Into the Flame (27 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

BOOK: Into the Flame
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‘‘I can wash my own hair.’’
‘‘Indulge me.’’ She rubbed her fingers on his head, working up a lather, massaging his scalp. She moved slowly, allowing each small circle to ease along the skin just above his forehead, then moving back toward the crown of his head.
But he wasn’t relaxing. He was staring, hypnotized . . . at her breasts.
They bobbed in his face as she swayed with the rhythm of her massage.
Who would have guessed he’d be so attracted by the breasts he’d so recently kissed and caressed?
Well . . . she would.
It appeared she’d guessed right.
‘‘Doesn’t that feel good?’’ She rubbed him behind the ears, then scraped her fingernails up the back of his neck.
He stretched as if she’d pulled a thread through the top of his head. ‘‘It’s good.’’ He paused, struggling for words. ‘‘I like it.’’
Well. He was never going to be an articulate lover—in fact, right now, he sounded sort of like Tarzan—but she supposed if she wanted eloquence, she could always go watch those stupid butter commercials.
Moving swiftly, not allowing him time to recover, she grabbed a mesh scrubby and the rosemary shower gel, and went to work on his shoulders and chest. The scrubby was new, never used, with enough texture to scrape his nerve endings as she slid it around and around his nipples.
When she did that, his hands lifted toward her— then dropped to grip the edge of the seat.
‘‘You’ve got a really great body. I love your abs.’’ She stroked his six-pack with first the scrubby, then with her bare hand. ‘‘I love this ruff of hair in the middle of your chest, and how it extends down. . . .’’ She followed her finger with her gaze as it wandered toward his groin and his straining erection. Catching herself, she jerked away.
She had no intention of touching him there. Not until she’d driven him right to the edge of sanity.
But her body had other ideas.
‘‘Stand up,’’ she said, pulling him. When he did, she pushed him around to face the wall. ‘‘Put your arms up and lean forward. And spread ’em, mister.’’
‘‘Are you going to frisk me?’’ he asked, and his voice sounded an octave deeper than normal.
‘‘Every inch of you.’’ His back, his fine, tight ass, between his cheeks, the backs of his well-structured thighs and calves . . . she even picked up his feet and scrubbed the soles.
He didn’t wiggle. He stood as firmly as one of the rock stacks enduring the assault of the ocean waves.
But the ocean always won—eventually.
With her hands on his hips, she turned him again and washed his arms, paying special attention to his palms, then his chest and belly, the fronts of his thighs and calves . . . and now she was on her knees before him, with only one thing that needed to be washed.
She soaped up the scrubby; then carefully, oh, so carefully, she slid the scrubby between his legs, then up the length of his penis to the silken head. ‘‘How does that feel?’’
‘‘It’s . . . rough.’’ He could barely grunt.
‘‘I don’t want to be rough.’’ Dropping the scrubby, she used her hands, sliding them around his testicles, exploring, remembering, savoring the sensation of two tight, desperate, ready balls inside his sac.
Yet all the while, she was waiting, anticipating the glide of her hand up and down the length of his penis. And when she touched him, she knew she touched magic.
Each vein rose blue beneath the pale skin, and in contrast to his balls, the texture was smooth, silk beneath her fingers. The head was rosy, and as she lightly rubbed it, the whole organ grew larger, stiffer.
Yes. Magic.
The soap foamed white, then rinsed away, and she bent her head to take him into her mouth.
Finally, he groaned. A long, low, faint groan.
She swirled her tongue, sucked softly, then with growing strength, then softly again. And with each movement, she grew more aware of her nipples tightening in anticipation, of the ache between her legs, the way the water pounded on her back and slid down between her butt cheeks. She was in need, and if he didn’t yield soon, she was going to attack.
He held his arms straight out, his hands on the walls, bracing himself as if he would lunge if he didn’t.
Belated caution made her catch her breath. For all that this madness was what she had desired, right now, she wondered if she would survive intact.
After all, he was a Varinski.
He rose to his feet. He looked down at her. His eyes glowed red, a constant, furious, menacing glow.
His formidable control had broken at last.
She was, she realized, a woman trapped by her own stratagems.
Without warning, she plunged toward him, intent on knocking him down, dominating him, showing him once and for all she would not be intimidated.
Chapter Twenty-five
Douglas
caught Firebird around the waist. Pressed her to the cool floor. Spoke in her ear: ‘‘Don’t ever try that again. Do you hear me?’’
She stared at the gold tile beneath her cheek, watched the water running toward the drain, felt the threat of his erection against her butt.
‘‘Do you hear me?’’ he repeated.
‘‘I’ll never stop.’’ Useless defiance, but true nevertheless.
‘‘Then I will have to wear you out.’’ He ran his hand down her spine, between her legs. He opened her to his exploration, and what he found there made him chuckle. ‘‘Almost ready. Almost.’’
Almost? His fingers had barely brushed her. He’d entered her only slightly. Yet ignominiously, she hovered on the edge of climax.
He reached up, reached down.
She raised up to see what he was doing, but he put the flat of his palm in the middle of her back. ‘‘Don’t move. You have done plenty.’’
She was caught in the heat of her mate’s loosed passion, and she was the one who had loosed it. Now she would pay the price.
His fingers found her again, and this time he rubbed with purpose. He opened her, caressed her, entered her . . . and as he did, heat blossomed.
He was using some oil, something that made her buck beneath his hands and claw at the floor.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ His voice was guttural in her ear.
‘‘It’s too much.’’
He lifted her hips with his arm. ‘‘We’ve barely begun.’’
His penis slid into her, the whole length, without stopping.
Too full. Too big. Too hot.
He pressed himself inside, holding himself still, waiting for . . . something.
Too much
. . . God, why wouldn’t he
move
?
Involuntarily her inner muscles rippled along the hard length inside.
And as if she’d given him a signal, he released his passions on her.
He thrust with vigor, with savagery. There was no resisting him, no chance to take charge. She had to move as he directed, accept his domination . . . with each thrust, she came, an explosion of need fulfilled and need aroused.
The water washed down on them. It trickled down her arms and dripped off her chin, singing with its own sweet, warm beat.
She moaned, straining, clenching all her muscles as he drove into her with the rhythm of the sea, the wind, the earth. She rose onto her hands and arched her back, trying to get away, trying to get more. The pleasure was unbearable, and when he slid his hand around her, between her legs, and pressed her clit— she screamed.
Lights exploded beneath her closed eyelids.
Fiercely, he plunged into her, filling her with his sperm—and neither of them cared about the consequences.
Yesterday, they’d faced death.
Today, they faced each other.
She remained on her hands and knees, panting, exhausted, pleasured beyond strength.
And she smiled.
Gradually he withdrew, each ridge and vein dragging across her inner tissues.
She groaned.
He lifted her, turned her, placed her on the seat. He looked like a shark ready to take a bite out of its victim. ‘‘Now it’s my turn to wash you.’’
And she realized—he’d just come twice, and he was still hard.
By the time he had finished using the shower massager to rinse her, she was nothing more than a limp rag in his arms.
And that was just the way he wanted her.
Damn her for ripping his control away. She deserved the demon she had unleashed.
He had always planned to find her and drag her away to the lair he had built for her, but he had never imagined he would need so desperately to claim her over and over, in every way possible.
Now, as he dried her, taking care with each part, wincing at her bruises, sighing about her hair, he wished they had more time. For if they did, he would take her to bed again and show her how many times a starved cougar could satisfy himself . . . and her.
Lifting her, he carried her into the bedroom.
But he couldn’t take the time to make love to her again. He had another task, a duty to fix what he had set wrong.
He tucked her in bed, pulled up the covers, kissed her forehead. Her solemn eyes watched him. ‘‘Are you okay?’’
She knew him too well, recognized the disquiet he took such care to hide.
‘‘That’s the question I should ask you,’’ he said. ‘‘Are
you
okay?’’
A sleepy, sexy smile curled her lips. ‘‘I’m wonderful.’’
‘‘That you are.’’
Outside, rain licked at the windows, and the wind moaned around the eaves.
The next storm was coming in. Nighttime crept across the land. Exhaustion took control of her mind and her heart.
He placed his hand over her eyes to shut them. ‘‘Go to sleep. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.’’
Her eyes popped open. She shoved his hand away. ‘‘Cop stuff?’’
‘‘Cop stuff,’’ he agreed. He wasn’t lying, exactly. He did need to check in with his sergeant. He’d ruined his pager in the ocean. Lost a cell phone, too, and his service pistol. Yamashita hadn’t been happy about that, but Doug had told him a version of the truth—that he’d plunged into the ocean after a wayward dog—and Yamashita had been satisfied. He’d given Doug time off, but no more than necessary, for the state police were pretty much always on call. If an accident occurred and everyone else was busy, they’d phone him, and he’d go.
‘‘Don’t be gone too long.’’ Firebird looked heart-breakingly young with that punk haircut and that tremulous smile. ‘‘I want to take you home. I want to give you to my mother. She will be so pleased.’’
If Firebird only knew . . .
‘‘We’ll go, but first, I’ve got work to do.’’
Whether she wished it or not, her eyes closed. ‘‘Be careful.’’
As he watched her sleep, he murmured, ‘‘It’s a little too late for that.’’
He tucked the covers around her and headed for his office next door.
There he monitored his state-of-the-art security system. There he kept his computer and all his records. His chair was leather and adjustable six different ways. His walnut desk was topped with black marble.
He loved his office. He loved his house. And he feared he wouldn’t have them much longer.
Oh, well.
If he had to pay for what he’d done, it was no more than he deserved.
Yet it was up to him to make sure his family didn’t pay, Aleksandr didn’t pay, Firebird didn’t pay.
He searched through the clutter for his Rolodex, found the card he wanted, picked up the phone, and dialed the number. It rang and rang, and no one picked up for one long damned time.

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