Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive Star\Hidden Star\Secret Star (9 page)

The shock was stunning, glorious, an electric sizzle that snapped through her blood and slapped her heartbeat into overdrive. She let her head fall back and wrapped her legs tight around his waist to let him feed. The scrape of his beard against her skin, the nip of teeth, the slide of his tongue—each a separate, staggering thrill.

And each separate, staggering thrill tore
through her system and left her quivering for more.

The fall to the bed—a reckless dive from a cliff. The grip of his hands on hers—another link in the chain. His mouth, desperate on hers—a demand with only one answer.

She pulled at his shirt, rolled with him until he was free of it and they were both bare to the waist. And found the muscles and bones and scars of a warrior's body. The heat of flesh on flesh raged through her like a firestorm.

Her hands and mouth were no less impatient than his. Her needs no less brutal.

With something between an oath and a prayer, he flipped her over, dragging at her jeans. His mouth busily scorched a path down her body as he worked the snug denim off. Desire was blinding him with hammer blows that stole the breath and battered the senses. No hunger had ever been so acute, so edgy and keen, as this for her. He only knew if he didn't have her, all of her, he'd die from the wanting.

Those long naked limbs, the energy pulsing in every pore, those harsh, panting gasps of her breath, had the blood searing through his veins to burn his heart. Wild for her, he yanked her hips high and used his mouth on her.

The climax screamed through her, one long, hot wave with jagged edges that had her sobbing out in shock and delight. Her nails scraped heedlessly down his back, then up again until they were buried in his thick mane of gold-tipped hair. She let him destroy her, welcomed it. And, with her body still shuddering from the onslaught, wrestled him onto his back to tear at the rest of his clothes.

She felt his heart thud, could all but hear it. Their flesh, slick with sweat, slid smoothly as they grappled. His fingers found her, pierced her, drove her past desperation. If speech had been possible, she would have begged.

Rather than beg, she clamped her thighs around him, and took him inside, fast and deep.

His fingers dug hard into her hips when she closed over him. His breath was gone; his heart stopped. For an instant, with her raised above him, her head thrown back, his hands sliding sinuously up her body, he was helpless.

Hers.

Then she began to move, piston-quick, riding him ruthlessly in a wild race. Her breath was sobbing, her hands were clutched in her hair. In some part of his brain he realized that she, too, was helpless.

His.

He reared up, his mouth greedy on her breast, on her throat, wherever he could draw in the taste of her while they moved together in a merciless, driving rhythm.

Then he wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips to her heart, groaning out her name as they shattered each other.

They stayed clutched, joined, shuddering. Time was lost to him. He felt her grip slacken, her hands slide weakly down his back, and brushed a kiss over her shoulder. He lay back, drawing her with him so that she was sprawled over his chest.

He stroked a hand over her hair and murmured, “It's been an interesting day.”

She managed a weak chuckle. “All in all.” They were sticky, exhausted, and quite possibly insane, she thought. Certainly, it was insane to feel this happy, this perfect, when everything around you was wrecked.

She could have told him she'd never been intimate with a man so quickly. Or that she'd never felt so in tune, so close to anyone, as with him.

But there didn't seem to be a point. What was happening to them was simply happening. Opening her eyes, she studied the stone resting atop the scarred dresser. Did it glow? she wondered. Or was it simply a trick of the light of the room?

What power did it have, really, beyond material wealth? It was just carbon, after all, with some elements mixed in to give it that rare, rich color. It grew in the earth, was of the earth, and had once been taken, by human hands, from it.

And had once been held in the hands of a god.

The second stone was knowledge, she thought, and closed her eyes. Perhaps some things were known only to the heart.

“You need to sleep,” Jack said quietly. The tone of his voice made her wonder where his mind had wandered.

“Maybe.” She rolled off him, stretched out on her stomach across the width of the bed. “My body's tired, but I can't shut off my head.” She chuckled again. “Or I can't now that I'm able to think again. Making love with you is a regular brain drain.”

“That's a hell of a compliment.” He sat up, running a hand over her shoulder, down her back, then stopping short at the subtle curve of her bottom. Intrigued, he narrowed his eyes, leaned closer. Then grinned. “Nice tattoo, sugar.”

She smiled into the hot, rumpled bedspread. “Thanks. I like it.” She winced when he switched on the bedside lamp. “Hey! Lights out.”

“Just want a clear look.” Amused, he rubbed
his thumb over the colorful figure on her butt. “A griffin.”

“Good eye.”

“Symbol of strength—and vigilance.”

She turned her head, cocked it so that she could see his face. “You know the oddest things, Jack. But yeah, that's why I chose it. Grace got this inspiration about the three of us getting tattoos to celebrate graduation. We took a weekend in New York and each got our little butt picture.”

Her smile slid away as thoughts of her friends weighed on her heart. “It was a hell of a weekend. We made Bailey go first, so she wouldn't chicken out. She picked a unicorn. That's so like her. Oh, God.”

“Come on, turn it off.” He was mortally afraid she might weep. “As far as we know, she's fine. No use borrowing trouble,” he continued, kneading the muscles of her back. “We've got plenty of our own. In a couple hours, we'll clean up, go out and cruise around, try to call Grace.”

“Okay.” She pulled in the emotion, tucked it into a corner. “Maybe—”

“Did you run track in college?”

“Huh?”

The sudden change of subject accomplished just what he'd wanted it to. It distracted her from
worry. “Did you run track? You've got the build for it, and the speed.”

“Yeah, actually, I was a miler. I never liked relays. I'm not much of a team player.”

“A miler, huh?” He rolled her over and, smiling, traced a fingertip over the curve of her breast. “You gotta have endurance.”

Her brows lifted into her choppy bangs. “That's true.”

“Stamina.” He straddled her.

“Absolutely.”

He lowered his head, toyed with her lips. “And you have to know how to pace yourself, so you've got wind for that final kick.”

“You bet.”

“That's handy.” He bit her earlobe. “Because I'm planning on pacing myself this time. You know the saying, M.J.? The one about slow and steady winning the race?”

“I think I've heard of it.”

“Why don't we test it out?” he suggested, and captured her mouth with his.

 

This time she slept, as he'd hoped she would. Facedown again, he mused, studying her, cross-ways over the bed. He stroked her hair. He couldn't seem to touch her enough, and couldn't
remember ever having this need to touch before. Just a brush on the shoulder, the link of fingers.

He was afraid it was ridiculously sentimental, and was grateful she was asleep.

A man with a reputation for being tough and cynical didn't care to be observed mooning like a puppy over a sleeping woman.

He wanted to make love with her again. That, at least, was understandable. To lose himself in sex—the hot, sweaty kind, or the slow and sweet kind.

She'd turn to him, he knew, if he asked. He could wake her now, arouse her before her mind cleared. She'd open for him, take him in, ride with him.

But she needed to sleep.

There were shadows under her eyes—those dark, witchy green eyes. And when the flush of passion faded from her skin, her cheeks had been pale with fatigue. Sharp-boned cheeks, defined by a curve of silky skin.

He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Listen to him, he thought. The next thing he knew, he'd be composing odes or something equally mortifying.

So he nudged her over, made himself comfortable. He'd sleep for an hour, he thought, setting
his internal clock. Then they would step back into reality.

He closed his eyes, shut down.

 

M.J. woke to the sound of rain. It reminded her of lazy mornings, summer showers. Snuggling into the pillow, shifting from dream to dream.

She did so now, sliding back into sleep.

The horse leaped over the narrow stream, where shallow water flashed blue. Her heart leaped with it, and she clutched the man tighter. Smelled leather and sweat.

Around them, buttes rose like pale soldiers into a sky fired by a huge white sun. The heat was immense.

He was in black, but it wasn't her knight. The face was the same—Jack's face—but it was shadowed under a wide-brimmed black hat. A gun belt rode low on his hips, instead of a silver sword.

The empty land stretched before them, wide as the sea, with waves of rocks, sharp-edged as honed knives. One misstep, and the ground would be stained with their blood.

But he rode fearlessly on, and she felt nothing but the power and excitement of the speed.

When he reined in, turned in the saddle, she
poured herself into his arms, met those hard, demanding lips eagerly with her own.

She offered him the stone that beat with light and a fire as blue as the hottest flame.

“It belongs with the others. Love needs knowledge, and both need generosity.”

He took it from her, secured it in the pocket over his heart. “One finds the other. Both find the third.” His eyes lit. “And you belong to me.”

In the shadow of a rock, the snake uncoiled, hissed out its warning. Struck.

M.J. shot up in bed, a scream strangled in her throat. Both hands pressed to her racing heart. She swayed, still caught in the dream fall.

The snake, she thought with a shudder. A snake with the eyes of a man.

Lord. She concentrated on steadying her breathing, controlling the tremors, and wondered why her dreams were suddenly so clear, so real and so odd.

Rather than stretch out again, she found a T-shirt—Jack's—and slipped it on. Her mind was still fuzzy, so it took her a moment to realize it wasn't rain she was hearing, but the shower.

And that alone—knowing he was just on the other side of the door—chased away the last remnants of fear.

She might be a woman whose pride was based on being able to handle herself in any situation. But she'd never faced one quite like this. It helped to know there was someone who would stand with her.

And he would. She smiled and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. He wouldn't back down, he wouldn't turn away. He would stick. And he would face with her whatever beasts were in the brush, whatever snakes there were in the shadows.

She rose, raking both hands through her hair, just as the bathroom door opened.

He stepped out, a billow of steam following. A dingy white towel was hooked at his waist, and his body still gleamed with droplets of water. His hair was slick and wet to his shoulders, gold glinting through rich brown.

He had yet to shave.

She stood, heavy-eyed, tousled from sleep, wearing nothing but his wrinkled T-shirt, tattered at the hem that skimmed her thighs.

For a moment, neither of them could do more than stare.

It was there, as real and alive in the tatty little room as the two of them. And it gleamed as bright, as vital, as the stone that had brought them to this point.

Jack shook his head as if coming out of a dream—perhaps one as vivid and unnerving as the one M.J. had awakened from. His eyes went dark with annoyance.

“This is stupid.”

If she'd had pockets, her hands would have been in them. Instead, she folded her arms and frowned back at him. “Yeah, it is.”

“I wasn't looking for this.”

“You think I was?”

He might have smiled at the insulted tone of her voice, but he was too busy scowling, and trying desperately to backpedal from what had just hit him square in the heart. “It was just a damn job.”

“Nobody's asking you to make it any different.”

Eyes narrowed, he took a step forward, challenge in every movement. “Well, it is different.”

“Yeah.” She lowered her hands to her sides, lifted her chin. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I'll figure it out.” He paced to the dresser, picked up the stone, set it down again. “I thought it was just the circumstances, but it's not.” He turned, studied her face. “It would have happened anyway.”

Her heartbeat was slowing, thickening. “Feels like that to me.”

“Okay.” He nodded, planted his feet. “You say it first.”

“Uh-uh.” For the first time since he'd opened the door, her lips twitched. “You.”

“Damn it.” He dragged a hand through his dripping hair, felt a hundred times a fool. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, though she was waiting silently, patiently. Nerves drummed under his skin, his muscles coiled like wires, but he looked her dead in the eye.

“I love you.”

Her response was a burst of laughter that had him clamping his teeth until a muscle jerked in his jaw. “If you think you're going to play me for a sucker on this, sugar, think again.”

“Sorry.” She snorted back another laugh. “You just looked so pained and ticked off. The romance of it's still pittering around in my heart.”

“What, do you want me to sing it?”

“Maybe later.” She laughed again, the delighted sound rolling out of her and filling the room. “Right now I'll let you off the hook. I love you right back. Is that better?”

The ice in his stomach thawed, then heated into
a warm glow. “You could try to be more serious about it. I don't think it's a laughing matter.”