Night Hunter (8 page)

She slid her hands under his arms and around to his back. That forced her closer to him. She could no longer keep him in focus. She was turning liquid from belly to hips. The inner heat rose and rose. He smelled of sweat and dirt. Far from repulsing her, the raw scents added to her arousal.

He leaned back and stared down at her, making her wonder if he was taking inventory of her. Well, she wasn’t a Playboy centerfold, but then he’d never grace the cover of a romance novel. Besides, from her admittedly limited expertise, she knew that once a couple started tearing at each other, imperfections didn’t matter. What she needed was an old-fashioned roll in the hay, a little bumping and grinding, some hot and—

“Kneel,” he ordered.

You can’t order me!

Yes, he could, she amended as her legs turned to jelly. She tried to retain her balance by leaning against him, but he grabbed her arm and pushed her away from him. He jerked down on her arms, emphasizing the command. Why should she fight? After all, she’d come here for one thing and one thing only. She sank to the ground, sliding her hands and arms down his body for support.

She felt weak, out of control.

Chapter Seven

Mala thought she detected a change in the sound the wind made, but she couldn’t concentrate on it enough to be sure. It was hard to think of anything else when an all-but-naked man stood spread-legged a few inches away. A young, strong and, no doubt about it, virile man, she might add.

Her mind snagged on the word strong. Maybe because she was looking up at him, she felt just a tad overwhelmed by his size and bulk. She wasn’t a ninety-eight-pound weakling, but he’d already demonstrated his mastery over her. She might fantasize about having a man overpower her, but dreams and reality were two very different things. In the real world, nothing scared her more than the thought of not being able to defend herself—to be at someone’s mercy. At the same time, sticky juices pooled at her crotch and seeped down her thighs.

“Now, on your back.”

Shock slammed into her chest. She felt her clit heat and swell. “My—damn it, Laird! I’m not a hooker. You can’t order—”

Lifting his knee, he pressed his leg against her chest. As he did, she caught a glimpse of his swollen, enormous cock. “On your back.”

Her forehead felt about to burst, but even that pressure didn’t distract her from the unbelievably erotic image of her as this marvelous man’s plaything. He wasn’t some rapist waiting in the shadows. If her life had been in danger, she would have sensed it and fought his attempts to pull her into his world, wouldn’t she? But to be possessed and at his mercy sent hot blood charging throughout her.

“I don’t want…” She tried to protest with what remained of her will.

“Yes. You do.”

“You’re not doing this. All right, you aren’t a damn brood mare. A slave.”

Then why was she scooting around and stretching her legs out in front, leaning back, back until the earth pressed into her spine? Although it was so hot that the earth itself radiated warmth, she couldn’t stop shivering. More fluid leaked from her. She’d become so swollen that her cunt pressed almost painfully against her shorts. It took incredible self-control not to lift her buttocks toward him like some bitch in heat.

“Spread your legs.”

“Laird! What—”

“Spread them.”

Inch by trembling inch, she did so. Arching her neck, she glanced at herself, relieved to discover that her shorts still covered her crotch and were absorbing her juices. At least that was what she thought until he leaned forward and sniffed. His mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed.

“I thought so,” he said with what she took to be a superior tone. Then, almost tenderly, he added, “It’s the way it has to be, Mala.”

“I don’t want—”

“Yes, you do. We both do. Wider. Open yourself to me.”

Watching his expression, more than a little scared, she spread her legs as far as she could. She didn’t know what to do with her hands and wound up gripping grass. Despite the thick foliage, the sun hurt her eyes, forcing her to close them to slits. She felt locked inside herself, unwilling to fully acknowledge how vulnerable she was. She heard birds, insects, herself breathing.

He was touching her, weighted thumbprints on the sensitive sides of her thighs. He’d begun at her knees, but had quickly marched toward her clitoris until maybe half of the journey had been completed. Then he slowed and painstakingly explored her soft and sensitive flesh.

Her legs trembled. She couldn’t regulate her breathing. He caressed and pressed, pinched and painted. It was all she could do not to try to slap his hand away. At the same time, she felt her clit swell even more. She smelled her arousal.

Her nails dug into the earth. Pulling up handfuls of weeds, she brushed them aside only to snag more clumps. She dimly realized what she was doing mirrored the way he was handling her. Her breasts swelled within their prison until the tips felt as if they’d rip through the fabric, but, much as she needed him to work them, he wasn’t done with her thighs.

Slow, so slow, he came closer to her core. As he did, her sex ached to meet his fingertips.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“You, damn it.”

“That doesn’t tell me enough.”

“Stop it!” She sounded hysterical, but couldn’t do anything about it. “You haven’t touched—why won’t you—”

“Your shorts are in the way.” Although he could have worked his fingers past the fabric, he teased her to distraction by running his nails over the flesh at the hem. Over and over again he traced the same area of skin. With each pass, he applied more pressure until she wondered if he’d draw blood.

“I’ll take—them—off,” she stammered.

“No, not yet.”

For maybe three heartbeats she had all she could do to deal with his refusal. Only then did she realize he no longer had his hands on her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. Frustration turned her voice ragged.

“Making you wait. Making both of us wait. Now…” Without warning, he ran two fingers under her shorts and panties. They slipped over her flooded cunt, making her sob.

“Wet,” he said, “good.”

“Wet doesn’t begin to describe what’s happening to me, damn it!” Before she could continue, disbelief snagged her breath. He’d removed his hand, robbed her of the reason to go on breathing.

“Don’t do this to me!” she demanded, hating him. “Don’t you damn toy with—”

“Mala! Shut up.”

He backed away, grabbed her ankles and forced her legs together. “I’m running this right now. That’s the way it’s going to be.” As if to punctuate his words, he pressed her thighs so tightly together that her swollen and sensitive cunt felt as if it was being pinched—deliciously so.

“If I let you come now,” he said, “you won’t remember enough of the journey. It’s the trip that’ll keep you with me.”

“I don’t care.”
Liar.

“I don’t believe you. Now.” He gave her thighs a final shove. “Stay like that.”

Once he had her where he wanted her, Laird slowly lowered himself to a crouching position with his legs on either side of her waist—pinning and imprisoning her. She was impressed by the muscle control it had taken to accomplish that, but the feat wasn’t nearly as impressive as the feel of his engorged cock brushing against her breastbone.

“What—what are you going to do?” Had she asked that before? And what made her think she needed to?

His response was to take hold of the hem of her top and pull it up to her armpits. The sudden rush of air along her ribcage brought a bit of sanity with it. He might have his way with her, but not without a fight. Determined to put her vow into action, she planted her elbows on the ground and pushed herself upward. He rocked back slightly as if willing to let her up, then grabbed her arms just above her elbows and yanked her supports out from under her. Then he dropped her onto her back again.

“You didn’t have to—”

Before she could think how she should finish the sentence, he again grabbed her top and slid it up and over her breasts. She noted he was staring at them—or rather what he could see of them under the flesh colored bra. When he slid his hands over the insides of her upper arms and repositioned them over her head, she didn’t try to resist. And when he again yanked at her top, she helped by lifting her back as much as possible. The garment came off. Fortunately, the groundcover felt nearly as comfortable as carpet against her back.

He leaned forward until all she could see of him was a blur, brought her hands together over her head, and held her wrists one across the other. If she put everything into it, she might have been able to wriggle out from under him, but she didn’t try—not with the memory of how her earlier attempt at resistance had played out still strong.

She fought to keep her breathing regular, but it came in quick, shallow gasps. Maybe she should be afraid of him, but she wasn’t…probably because she’d never felt more alive, more primitive.

Eager to feel more of him, she lifted her hips. She couldn’t hold that position more than a couple of seconds, not that he gave her the chance because he lowered himself onto her, bringing her trapped wrists down and then under her breasts. He pinioned them there with his left hand which left his right free to slide under the top of her bra. He cupped first one breast and then the other, all the time staring at her so intently that she closed her eyes to escape his intensity.

From inside her self-imposed prison, she took stock. His weight pinned her from her hips down, and his left hand was so large that it easily handcuffed her wrists. In addition, he’d leveraged his weight so she could barely move her upper body. She could, as if it made any difference, move her head from side to side and bend her knees. She didn’t try.

She was his prisoner, plain and simple. If he wanted to massage her breasts and mold them into contours of his choosing, he’d do it. If he chose to clamp his fingers around her throat and squeeze the life out of her, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

For reasons she wasn’t about to explore, that excited her.

Still holding her in place, he slipped his hand out from under her bra, then around behind her where he deftly unhooked it. He couldn’t yank it off without releasing her wrists, but obviously that didn’t matter to him.

With her eyes still shut, she imagined him staring at her breasts and taking their measure. They weren’t half bad, not as magnificent as those that had been artificially enhanced, but genetics had been kind to her. Maybe he agreed, because this time when he laid claim to them, it was with a new tenderness—or if not tenderness, a certain consideration.

Consideration for her response.

He touched and tasted, took a nipple between thumb and forefinger much as she’d recently claimed his. He had more to play with than she’d had. And was better at it.

Once again moisture flooded her cunt and added to what was already there. Her nipples hardened, and she sucked in humid air through flared nostrils. He spread his fingers over the outside of her breast and pushed inward, then placed his palm over the small mountain he’d created and created indentations with his rough finger pads. Done with that, he rolled her swollen and sensitive nipple back and forth, back and forth, creating enough friction to be almost painful.

She felt her hips lifting off the ground again, tried to spread her legs. She sobbed in frustration because they remained clamped together and imprisoned by his legs. How could he thrust his cock into her if he trapped her like this? If she still had on shorts and panties? Didn’t he know how frustrated she was becoming, how she desperately needed him filling her?

Although she wasn’t sure she had the courage for this, she opened her eyes. He stared down at her, but she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. He looked—not impassive really but something she couldn’t reach or comprehend. Wild.

Determined.

“I’m not—I’m not going to run away,” she managed, although it might be a lie. “Please, let me up. Get these damn clothes off me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It is better this way.”

For which of us?
Certainly not for her, and she couldn’t imagine he was satisfied with endless foreplay. If he was into control, he shouldn’t have any complaints, but his cock couldn’t possibly get any larger. Surely he wanted to shove it in her.

Determined to get her point across, she resorted to rhythmically lifting her hips toward him. Each thrust lasted only a second because she wasn’t sure how long her back would hold out. Still, again and again, she pressed her pelvis bone against the inside of his thighs. It would have been impossible if he rested his full weight on her, but he’d repositioned himself so his knees bore that responsibility.

She could only imagine what it felt like to have that damnable fabric repeatedly brush the tip of his swollen penis. Fortunately, her imagination was vivid—that and what her repeated thrusting was doing to her. Sex without penetration pretty much summed it up—sex with her doing the pumping. Her pussy hot and humming.

He growled, and she answered with a throaty moan.

“It—doesn’t have to be—like this.” Spent, she rested. In her mind, she continued her erotic thrusts, but that would have to suffice until her buttocks muscles recovered. “We can do this—another way.”

Did panthers purr? She didn’t think so, and yet the sound that came from his throat prompted the question.

“You’ve made me wait—so long. Teasing. Turning me inside out. I deserve—” She tensed in preparation to start pumping again. “More than this.”

Instead of agreeing or disagreeing, he leaned forward and lowered himself onto her, trapping her arms between them. His cock now pressed against her belly, the tip grinding into her navel—or it would have if it hadn’t been for the two layers of fabric. She wanted to concentrate on that, but couldn’t because he’d started nipping her jaw line and the side of her neck. She could only imagine what he looked like with his butt sticking up in the air to accommodate his greater length to hers. Instead of needing to laugh, she found the image erotic—not that she needed more in that department. Trusting and yet not, she turned her head to the side and gave him full access.