Danger That Is Damion (29 page)

“I do,” she whispered, her body tingling with sudden arousal. “You know I do.”

“Then be with me, Lara. Forget everything else, and just be with me.” He eased his hands under the shirt, calloused fingers skimming her naked skin, her bare breasts. “Just be with me.”

His lips slanted over hers, his tongue pressing past her lips. The spicy maleness of him filled her mouth, drugged her, and claimed her very breath. Need built inside her, as a flame quickly ignited. “Lara,” he whispered, her name on his lips somehow saying everything she was feeling, the wild frenzied need that was suddenly theirs.

He kissed her, or maybe she kissed him. She didn’t know the difference. There was simply the burn to touch him, to taste him, to feel him closer. Until they were both panting as they shoved away his boxers, and he held her steady, so that she could slide down the hard length of him. He filled her, stretched her, completed her in a way that she didn’t try to understand. It simply
was
… as they were.

“Are you with me now?” he asked, sliding his hand down her back and molding her against him.

“Oh yes,” she assured him. “I am definitely with you now.”

***

A good while later, Damion turned Lara on her stomach and kissed a path from one ankle to her gorgeous backside, and then all the way to her neck. He dusted the hair from her neck and traced the two circles etched on her nape with his finger, then pressed his body down over hers and kissed the delicate skin where the mark appeared.

“I know…” he said softly by her ear, “that I shouldn’t say things like ‘you’re mine.’ I know I sound like a caveman, but I can’t seem to help myself. When I look at this mark, with you beneath me, it’s what I feel.”

She whispered his name, and he slid inside her, pressing deeply, melding his body with hers as the circles on her neck melded their souls as well. He was hot and hard, and something primitive and demanding ripped through his body. “Say you’re mine, even if it’s just for right here and right now.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m yours.”

He thrust into her, sensation sliding from his balls to his cock, twisting him in knots of pleasure.

“Yes,” she panted. “I’m yours. Harder, Damion.”

“You want harder, baby,” he growled. “You get harder.” He pumped into her, his hands traveling her body, curving under her to cup her breasts. More. He wanted more. She wanted more.

He wanted this to be about sex, about nothing but sex—sex didn’t mean commitment. Sex didn’t mean loss, or pain, or the opportunity to screw up and hurt the other person. Lara was the best sex of his life, but damn it, he knew this wasn’t about sex. It was about a bond, a need, a connection that was so much more than sex. What they shared defied his vow. When he’d committed himself as a soldier for life, he’d promised never to let any woman mean anything to him but
sex
.

Lara cried out and stiffened beneath him, her hands pressing his hands to her breasts, her hips arching into his. She shattered around him, milking his cock with tight, hard spasms that ripped his orgasm from him. Damion arched his back with a roar of pleasure, his body shaking as he spilled himself inside her.

Long moments later, the two of them collapsed together, and Damion rolled to his side, Lara with him. He curled around her and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Next time you belong to me,” she murmured groggily.

He smiled and nuzzled her hair, the soft strands tickling his chin. “Then you better sleep,” he said, “because it’s going to take a tough cavewoman to control this caveman.”

“I’ll be ready,” she vowed softly, the words trailing off, her breathing slipping into a slow, rhythmic pattern.

Damion’s chest expanded with a hard-earned breath. Lara had begun to matter to him. If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t the bikini that had really worked him over. He’d started falling for her the moment she’d disobeyed orders and protected the Russian. She’d proven then what he now knew, and what she didn’t seem to understand. That she was more than the sum of whoever controlled her, more than the façade of memories etched in her mind. He was falling in love with Lara, and it scared the hell out of him, and made him resist the blood bond, that final step in their Lifebonding—because at least physically, that meant every step he took, every action he put into play that might get him killed, would get her killed as well. No way. He’d lived that hell with his brother. It was one thing to play a sex game where she belonged to him, or he to her, but forever wasn’t a game. He wasn’t the man Lara needed in the long run, not once she found herself again. He knew it, and he was sure she knew it too, or she wouldn’t be so freaked out about being bonded to him.

He had to tread cautiously with Lara, because Cassandra had told her the truth. Eventually their bodies would take over, and their final bond would be formed, whether they liked it or not.

Dorian’s warning replayed in his head, the promise that without the blood bond, Lara would die from whatever Powell had done to her. If that were true, then there was no escape for Lara—Damion had become both her life… and her death. Conflicted didn’t begin to describe what he felt, because after lying there, thinking about all the reasons he shouldn’t want that to be the case, he found himself holding her closer, unwilling to let go.

Lara woke on her stomach, the masculine, wonderful scent of Damion filling her nostrils—on her skin, on the pillow, in the air. God, she loved how he smelled, all spicy and deliciously male. Her lips lifted, satisfaction filling her. For just a moment, she simply lay there, drinking in a few moments of the naughty, wonderful, intimate things she and Damion had done together. Trying not to let herself think beyond this instant, beyond last night, not wanting to accept what, on some instinctive level, she already knew. She remembered nothing beyond a certain confined circle of information. That meant her headaches wouldn’t be gone, not if things were as they were before her recent sleep. Cautiously, she resisted the urge to move, waiting a moment to see how her head felt, and then sighing with relief when there was no pain. In the background, she registered the sound of the television, and what she thought was the voice of a sports announcer.

“Morning.”

Lara lifted her head at the brandy-rich male voice and turned to her right to find Damion sitting beside her, his long, muscular legs, stretched in front of him, and pressed to her side. He was touching her, and instantly her heart softened. He was trying to keep her headaches at bay so she could heal. Too bad, she thought, that her memories were still at bay as well.

She rolled to her side to face him, taking in his cleanly shaven square jaw and his handsome face. He wore faded jeans and an army-green T-shirt that told her she’d outslept him once again. She’d never thought army-green was sexy, but, oh man, had she been wrong. On Damion, army-green was downright sinful.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Seven hours,” he said, setting the computer that was in his lap on the nightstand.

“Seven hours?” she gaped and sat straight up, ignoring her nudity. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen everything about ten times over. She didn’t feel shy with Damion, and she knew that meant something, but she couldn’t focus on that right now. Urgency rose inside her. She had to find Powell. She had to find answers. “I can’t believe I keep sleeping so long.”

“Easy,” he said, catching her wrist and pulling her to him, his hand sliding around her butt cheek as he molded her to his side. “You need the rest to heal. And don’t panic. You didn’t miss the NFL draft. I recorded it.”

“NFL draft?” she asked, confused a moment, before she laughed despite herself, remembering the argument about football she’d shared with Damion and Chale. “You know that’s not why I’m panicked.” She shook her head. “And you recorded the NFL draft to prove you were right and I was wrong about the top picks, didn’t you?”

“That’d be a yes.”

“And was I right, and you were wrong?”

“I haven’t watched it. I was waiting for you.”

She had no idea why that announcement meant so much to her, but it did. Maybe because it felt like such a normal thing to do, and she felt so far from normal. Or maybe it was simply that he’d waited for her, that he was sitting by her, caring for her.

She kissed his cheek. “I’ll kiss you right—once I have a toothbrush.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said, and released her. “And considering you’re driving me crazy pressed up against me with nothing on, I highly suggest you go now, if you’re going to go at all. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about your toothbrush.”

Lara bit back a smile and scooted off the bed to hurry toward the bathroom, all too aware of his eyes following her every step. She was about to shut the door when he called out, “I’ll get you some food and call Cassandra, so we can get you tested again.”

She stilled in front of the vanity. Another brain wave test. She didn’t want another test. She
wasn’t
taking another test. She felt fine, and even if she wasn’t fine, there was nothing anyone could do for her. She didn’t reply. She’d wait until she was dressed and ready to take on a real battle, be it with Damion, or her real enemy, Powell—the man who she was now certain had stolen her life, and all those she’d loved with it.

And no matter what Sabrina’s role in all of this, no matter how much Lara wanted her blood, it was Powell she wanted the most, Powell she was going after. Determination formed inside her, and Lara quickly turned on the shower, praying Damion wouldn’t join her, and then praying he would. No. She didn’t want him to join her. He distracted her and made her want things she didn’t dare want—a fairy tale of some happily-ever-after story that she clearly didn’t have in her cards. She pulled back the curtain, and suddenly Damion was there, smacking her on the ass. Lara yelped and glanced over her shoulder. “Hey!”

“I owed you that from last night.” He disappeared from the room.

She laughed and stepped behind the curtain, thinking of all the ways she’d teased him mercilessly. He was right. He owed her. God, how she wished she could turn back time and just live that night one more time. But she couldn’t, and forty-five minutes later, Lara inspected herself in front of the vanity, ready to face the one real thing in her world outside of Damion. She was involved in a war, and not the one where she took orders from Powell, but the one against him.

Still, she found herself studying her reflection in the mirror. “Who are you?” she whispered, no answer coming to her beyond the superficial. Her skin was pale, her long dark hair straight and silky, compliments of her favorite shampoo and conditioner, which she’d been shocked to discover were available on the Sunrise Strip. Actually, she’d been as surprised by the development of this underground world as knowing that the coconut hair products were her favorite. It was just so darn odd that she knew so many things about herself, but had no idea where they originated.

Her gaze skimmed her slim dark jeans and black T-shirt with a light blue butterfly, still seeking some hidden secret to her identity. She liked butterflies. They meant something to her, something special. She sighed in frustration, about to dismiss the butterflies as another mystery yet to be unraveled, when she saw a flash of Skywalker’s face—a strong jaw, a deep, familiar scar down his cheek that was as much a part of him as were the creases around his eyes and thick, graying hair. Lara saw herself, right there with him, a younger her, a teen maybe—yes, nineteen. She was nineteen.

Suddenly, Lara was in the past, in a karate studio, everything so vivid, down to her pink sweats and T-shirt, and Skywalker’s gray sweats. Her feet were bare, a padded cushion beneath them.

She punched at Skywalker, then kicked. He avoided impact. She punched again, her brow damp, her determination strong. This time, she would take him down. This time wouldn’t be like every other day this week, when she’d wound up on her backside. No sooner had she made that silent vow, than she had landed on the mat on her backside. Lara let out a frustrated sound, shoving herself to a sitting position.

Skywalker bent down in front of her, and she stared into a face of a fifty-something man, with intelligent gray eyes. He offered her his hand, and she glanced at his wrist, noting the familiar tattoo of a bald eagle with an American flag behind it. “Get up, my little caterpillar.”

She ignored his hand and pushed to her feet on her own. He chuckled. “I’ll make a butterfly out of you yet.” She wanted to be that butterfly. She wanted to make Skywalker proud. Lara bent her knees and went into ready position. Skywalker grinned and did the same.

Then suddenly, the room shifted, and Lara stumbled. Shadows filled her vision, and then she was standing in a doorway, and Skywalker was tied to a chair, a gun to his head. “No!” she screamed. “No!”

***

Damion was standing in the kitchen when he heard Lara scream several times. Fear tore through him with the sound, fear for her carving a hole right in his gut. He took off running to find her, even as she went silent. The silence was worse than the scream. The silence that meant she could be—he wasn’t going to consider where his mind was going—that anything could be wrong with Lara.

He charged into the bathroom to discover her sitting on the floor against the bathroom wall, her hands over her head and shaking. She was alive. Only then did he allow himself to fully realize what his fear had been—that he would lose her. That doing so would destroy him. That he had done what he’d sworn his entire adult life he wouldn’t do—he’d allowed himself to care for someone, to feel responsible for someone, even if that person didn’t see him that way. He
couldn’t
lose her, no matter what that meant, whatever he had to do to keep it from happening.