Blood Moons (18 page)

She couldn't even direct him now, because he knew what she was doing. His fingers teased, spread her moisture all around, but wouldn't touch where she wanted him the most.

Dara thrashed her head left and right on the pillow, not even 158

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breathing for fear she would scream. His teeth caught her nipple and she dug her nails into his back. She felt him groan deep in his chest, wordlessly demanding more.

As if in reward, he stroked up her clit, then down all the way to her entrance, dipping in briefly, but not enough. Never enough. So she squeezed her legs around him and raised her hips to his next stroke, managing to take him deeper. Tristan cursed, releasing her breast to rest his forehead against her chest.

"If you keep doing that," he rasped, "this will be over before it even begins."

"God," she breathed, "then just
begin
already!"

She felt him smile against her, his mind filled with pure male satisfaction. He reveled in her reactions, loved seeing her so desperate for him. He
wanted
her this wild, so he could be the one to sate her too.

Well, there were things
she
wanted too. And she would not be denied. Not this time.

Dara wanted to taste him. She subtly inserted an image into his mind, of her hands on his cock and her tongue stroking the underside, her breath teasing the head, so close to touching, but not quite there. She showed him how she would lick the slit and suck him into the heat of her mouth, hoping to provoke him enough to release her from this stupid lesson.

Tristan paused and shuddered, breathing hard against her chest and Dara smiled.

And then her panties were gone and his mouth was on her, and she had to cover her mouth to keep from crying out. She 159

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nearly dropped out of his mind right then and there and clutched the blanket beneath her. Her own fault to have the tables turned on her. Tristan wasn't about to be outdone. He kissed her as he would her mouth, tongue delving in while he clutched her thighs to hold her immobile. She couldn't move, not even to rock against his ravaging mouth. All she could do was take what he gave.

And give he did. Tristan feasted on her, teasing more moisture out of her before licking it up like his favorite dessert. He was voracious, as if he couldn't get enough of her and within moments, Dara was on the edge, so close to coming her body clenched rhythmically in readiness.

She sensed everything along with him. Tristan was single-mindedly focused on her, on teasing and soothing and tasting, and all of it brought him more pleasure than he even realized. All of it she could feel, and it stoked her own desire to impossible heights.

Too much. It overwhelmed her. She lost her focus and betrayed her presence in his mind, no longer able to keep hidden. Tristan made a rough sound and, almost as punishment, thrust his fingers into her and sucked her clit at the same time. Dara came with such force that only Tristan's hold on her kept her from rising off the bunk.

Now
he
was in
her
mind, feeling what she felt. He shuddered as he finally released her to crawl over her. He still hadn't taken his clothes off and the feel of coarse fabric over her sensitive skin made her shiver. They brushed chest to chest as Tristan shifted his weight over her. She didn't know when she'd managed to lose her bra, but the feel of his shirt 160

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rasping over her nipples made her hips buck against him again.

Tristan groaned and tore his shirt off, then pulled her against him skin to skin while he thrust slowly against her, building the pleasure up again. His teeth, sharper now, brushed over her shoulder, scraping, then nipping. When she gasped, he soothed the sore spot with drawn-out laps and kisses. Even his mind in hers felt different now. Dara wasn't as out of control as she'd been the first time. Now she recognized how open he was and could even understand a few things. He was more animal than man now, wild, focused on taking her, yet also on bringing her pleasure. It was like a game, but far more intense.

There was the thought that she was his—his to claim, his to take care of. His to keep. No, it wasn't a thought; nothing that clear and delineated. It was more instinct, rooted so deep she wondered if he even realized it was there, or just took it as a matter of course. Some part of him had to know that it was irrational, even pointless, but right now, that silent claim on her guided every move he made, every unsteady caress he delivered and every hungry kiss he stole. Dara knew this version of Tristan would be confused if she tried to tell him something that went against that instinct.

She found it ... endearing.

...endearing ...
Tristan heard, so focused on the physical that he hadn't paid attention to the mental connection until now. Endearing? Well, he'd put an end to
that
.

He could feel her growing wet again, even through the fabric of his pants between them. With a last, lingering kiss to 161

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her throat, Tristan raised his head, wanting to see her face when he thrust into her. Freeing his cock from his pants, watching her eyes grow unfocused while he thrust against her a couple of times, his cock slipping up and down between her slick folds. Then he plunged deep and took her cries into his mouth.

Home.
He was home.

His heart thudded in his chest, feeling as if it wanted to burst out of him and into her. Nothing in his life could ever compare with this. Here, being with Dara this way, Tristan felt indestructible and weak at the same time. It made him shudder, a little uneasy, but there were no words to describe the rightness of it. He never wanted to leave.

They breathed in unison, for each other, exchanging air in a dizzying cycle. When Dara exhaled, Tristan inhaled, wanting every part of her, even her breath. He thrust into the welcoming heat of her, feeling her arms clutch around him and her legs squeeze to hold him close. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest and part of his mind worried that he was holding her too tightly. He couldn't make himself loosen his hold even a little.

He plunged deep, then stayed, circling his hips against her.

Tristan could feel her close in on the edge and he pushed her over, prolonging her pleasure with slow, even friction. Her nails dug into his back; he wouldn't stop, guiding her body smoothly into another orgasm. She bit him, muffling her moans against his shoulder and it made him come so hard his vision darkened and his breath exploded out of his lungs. He 162

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wanted to shout, to roar her name to the sky, but couldn't make a sound.

Instead he contented himself with holding her as tightly as he dared and continuing to slowly move within her, reluctant to see this end. "Never get enough of this," he said, and it was as much an admission as it was a command.

"Won't," she replied, the sound echoing in his mind over and over again.

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"I guess I failed,"
Dara said later, trailing her fingers in slow patterns over his chest.

"I'd have been insulted if you didn't,"
he replied. Even to his own ears his voice drawled like a contented purr.

She shivered in her own mind. "I'm scared, Tristan."

He pulled her closer and nuzzled her hair. "I know."

"Lie to me," she said. "Tell me everything will be okay."

"No."

He'd expected it, but it still hit him like a blow to the gut.

The disappointment. The hurt. She wouldn't have believed it, just wanted to hear the words so she could take at least one full breath without her heart pounding out of control. She'd wanted an illusion to hold on to; to be taken care of, even if it was just for a few seconds.

And Tristan had just reminded her that she had no friends here.
That
was what she believed. Always had, though she'd been distracted from it a few times. Tristan wanted to tell her otherwise, but it would have been nothing more than an empty promise. No matter how much he wanted her—
Christ,
how he wanted her
—the situation was beyond his control.

Once they left this cell for good, he wouldn't be able to protect her anymore.

All that time she'd spent in his mind, his thoughts and memories, she still had no idea. Tristan couldn't tell her now.

It would make no difference if he did. They stood at a 164

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crossroads and no matter how much he wanted to hold on to her, Dara's road led where he couldn't follow.

An alarm went off in his head.
Whispers in the dark,
enemies conspiring. On the move.

They were coming.

Tristan moved slowly, but in his mind, he was anything but calm.
"Get dressed,"
he told Dara, moving away from her to get off the bunk.

"What's...?"
There was the stab of fear when she picked up on what he was sensing.
"Never mind,"
she said and dressed as he'd told her.

Tristan hoisted her up onto his bunk. "Last night," he said aloud. "You can have the top bunk." In her mind he warned,

"Stay still. Hide. Anyone comes close, you're not there. You're
asleep on your own bunk. Got it?"

"Thanks, I guess." Despite the calm of his voice, Tristan's eyes were flickering gold.
"What are you gonna do?"

"You leave that to me. Just make sure you don't slip up."

The guards were gone. They had to be changing shifts, though it was more likely that someone had called them off.

There was nothing to stand between them and the two approaching except that force field.

Dara pulled her knees up to her chest and breathed to calm her mind. She focused on the cell and changed the picture until she appeared to be asleep on her bunk. It had been one thing to do something like this during the day, but now in the dark, when her heart was racing with fear, Dara had a hard time concentrating. Her body was screaming at her to run or hide, find something to use as a weapon, 165

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anything but just sit there and wait. An evolutionary defense mechanism was now making her panic.

Tristan had lain down on her bunk. Dara used him as a focus point and lowered the illusion of her over him. It took her three tries to do it while keeping herself hidden. What Tristan was doing, she couldn't tell, but she could sense the two men approaching.

Merely registering the thought processes, she recognized the mind attached to one man. Blanc. He was the one who'd let the prisoner out and was now leading the way to her cell.

She merely skimmed over the surface of his mind to get to the other one.

Her illusion wavered when she determined his identity. It was the same man Blanc had been talking to last night. And after today, she had a face and name to put with the mind: Clay.

Dara clutched the blanket until her fingers felt like they would cramp. She couldn't panic now. She and Tristan were in a tiny chamber, about to face two men, one of whom would be carrying a gun and possibly be eager to use it. All they had going for them was the element of surprise. If they lost that because of Dara, it wouldn't matter that they were both getting transferred out. They might not even make it through the night.

So she forced herself to focus. She solidified the image in her mind and then carefully, oh so subtly, laid it over Blanc and Clay's minds, just as they were coming into view. Like a child afraid of monsters, Dara wanted to close her eyes and pretend it made her invisible. She could hear their footsteps 166

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nearing. Could sense what they were feeling and she couldn't block it out, not without letting go of the illusion she'd created.

Anticipation glowed around Clay like an aura. Excitement,
focus on the task that was to come. The artist was coming,
and a blank canvas was awaiting him. Annoyance. Blanc's
measured gait was too slow. Hurry the hell up! Calm ... calm
down. Just one chance. Only one. Have to do it right.

What he wasn't factoring into the equation was Blanc.
Saw
her first,
the guard was thinking
. Will get my dues. Let him
out, debt paid ... now I get to play. First come, first served,
you fuck.

The doorway zapped open. Dara clutched Tristan's pillow to her chest, with the edge just covering her mouth. Fear made her want to shrink into a tiny ball. She made herself as small as she could, but it wasn't enough. If the illusion didn't hold, she was dead. This time, she knew it for certain.

There was movement in the cell, shadows closing in. Dara closed her eyes to block it out.

Muffled sounds, a commotion; a fight. Someone hit the top bunk and she started so badly that she lost control of her illusion.

The gun went off and Dara screamed. More fighting. She could hear someone being slammed against the wall, the sound of fists on flesh, grunts and growls. She scooted back against the wall as far as she could go and made herself even smaller.

Pain was leaking into her mind from all three fighters, and her body shook with it. It was impossible to block out. She 167

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could tell that Clay was down, though she didn't know whether he was just unconscious or dead. And Blanc wasn't doing too well, either. Dara could sense that Tristan was hurt, but there was a haze in his mind, a killing rage that shielded him from the pain. He couldn't feel any of it, so Dara didn't, either. He had closed himself off ... no. Not closed off. He was so focused on killing the guard that nothing else could get his attention. Dara could still reach him, but he wasn't listening.