A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)

A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7) Page 22

He stared at her with those hot eyes. “It’s not going away.” His grasp on her hips tightened, his own trembling need telegraphing to her plainly.

“No. It’s getting worse. Why do you have to be so damned beautiful?”

His mouth tilted into a semblance of a smile, but sympathy shimmered within the fire in his eyes.

“Can you . . . pleasure yourself? Will that help?”

“It will only make it worse.” In the old days, the only thing that had brought her true pleasure was the touch and possession of a male. Touching herself, bringing herself to release, only drove the hunger higher.

She gripped his face tighter, touching her forehead to his, unable to look him in the eye as she voiced her admission. “I need you. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this.” It was an admission the warrior she’d been for so long would never have made. Then again, the warrior had felt no desire. Safe behind those icy walls, she’d been nearly impervious to harm. With that icy shell lying in broken shards around her, she’d lost her defenses.

When she pulled back, the tenderness in his eyes made her heart clench.

“What if I lie beneath you, angel?”

She took a shuddering breath, moisture dampening her thighs at the thought of him stretched out like that.

“Here?”

“There’s no one here but us.”

“For now. What if the Mage come? Or more of those blue-painted barbarians?”

“I can shift quickly. My state of undress won’t affect me at all.”

Stars in heaven, she was really going to do this. She met his gaze, her body quaking with fear and need. “Don’t touch me. Please. I need you to not touch me.”

“I’ll keep my hands behind my head.” He lifted a brow. “But I have one request in return.”

“What’s that?”

“You give your sword into my keeping. I’d hate to have to regrow any of my more tender anatomy.”

She laughed, a quick amused burst of air through her nose. But a moment later, she was shaking, wondering how in the name of the ancient queens she was going to get through this.

Fox stroked Melisande’s satin cheek. “Tell me what you want me to do, angel. You call the shots. All of them.” Having sex in the Mage’s labyrinth was a risk. He knew it. Although, while his shifting skills weren’t optimum as yet, his Great Dane size was just about perfect for tearing off an attacker’s head. And he could move from sex to leaping in his fox in two seconds flat. He was sure of it. Especially if Melisande’s life was at risk.

Besides, this wasn’t likely to take long. Not with Melisande about to climb out of her skin and him about to burst from his own.

Leaning forward, she eyed him like a warrior going to battle. And that was just what she was, he thought darkly. How he wished he could take away the misery of her past. But he would do what he could. And if that meant letting her use him for sex . . . ? Everyone had to make sacrifices at some point.

“Lie down in the sand,” she directed. “Don’t take off your clothes. Just push your pants down to your thighs.

He swallowed, totally turned on by this despite himself. When had he ever allowed a female to take the reins completely? He’d always considered himself a good lover, a considerate one who gave as much as he took. And he was all too happy to let his partner have her way with his body to her heart’s content as long as she wasn’t into pain. Much. But to let a female order his every move?

Never.

But the thought of Melisande doing so nearly had him spilling into the sand.

He did as she commanded, lying down before her, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. Pushing them down over his hips, he freed the part of his anatomy she needed, then met her gaze, watching her eyes flare with hunger, then tighten with dread.

This was worse than taking a virgin, and he’d generally steered well clear of them. It was worse still, because he couldn’t help. At least with a virgin, he could stroke her, gentle her, ease into her. With Melisande he could do nothing but wait for her to come to him on her own. Or not.

“It’s okay, pet. My penis is not going to hurt you. It’s just going to stand here waiting for you to do what you want with it, though I’d appreciate it if I could hold your knife now, luv.”

Wry humor lighting her eyes, she unsheathed her knife and handed it to him, hilt first.

Holding the blade firmly above his head with one hand, he cradled his head on his other arm. Finally, decisively, she sat beside him and began pulling off her boots. A moment later, feet bare, she struggled out of her leggings, revealing pale, slender, shapely legs that he longed to run his palms over. And his tongue. He was starting to shake from the effort to remain still when the most desirable female he’d come upon in as long as he could remember sat within reach, bare beneath her tunic, releasing a mating scent that had been driving him wild for hours.

He’d die if she didn’t touch him soon. And he didn’t dare say those words out loud.

Slowly, she straddled him, but she just knelt there. Shaking. Tears began to run slowly down her cheeks.

“Mel,” he said softly. “Angel, look at me.”

She did, her mouth so tight, so furious, her eyes so wounded.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to do this now. I’ll be willing and waiting for you anytime you’re ready.” And he feared that statement was all too true. If this kept up, he’d wind up with a permanent hard-on.

“I have to do it, now.”

He ached for her. And struggled against every natural instinct to grip her hips and drive himself deep into her wet, waiting heat. How in Hades was he going to remain perfectly still when she took him? How was he ever going to keep from thrusting up to meet her when, and if, she ever found the courage to ride him? Yet he must. He’d promised. And he would do nothing to make this any harder for her than it already was.

Closing her eyes, she finally began to lower herself . . . thank you goddess, and the feel of her wet heat stroking his head nearly sent him over the edge. With a swallowed sob, she gripped him, too tight, aiming him for her heat.

“Melisande. Look at me. Please.”

Slowly, she opened those tear-drenched eyes, blinking to stare at him.

“It’s me,” he said softly. “Stay here with me.” The last thing she needed was to sink back into that nightmare of what she’d endured before.

With a quick little nod, she kept her gaze locked on his as she pushed him inside her. Then he was sliding deep, drenched in her wetness, as she lowered herself all the way down.

“Okay?” he asked, strangling on the groan of pleasure he didn’t want her to hear.

Again that quick little nod. “It feels . . . you feel . . . good.”

“Thank the goddess. Do you want me to tell you a joke? Keep your mind off it?”

Her laugh lifted his heart even as it forced him deeper and, oh goddess, she felt so good. Her tight little sheath clutched him, milking him, as she lifted her hips and lowered them again, undulating in an erotic move that had him clenching his jaw hard, straining his muscles against the need to surge up into her. Even holding himself rigid as stone, he was barreling fast toward release. No! No, he couldn’t come yet, not before she’d found her own release, or this whole thing was going to be for nothing.

She was gasping now, moaning, her eyes drifting closed, then snapping open, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping the monsters at bay. Finally, she cried out, her inner walls clamping tight around him, over and over. Able to hold on no longer, he poured his seed into her, his fists tight as vises as he staved off the desperate need to hold her as he came.

But the moment it was over, she was off him like a shot. Pale as new snow, she began to pull on her clothes with visibly shaking hands.

Fox took a long, shuddering breath, then rose to his feet and pulled up his pants. They’d made more progress than he’d expected and less than he would have liked. She’d accepted him, and he didn’t think she’d been further damaged by the event. But neither was she healed. Far from it. And the truth was, she might never be. His body felt replete, for the most part, but his arms felt achingly empty and his chest hurt. If only he knew what to do to help her. Unfortunately, it was men who’d hurt her. And while he hated being painted with the same brush as those bastards, he got it. He was three times her size and far more than three times her strength. With her unable to mist away, if he wanted to hurt her, she’d never stop him.

No, he understood the problem. What he didn’t know was the solution. If there was one. He’d never found it with Sheenagh. Not in time.

Fully dressed once more, Melisande started walking, and he fell into step beside her, handing her the blade. Without comment, she sheathed it.

The need to protect her, to slay her dragons, was growing in him by the hour. She’d been through so much, yet emerged fire-honed. Too hard, perhaps, but strong as steel.

Until he came along and started screwing everything up.

Sometimes the psyche built defenses for a reason. Sometimes they were the only things that kept people whole. If Sheenagh had been able to erect some in time, maybe she’d have seen her fortieth birthday. Or her sixtieth. Or even her twentieth.

If he could undo whatever it was between Melisande and him, and give her back her ice and fire . . . make her quit hurting . . . he’d do it.

But what was done was done. He just had to find a way to traverse this minefield without hurting her more.

As they walked in silence, she reached for his hand. Without looking at him, she pulled it to her mouth and placed a tender kiss upon his knuckles.

His heart clenched and he tipped his head back, filled with an incredible sweetness. His arm ached to go around her and pull her close, but he would not risk spoiling the moment for anything. Instead, he squeezed her hand, caressing the silken back with his thumb.

How had this small slip of a woman come to mean so much?

Melisande was still shaking inside, her body buzzing from being thoroughly fed for the first time in millennia, her mind in turmoil.

Touching Fox, feeling him as she took him inside her, had sharpened memories she’d fought for millennia to forget. They’d stolen her breath, making her tremble with remembered pain, remembered fear. The fury. But then she’d looked at him, seen the gentle, aching look in his eyes, and thought only of him.

For a moment, she’d wanted Fox’s mouth on her skin, the stroke of his hands on her flesh. But then the other memories had crowded in again, memories of being violated, hurt, tortured. Fox had held on to her, not letting her get lost in them.

He was becoming her anchor, and far too important to her.

“I used to be so innocent, so naive,” she murmured as they walked hand in hand across the rain-hardened beach. “I loved to dance, to laugh. To make love. Males adored me and I them.” She glanced at Fox and found him watching her intently, listening to every word. “I thought they couldn’t hurt me. If a male touched me in any way that I disliked, I simply misted away from him and never went back. No one could catch an Ilina. That’s what we all thought.”

“How did they catch you?” Fox asked quietly. “Castin?”

“Yes.” Her jaw tightened, hating him as much today as she had that day so long ago. We’d been lovers for months and good friends. He’d always been kind to me.”

Sky blue eyes filled with pain and fury. “I’m sorry, luv. That’s the worst kind of betrayal.”

“He gave me a bracelet made of red moonstones, the only thing known to keep an Ilina from turning to mist. They were covered in tar. I didn’t realize what they were until it was too late.”

“I’m sorry.” His grip on her hand tightened. A small hug, and it warmed her. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“His chief wanted more from me than I would ever willingly give.” The full story was more than she was up for right now with all the memories so fresh, the old wounds raw and bleeding again. Glancing at him, meeting his gaze, she said, “I’ll tell you the rest later. I just can’t right now.”

He squeezed her hand again. “That’s fine, angel. I understand.”

She looked at him again, studied him. “You do understand. You’ve known a woman who suffered the abuse of men, haven’t you? Someone you cared for.”

“My sister. Half sister. I tried to help her, but . . .” He shook his head, old shadows in his eyes.

“They killed her?”

“No. Not directly. She survived the physical assault even though she was mortal. At eighteen she was gang-raped by seven men. Humans.”

“Fox . . . I’m sorry.”

A fierce light lit his eyes. “I killed them all.” His eyes glazed over as if remembering. “It was the mental trauma she couldn’t heal and, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t help her with.” Old anguish wove within the hard fibers of his voice. “I tried, angel. I tried so hard to reach her, to help her understand that it wasn’t her fault. That I’d protect her and wouldn’t let it happen again.” He shook his head. “Less than a year later, she took her own life. I found her hanging in the barn.”

“Oh, Fox. I’m so sorry.” She understood now his incredible care with her once he realized she’d been hurt. And how easily he’d figured it out.

He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile. “You’re so much stronger than she was.”

“I was a lot older when it happened. And immortal.”

“I think if Sheenagh had been able to call up the kind of fury you’ve carried with you, she might have survived, too.”