Hidden Embers (7 page)

One of his hands worked its way up from her thigh to her hair and he pulled her head back sharply. She gasped, but didn’t fight him, as he twisted her head to the side.

“Kiss me,” he snarled, seconds before his lips came down on hers, hard.

She did, pulling his lower lip between her teeth and nipping at him. He tasted like lime and tequila and the desert on a warm summer evening and she wanted more of him. Craved more of him until he was an inferno in her blood.

She bit him again, a little harder this time, and the little shock of pain must have been what he was waiting for because he came with a roar. She followed him over the edge, her body wigging out in twenty different directions as her orgasm ripped through her like a forest fire.

There was a pain in her left side, another in her right hip—her body protesting such vigorous use after being babied for so long. She wrenched her mouth from his, gasped for breath, but Quinn wouldn’t let her go. He followed her, his mouth ravenous on her own while the heat of his body seared hers wherever it touched. In moments, the pleasure overwhelmed the pain.

She gave herself to him—gave herself to his kiss and his touch and the wild, wicked need that was as much a part of him as his lopsided grin and intense, electric green eyes.

As she did, the whole crazy maelstrom started inside her all over again. She pulled him with her as she fell.

CHAPTER SIX

W
hen it was over, Jasmine’s faculties returned slowly. As the seconds crept by, she became aware that she was spread-eagled across the dresser, her stomach resting on the cool wood while her hands still gripped the sides for traction.

Her tank top was pushed up around the top of her chest and tangled with the bra that Quinn had unhooked but hadn’t taken the time to remove. Her pants were still around one of her ankles and her ass was in the air—or it would have been, if Quinn hadn’t been collapsed on top of her, the ragged sound of his breathing harsh in her ear.

“Can you breathe?” he asked after sucking a huge gulp of air into his lungs.

“I don’t think so,” she gasped.

“I’m sorry.” He started to move away.

“Don’t go.” She moved her arms back to clutch at his hips, not wanting him to leave despite the sudden screaming of her not-quite-mended ribs.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He soothed her by running one strong, smooth hand up her back, tangling it in her hair and gently massaging her scalp.

She relaxed into his touch, shocked at how soothing it was when minutes before it had been anything but.

He stroked her for a few moments, his hands leaving little trails of warmth wherever they touched, and unbelievably, she felt her body stir to life, when seconds before she would have sworn nothing short of a tornado ripping through the room could have roused her.

It wasn’t the same as the first flash of desire—or even the second—that had him throwing her over the dresser, going at it like wild things. No, it was a slower burn, one that was less intense but no less powerful for its slow climb.

He was still buried inside her and she moved against him, seeking a deeper contact. He groaned, thrust more deeply into her, and then paused when he was seated to the hilt.

She concentrated on the feel of him inside her, against her. The way the smooth skin of his abdomen felt resting against her ass. The way his fingers felt as they pressed in and around her spine in a massage that made her want to curl up and purr like a cat. The way the rough denim of his jeans scraped against her upper thighs.

She liked the feel of him, liked everything about him, especially the way he responded to her, like he had been wandering in the desert and she was the only thing around that could slake his thirst.

Then he was pulling away, though he gave her plenty of time to steady herself. She wanted to complain, wanted to hold him to her again and freeze this perfect moment in her memory for all time, but she knew he was right to leave her.

Her legs were trembling from the strain, her hip screaming from the awkwardness of her position. Not for the first time, she cursed the car bomb—and its makers—that had put her here.

She wanted her old body back—unblemished, strong, capable of going for hours without complaint at whatever activity she chose. She barely recognized herself with all her aches and pains, barely knew this woman who waited for her lover to head into the bathroom before unpeeling herself—slowly and painfully—from the dresser.

What should she do now? she wondered, looking around the still-darkened motel room for the first time.

Should she give him a quick thank-you and head out to her car to see if the tow truck had arrived? Or should she stay here and make small talk with the man who had just turned her world inside out?

Neither option appealed to her as she fumbled her pants and underwear up her thighs and settled them back into place. She saw the bed—lake-sized and centrally located—and an unbearable tiredness filled her. What she wanted, it turned out, was to stretch out on the mattress and fall asleep.

But doing so would be stupid. Quinn might have just rocked her world, but that didn’t mean she could trust him enough to let herself be vulnerable in front of him. Slumping against the dresser, she prayed her tired, aching body would hold up a little longer. Just long enough to get the pain under control, and then she’d be ready for whatever he threw her way.

Before she could do anything more than sigh in relief at having most of the pressure taken off her injured leg, Quinn was back.

He flipped on the bedside lamp, and though the bulb was dim, the sudden influx of light blinded her. She blinked a few times in an effort to adjust her vision and then stared across the empty room at him.

He was looking right back at her.

For the first time, she realized how big he was. He stood at least six foot six, with incredibly broad shoulders and arms that looked like they could rip a hundred-year-old tree out by the roots without so much as breaking a sweat. It was strange to realize that a man so large, so dangerous-looking, had taken her without hurting her in the slightest.

The knowledge shattered the last of the tension she was carrying—along with her renewed sense of caution—and she truly relaxed for the first time since she’d been forced to pull over to the side of the road. As soon as she did, the tiredness she’d been fighting rose up and overwhelmed her.

As if sensing her weariness, Quinn was across the room in a flash of speed that barely seemed human. He rested a hand on her lower back and propelled her toward the bed that suddenly looked as inviting as an oasis in the middle of the Sahara.

She grabbed her cell phone and made a quick call to cancel the tow truck. As she did, he yanked the comforter back and she sank down onto the cool sheets gratefully, her mind going almost completely blank before her head had even hit the pillow. Inside a little voice screamed at her to wake up, not to drop her guard no matter how good a lover Quinn had been. But it was too late, and Jasmine slid, softly and easily, into sleep for the first time in a long, long time.

Quinn stripped off his T-shirt, then settled himself on the bed next to Jazz and simply watched her sleep. Despite the seething storm of emotions he sensed right below her surface, she looked so peaceful, so calm, that he felt a little of his own tension draining away.

It wouldn’t last—how could it?—but for the moment he would take the gift she had given him and savor it. Who knew how long it would be before he felt this way again?

Reaching out, he traced a finger down her still flushed cheek. The skin was so soft, so delicate that he found himself savoring the feel of it. The feel of her. He moved closer, fitting his body against hers so that her head was pillowed on his bicep and the soft ripeness of her breasts rested against his chest.

Inside him, the dragon stretched once before settling down to rest. Their frantic lovemaking had soothed his beast as well as his body. Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a moment and the light on the side of the bed winked out. It was a small power, but one he found exceedingly handy. He hadn’t gotten up to turn off a light since his powers had first manifested themselves somewhere around his twenty-third birthday.

Tired from his long flight, worn out from his time with Jazz, he closed his eyes and settled down for his first sleep in three days. But the second he relaxed—the second he let his guard down—thoughts of Michael started to invade.

He saw his little brother smiling and laughing on the day Quinn had taught him how to fly, saw him dressing up for his first courtship with a girl more than four hundred years before. Saw him training patiently to be one of Dylan’s sentries, though everyone—including Quinn—had thought he was too immature, too soft, to ever make it on the High Council.

Michael had proven them all wrong.

Quinn shuddered at the memories, and a cold sweat broke out all over his body. He rolled away from Jazz, ignoring the small sound of protest she made in her sleep, and swung his legs out of bed.

As he did, pain radiated through his body, so intense that it felt like every nerve ending had been dipped in acid. He lowered his head, fought the pain as he fought so much in his daily life—with as much energy and dedication as he could muster.

Part and parcel of his healing gift, the pain was the physical consequence of his race to cheat death. It was the cost for being able to manipulate the earth’s energy to save—or try to save—those clan mates who were so bad off that modern medicine didn’t stand a chance of helping them. Tonight’s payment was going to be a bad one, as he’d given every ounce of power he had—wielded all the energy he could call up—to try to save his brother’s life. He’d even gone inside his brother to try to shore up the failing cells—a healing technique that was incredibly dangerous, and it exacted a huge price. Though he hadn’t been able to save his brother, he’d still have to pay the price that came with holding that much energy for that long.

The shakes started, violent shudders that wracked him from torso to toes. They were made worse by the pain that continued to invade his every pore. The vomiting would start soon—as it did with every bad attack—followed by a blackout that could last minutes or hours or even days.

He’d been a fool when he had decided that he was safe, that it wouldn’t happen this time, since it had been over twenty-four hours since Michael had died and nothing had hit him. Usually, the symptoms started soon after he used his gift.

He hadn’t given it much thought when he’d been flying—he’d been too wrapped up in his emotional pain to worry about the rest of the shit. But now that it was happening, now that agony was racing through his system like a Molotov cocktail on the brink of exploding, the scientist in him couldn’t help wondering whether his grief had somehow managed to block the physical symptoms—or at least mask them.

If that was the case, this should have started happening hours ago—back when he’d been flirting with Jazz in the bar. Instead, it had waited until now to rear its ugly head. He couldn’t help wishing that if it had waited this long, it could wait a little bit longer. Long enough, certainly, for him to see Jazz off in the morning.

He glanced around desperately, knowing he needed to get out of the damn motel room. He’d spent years keeping the side effects of his gift a secret, and though she wouldn’t understand what she was seeing, he still didn’t want to scare the hell out of her.

He tried to stand, but he’d waited too long. The shakes were too bad. His legs went out from under him, and he fell to the ground next to the bed. Unable to do anything else, he curled into a ball and waited for the tremors to stop.

It seemed to go on forever. On some level he was aware of time passing, but he was so locked into the pain—into the misery—that one minute bled into the next. More than once he tried to fight it, but it was the worst attack he’d ever had and his powers were useless against it. He couldn’t move without feeling like he was breaking wide-open.

He’d locked his dragon deep inside of himself, so deep that he could barely sense it as it snapped and snarled at the invisible enemy. Which was good—the last thing he needed was for the dragon to be front and center when Jazz woke up. God only knew what it would do to her.

Another wave of pain swamped him, so powerful that he thought he might have passed out for a minute. When he came to, he was aware of nothing. He was blind and deaf, locked into a darkness from which there was no surcease.

He wanted to scream, but didn’t have enough strength—or enough hope. He was suddenly, abruptly sure that this time he had gone too far. This time he wasn’t going to make it back. His one regret was that poor Jazz would be dragged into this. She would wake up in the morning with a dead man on her carpet.

The thought galvanized him for a moment and he tried to move, tried to make it to the door and out of the room, but he only got a couple of feet. Besides, without the use of his senses, he was so turned around he wasn’t even sure he could find the door.

For a second—just a second—tears welled in his eyes for the first time in over three centuries, but he refused to give in to them. Crying wouldn’t bring Michael back any more than it would help Dylan save the clan. It wouldn’t find a cure for the disease, and it sure as hell wouldn’t make him feel any better.

In other words, it was a total waste of time.

In the end, he stopped fighting and simply yielded to the inevitable. He put his head down on the carpet and simply waited to see what would happen next.

More time passed, though he wasn’t sure how much.

He did know it was long enough to count to ten thousand in his head.

Long enough to go over every joke and punch line Michael had ever told him.

More than long enough to figure out that maybe he really didn’t want to die after all. At least not blind and deaf and alone on the floor of a cheap motel hundreds of miles from home.

And then suddenly, someone turned the lights back on.

CHAPTER SEVEN