The Darkest Kiss (20 page)

“There is no routine,” he gritted out.

“Like hell.” Spinning, she swung at him with her fist. Contact. “You have scars. So the hell what. That doesn't mean all women think you're ugly.”

When she swung at him again, he batted her wrist away. “You cannot think me handsome, and so you cannot want me. Not really. You have even admitted it.”

“People lie all the time, asshole. I believe I've mentioned that I personally do so on a regular basis.”

He stilled, panting. His eyes widened with astonishment. And hope? “You lied about why you have stayed with me?”

“Wouldn't matter if I did. I hate your guts now.” She dropped her sword and shoved him. “You were going to kill me.”

He stumbled backward, finally past the threshold of the bedroom. He dropped his sword, too, and it clanked against the floor. “From the beginning, I meant to kill you. My intentions were never a secret.”

“Yeah, but you weren't serious about it.” When he made no move toward her, she pushed him again. Again, he stumbled. “Would you really have taken my soul?”

His knees hit the edge of the bed. “Yes. No. I don't know. You torment me like no other and I am constantly second-guessing my decisions about you.”

She pushed again and his legs buckled. As his ass slapped against the mattress, she dove for his stomach, slamming her shoulder into him and knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Anya,” he managed to gasp out.

“Nope. You don't get to talk anymore.”

“You do not hate me,” he said darkly. He had a hold of her wrists a second later and was jerking her on top of him, his mouth slamming into hers. His hot tongue thrust inside her mouth as surely as his sword had thrust at her body, only now his aim was deadlier.

Sweet lightning, she mused, a little dizzy. The man knew how to kiss, letting his tongue continue to invade her mouth with all kinds of electric heat. Her nipples hardened, and that damn moisture pooled between her legs. Every cell she possessed sparked to wild life.

You're not supposed to desire him anymore.

Well, he wasn't supposed to kiss me.

Grab the chains. Now!

As their tongues dueled, Anya forced herself into action. But she grabbed on to Lucien rather than the chains, gripping his head so tightly her nails scoured his scalp. Such an embrace would have killed a human, but Lucien seemed to revel in it, his erection pulsing under her.

Just a few minutes of play,
then
I'll lock him down.

He just…he tasted so damn good. Better than she remembered. Man and dark fever, power and roses. His touch was exhilarating, his hands kneading her ass as he ground his swollen shaft between her legs. Much more, and she would come. Then ask for even more. Beg.

Gods, she hated her curse.

And she hated herself for even thinking about fulfilling it.
No way you
want
to be bound to this man, unable to love another, unable to kiss and touch or even dream about another.
So why did the possibility excite her? Why did she want to smile at the thought of spending eternity with Lucien? Her heart belonging to him, even if he tired of her?

Don't think about that now.
She straddled Lucien's waist, pressing his cock closer…closer…hitting exactly where she needed. She gasped in ecstasy, her entire body rejoicing.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded. “I want to feel your skin.”

Yes, yes. “No.” Common sense spoke for her. Her desire for him wasn't going to change the night's ending: Lucien chained to the bed and at her mercy, to be punished for trying to take her head.

That doesn't mean you can't enjoy him for a little while longer and take off
something. Her hands fisted on Lucien's chest. Obviously, he wasn't the only one who second-guessed himself.

“I want you, all right?” he said. “I can deny it no longer. Know that I am not going to try to kill you during the act. You have my word.”

But there was shame and guilt in his voice.

“Fuck me now, kill me later, hmm,” she said, not offended when she probably should have been. “Well, you can take off
your
clothes.” Oh, to feast on his glorious body. “Mine have to stay on.”

He stilled, stared up at her, passion receding from his face and leaving that blank mask she hated.

She almost sobbed. She wasn't ready for the make-out session to end.

“Why will you not strip for me?”

“Why are we talking? I thought I told you that you weren't allowed to do so anymore,” she hedged, pressing closer and sliding her tongue back into his mouth. She didn't want to tell him the truth, but she didn't want to lie to him, either. Not about this. She would much rather enjoy him.

He returned her passion for a few minutes more, hands tracing over the curve of her spine. There was desperation in his kiss. A desperation that was reflected in her own, she was sure. She never wanted it to end, could have stayed in his arms forever. But he finally cupped her jaw and forced her to look at him.

Tension lined his mouth. “You led me to believe my scars did not bother you,” he said softly.

“They don't,” she replied just as softly.

“Anya. Of all the times to tell me the truth, this is it. Please.”

“They don't!”

His eyes tapered, nearly shut, feathered lashes pointing at her like spikes. Suddenly there was an evil glint in both the blue and brown iris, as if the demon of Death had taken over. Lucien gripped her hips and moved her off him.

Confused, she perched at the edge of the bed.

“You want me, but you will not take off your clothing for me,” he said. Actually, he growled. “I do not think you really want me, after all.”

“I do.”

Staring at her, he unsnapped his jeans.

She pulled her gaze from his face, watching the movement of his fingers. Breath caught in her lungs. What was he doing? Stripping for her, as she'd requested? But why would he—

Unziiip.

Her jaw fell open as his erection sprang free. Huge, swollen, long, with a rounded tip already beaded with moisture. Her tongue nearly rolled out of her mouth. Was she drooling?

“You want me,” he repeated flatly. “Well, now you're going to have to prove it.”

“Wh-what?” So damn big.

“Prove it. Suck my cock.”

At his uncharacteristically crude language, her gaze jerked back up to his face. Anger was banked there, as was self-deprecation. His cheeks were flushed with shame. Did he expect her to scoff and walk away? Did he think to teach her a lesson about playing with him?

“What's the problem? Do you not want me?” he mocked. “Can you not bring yourself to do more than kiss me?”

Oh, yes. He expected her to walk. She'd never performed this act before, considering it too humbling and too intimate in light of her curse. With Lucien, however, she was aroused by the thought. His pleasure would be a thing of beauty, she had no doubt.

“Was this to be my punishment for trying to kill you or was this just another attempt to soften me?” he demanded before she could respond. “Either way, we both know you never meant to take it any further. Your cruelty astounds me.”

Cruel? When she ached for him? When part of her wanted to finally forget her curse and spend an eternity in his arms? “I can keep myself alive, thank you very much. I don't need your help, and I've never needed to soften you. Didn't I admit that already? And FYI, you don't have any room to talk about cruel intentions.”

“You are stalling,” he said. “Do it. Suck me.”

He thought he was being harsh, forcing her hand to make her leave. He should have known better. She never would have guessed it, but she truly
wanted
to do this. Had craved it, perhaps, from the very first.

Slowly, she crawled up his body until her mouth was level with his shaft. His breath caught, the room again going silent. “Anya, you—”

“I'm not doing this to prove anything,” she told him raspily. “I'm doing this because I can't seem to stop myself. I must. Your taste…I have to know…can't be as good as I imagine.” And with that, she took him into her mouth, fully, completely, sliding all the way down and feeling him hit the back of her throat. Odd, the sensation, but she liked it.

He groaned in pleasured agony, and the sound poured over her skin like a caress. His hands tangled in her hair. “Anya. Don't. I shouldn't have…Anya.”

Up, down, up, she moved, the way she had seen in the naughty movies she sometimes watched.

“You don't…you don't…Ah, gods. Anya. Don't stop. Please, don't stop.”

From commanding to begging. She reveled in her power, in the need emanating from him. Need that was filling
her
up, ratcheting her own pleasure up another notch.
Mine.

Up and down she continued to move. Her tongue swirled all the while, stroking everything it touched. She cupped the heavy weight of his testicles. He arched into her movements, going deeper, his every muscle clenched tight. She could feel the passion-hum in his blood. Wanted more. Had to have more.

“Changed my mind. Anya, stop. Stop!”

Merciless, she continued her upward glide, flicking her tongue over the swollen head. Sucking. Scraping with her teeth. She treated his cock exactly as she treated her favorite lollipops. Only she liked the taste of him more. Such desire…oh, his desire.

He was hard for her, and only her.

“I'm going to—Anya!” He roared her name as the climax ripped through him, shooting hot seed into her mouth.

She swallowed every drop and even licked the last little bit away, instinctively knowing that would please him. As she sat up, he continued to spasm in pleasure, even though he was spent. His eyes were closed, his mouth open in wonderment.
I did this,
she thought with pride. Never had she felt more powerful and never had she seen a more erotic sight.

Her own need reaching a new level, she straddled him. She was so wet her panties were soaked.

His eyelids slowly opened and he peered up at her, his expression sated. “Anya. You did not have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “And I want
you.
Don't ever doubt that again.”

Tenderness glowed on his face. “What are you keeping from me, then? Why can I not strip you?”

That tenderness…Vulnerability claimed her, for no one other than her mother and her father had ever looked at her like that. As if she were precious. As if she were a treasure. Anya's heart lurched in her chest.

Lucien reached up and caressed her cheek. A shiver traveled through her.

“Why, Anya? I've tried to resist you since the moment I first smelled your strawberry scent,” he said. “As you can feel, that has not worked out for me.”

Even now, his shaft was growing, thickening with renewed desire. Her eyes widened, and she tried so very hard not to soften even more toward him. If what he said was true, he'd wanted her from the very beginning and had been fighting it. Every unkind word and action had been a means of keeping her at a distance.

He'd hinted at such a thing before. Now, with him underneath her…

She was suddenly conflicted and didn't know what to do with him. Shit. This really complicated things because the basis for her—forced, damn it—dislike and anger had been obliterated.

Still, he wouldn't stop trying to kill her. He couldn't. Unless he chose her over “all the things he held dear.” How selfish of her to have asked that of him, when she had nothing to give in return.

“Anya.”

“What?” She blinked, returning her focus to Lucien.

His lips twitched. “Concentrate.”

“Oh, sorry. Did you say something?”

He arched his hips up, rubbing his erection against her clitoris. “I asked why you want to keep your clothes on. Are
you
scarred?”

Shiver bumps dotted her skin. “No.” Not physically, at least.

“It will not bother me if you are. I swear. I will kiss them better,” he said huskily.

Her stomach quivered. What a delicious man. She braced her palms flat on his chest, felt the wild drum of his heartbeat through his tattered shirt. She was going to tell him, she decided. After everything they'd been through, he deserved to know.

“I'm cursed,” she finally admitted. If he reacted poorly, she might be able to loathe him in truth. Her obsession might wane.

His brow furrowed. “You, too, are possessed by a demon?”

“No. Mine's just a run-of-the-mill curse.”