to both of them that he wasn't.

  His voice had roughened more. His gaze grew even darker and more intense. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her body moved restlessly against his.

  "I'm not looking for a saint, Elijah," she whispered.

  He groaned and took her mouth again. She should have protested. She knew she shouldn't have invited his mouth or his hands or the slow, beautiful assault on her body, but the moment she had him back, she slid right into meltdown mode. Her brain turned to slush. Her body caught fire.

  Elijah's hand continued to move up her left leg, her uninjured one, with exquisite languor, giving her plenty of time to protest. She didn't. She kissed him back harder, pouring herself into his kiss. Seeking his heat. Seeking oblivion. Bliss. She found it there in his mouth, in his touch.

  "There comes a certain point, mi amor, where there is no turning back. I've been with you every day for nearly three weeks, and it hasn't been easy keeping my hands off of you," he warned.

  "I wasn't asking you to turn back," she whispered, looking into his eyes. "Just to be careful of me. Don't hurt me, Elijah."

  Elijah stared down at her. His face going soft. Tender even. She never thought to see that look on his face. When they'd come together before, both had been so hot, so out of control, the fire raging between them, that there'd been no time to look into his eyes, to see his face, to see him like this.

  "You're safe with me, Siena," he reiterated, his voice stroking over her skin, very much like his fingers. He reached for her hair, the long thick braid that kept the mass of silk confined. She didn't protest when he pulled out the tie and used his fingers to unweave the strands, allowing her hair to cascade around her.

  "Beautiful," he murmured. "Like silk." His mouth settled over hers again. He gave her long, lazy kisses. As if they had all the time in the world. His hands dropped to the buttons of the shirt she wore--his shirt--and, even with his mouth burning his particular brand and taste into her mouth, never stopping, he managed to slide the buttons open so that her breas
ts spilled out.

  Elijah kissed his way from Siena's soft mouth to her chin. He liked her chin. He'd spent some time studying her chin. She lifted it whenever her eyes flashed fire at someone. She'd been doing that as long as he could remember. He'd dreamt about her lifting her chin at him. The last time he'd seen her do that was at the club when some man tried freak dancing with her. She'd done that little chin lift of absolute defiance. The gesture brought out the leopard in him. What self-respecting leopard wouldn't want to tame his female when she gave him that little chin lift?

  He kissed his way over her chin and along her jaw. Under it. Down her throat. She nearly purred, and the sound vibrated through his body, through his muscle and bone straight to his cock. Her skin was soft, like satin, and he inhaled her unique scent. He loved the breathy little sounds escaping and the way her body went boneless for him. This time he was careful. Very careful. Her first time should have been perfect, not him slamming her to the floor like a savage animal. He should have worshiped her body. Memorized it. Showed her how much she meant to him, not taken her in a heat he couldn't control.

  "I love the feel of your hair against my skin," he murmured softly. He kept her curled into him, off her back, off the injury to her right leg. Even so, her hair fell like a waterfall, pooling beneath them, rubbing along his bare shoulder and chest as he kissed his way along her collarbone. He wanted to bury his face in all that silk. He dreamt of that too. The way it would feel. The way it would smell. Perfection, and it was.

  Her hands moved over his back. Slow. As if she was memorizing every muscle there, the line of his body. He reveled in that simple touch, and he hadn't expected to. Her fingertips and palms moving over him shouldn't have felt sensual, but it was, that slow, almost leisurely exploration. His belly did a slow roll and heat rushed through his body from every direction to center in his groin. He liked that too. The blood moving through his veins in urgent need. The heat pooling, filling his cock until he felt fully, completely alive, not living in the half world where he had nothing. No one. Where he was alone even when he was in a room filled with others. She was finally in his bed where he'd wanted her--even needed her--all along.

  He lifted his head to look down at her. She was beautiful, her face flushed, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses, her breasts moving with every ragged breath. Such beauty, and she was giving it all to him. He knew she was afraid of him--afraid of his temper and his passion, but she still was willing to take that chance even though he hadn't yet earned it.

  He nuzzled her breast, his tongue stroking her nipple. "You're so beautiful, Siena. So fucking beautiful I'm almost afraid to believe you're real. That this is real."

  Her hands slid along his hips and down his butt. He felt her light touch all the way through his body as if she were using a branding iron on him. Branding her name into his skin. Into his bones. He could have told her, her name was already there, inside of him. It had been for a number of years. He held his breath as she pressed her fingers into him, over him, her palm sliding over firm muscle to slide along the crease between thigh and buttocks.

  Lifting the soft weight of her breast, thumb stroking caresses over her nipple, he trailed more kisses over the creamy slopes of her breasts and between, in the deep valley where he felt her pulse. Soft. Gentle. Taking his time because he felt every shiver of her body. She was sensitive to his touch. To his mouth and hands.

  He wanted her to hear him when he said she was safe with him. He was better at showing her than telling her. He couldn't resist the lure of her breast and he pulled her nipple deep into his mouth, tugging and rolling, using the flat of his tongue to stroke, the edge of his teeth to send flames dancing and the hard pull of his mouth to ignite a fire.

  She was very responsive to him. A gift. Her soft, breathy moans set his pulse pounding, the blood roaring in his ears. His hand moved down her belly where she cradled his child while it grew. The child they'd made together. She didn't know it, but that child had been conceived in love. He had known the moment he had first laid eyes on her, sitting across from him at her grandfather's table, her eyes downcast, her hair everywhere, her soft voice doing things to him that shouldn't have been done, not when she was so young, that she was his other half, the woman who would make him a better man. The woman who could live with the man he was, the man his harsh life had shaped him to be.

  "I knew," he whispered. "I should have given you that. I knew you were mine." He made the confession, his lips against that soft, perfect place where his child nestled.

  Her fingers caught in his hair, sifted, then fisted. He felt the bite in his scalp and it transmitted straight through his body to his cock. Hunger grew. The burn became scorching. Searing him with urgent need. He pressed kisses over her belly, wanting them to go deep, deep enough for his child to feel loved. To know he or she was wanted by him.

  He kissed his way down her injured leg, tongue moving over the raw ridges as gently as possible, and then back up the inside of her thigh. He lifted her leg and put it over his shoulder so his head was cradled on her good thigh.

  She gasped and tightened her hold in his hair. "Elijah." His name came out raw. Sexy. Breathless. A moan.

  He loved that. He loved the way she smelled, so welcoming, honeysuckle and citrus. She tasted that way. He knew she did because he woke up every night remembering her taste. It was forever in his brain, just as addicting as her body was.

  "Stay still for me, baby," he whispered into her damp entrance. "I want this to feel good, not hurt you."

  He used his tongue first, a long, slow swipe to collect that honey and bring it into his mouth, savoring that first taste. "So good, Siena. You taste so damned good. You were made for me." He would forever wake up craving the taste of her in his mouth, on his tongue, and he'd never get enough of the unique flavor that was Siena.

  He used his hands to open her, so he could feed on her. Sate his hunger. Drive her wild. He wanted her wild. He wanted her to need him, to feel the same urgent hunger consuming her until she couldn't take one more breath without him inside of her. He needed that from her. He wanted to give her that. He wanted to watch her face as he pushed her over the edge and sent her soaring.

  He gave that to her twice, but really, he was giving it to himself, such pleasure, watching her eyes glaze, watching her breath grow more ragged, the bliss on her face. Such beauty, because he loved her so much, so deeply, and there was no other way he could show it to her like he could here, in his bed, taking his time with her the way he should have when he took her innocence.

  The second time her body rippled and pulsed, he moved up her, holding her thighs apart, keeping her injured leg riding up over his hip as he pushed into her hot, tight sheath.

  "So tight," he murmured. "Strangling me. Wet silk, baby, scorching. So good. So fucking good." He could barely inch his way through her tight folds, her muscles reluctantly stretching to accommodate his thick shaft. He took his time out of necessity, when everything in him wanted to slam deep, bury himself to his balls. If she hadn't been so slick from the two orgasms he'd given her, he doubted if he could have gotten her sheath to accept him.

  When he was buried to the very hilt, feeling her cervix, knowing he couldn't get any deeper inside her, he waited, breathing deeply, feeling her body surround him, the slow yield to his invasion. Gripping him. A wet, silken fist wrapped so tightly around him, she stole his breath. Fire raced from his cock, up his spine and down his thighs, spreading like a storm of white-hot flames.

  "You okay, baby?" he whispered, praying she was. Gritting his teeth, holding himself still when every cell in his body urged him to move. Fast. Hard. Deep.

  Her hands slid around his shoulders, fingernails biting deep. "Better than okay. I need you to move. Now, Elijah. Please."

  His eyes closed for just a moment, his heart turning over at that last little breathless plea. "You tell me if you're uncomfortable, Siena," he ordered.

  "Just move," she pleaded again.

  He wi
thdrew and thrust deep, driving through her tight muscles, feeling the burn engulf him. Watching her face. Her eyes. Looking for signs of discomfort. He plunged deep again and again, rocking her body with every stroke. The breath left her in a rush. Her eyes glazed. Her lips parted. She was beautiful. Instinctual. Her hips moving to meet his.

  The heat built. Tension coiled. He heard it in her ragged gasp. Saw it in her dazed expression. Her nails dug in, a bite of pain that added to building fire. His hand shifted to support the thigh of her injured leg, making certain not to jar that long, jagged wound while he picked up the pace. He kept her on her side, so that there was no pressure on her back, only the driving cock between her legs.

  "Harder, Elijah," she said. "I need you to . . ." She broke off as he deliberately switched angles, using her legs to tilt her hips toward him so he could press down into her.

  Her ragged gasp was music to him, adding to the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. He stayed ahead of it, not wanting to end this. He could live there, connected to her, feeling her body squeezing until the friction seared him. He drove harder, giving her what she needed, watching her face as her orgasm raced over her. She gasped. Her eyes went wide with shock. She looked so beautiful he nearly closed his own eyes to lock that image in his brain for all time.

  He kept moving, taking her back up fast, so fast her body didn't have time to rest before the next one hit, this time much stronger, this time taking him with her. He buried his face in her neck and let it take him, the burn. The fire. The pleasure spinning through him with such force he thought it might take the top of his head off. He buried his face in her neck and stayed still. Planted in her. Living in her. Feeling that burn pounding through her, spreading like a wildfire.

  "Baby," he whispered, when he could breathe again. "Nothing like you in my life. Not. Ever."

  She didn't answer, but her hands were buried in his hair, wrapping the unruly waves around her fingers. Letting the strands slide through and then fisting them all over again. He felt her fighting for breath, felt her body rippling around his, drenching him in honeysuckle and citrus. He lifted his head, fighting for air, careful of her injuries, holding her close to him, his gaze moving over her face to assure himself he hadn't hurt her.