The Darkest Angel

“Stop talking and fight, damn you,” Paris commanded. A fist connected with Lysander’s jaw, tossing him to the side and out of Bianka’s reach. He maintained his grip on the sword and even when it dipped into the oil, it didn’t lose a single flame. In fact, the oil heated.

Great. Now he was hot-tubbing, as the humans would say.

“What’d you do that for, you big dummy?” Bianka didn’t wait for Paris’s reply but launched herself at him. Rather than scratch him or pull his hair, she punched him. Over and over again. “He wasn’t going to hurt you.”

Paris took the beating without retaliating.

That saved his life.

Lysander grabbed the Harpy around the waist and hefted her into the hard line of his body. Soaked as they both were, he had a difficult time maintaining his grip. She was panting, arms flailing for the demon-possessed warrior, but she didn’t try to pull away.

“I’ll teach you to defy me, you rotten piece of shit,” she growled.

Paris rolled his eyes.

“Send him away,” Lysander commanded.

“Not until after I—”

He splayed his fingers, spanning much of her waist. He both rejoiced and cursed that he couldn’t feel the texture of Bianka’s skin through the oil. “I want to be alone with you.”

“You—what?”

“Alone. With you.”

With no hesitation, she said, “Go home, Paris. Your work here is done. Thanks for trying to rescue me. That’s the only reason you’re still alive. Oh, and don’t forget to tell my sisters I’m fine.”

The sputtering Lord disappeared.

Lysander released her, and she spun around to face him. She was now grinning.

“So you want to be alone with me, do you?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Was that fun for you?”

“Yes.”

And she wasn’t ashamed to admit it, he realized. Captivating baggage. “Return the cloud to me and I will take you home.”

“Wait. What?” Her grin slowly faded. “I thought you wanted to be alone with me.”

“I do. So that we can conclude our business.”

Disappointment, regret, anger and relief played over her features. One step, two, she closed the distance between them. “Well, I’m not giving you the cloud. That would be stupid.”

“You have my word that once you return it to me, I will take you home. I know you hear the truth in my claim.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged a little. “So we really would be rid of each other. That’s great, then.”

Did she still not believe him? Or…No, surely not. “Do you want to stay here?”

“Of course not!” She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, and her eyes closed for a moment, an expression of pleasure consuming her features. “Mmm, cherries.”

Blood…heating…

Her lashes lifted and her gaze locked on him. Determination replaced all the other emotions, yet her voice dipped sexily. “But I know something that tastes even better.”

So did he. Her. A tremor slid the length of his spine. “Do not do this, Bianka. You will fail.” He hoped.

“One kiss,” she beseeched, “and the cloud is yours.”

His eyes narrowed. Hot, so hot. “You cannot be trusted to keep your word.”

“That’s true. But I want out of this hellhole, so I’ll keep it this time. Promise.”

Hold your ground. But that was hard to do while his heart was pounding like a hammer against a nail. “If you wanted out, you would not insist on being kissed.”

Her gaze narrowed, as well. “It’s not like I’m asking for something you haven’t already given me.”

“Why do you want it?” He regretted the question immediately. He was prolonging the conversation rather than putting an end to it.

Her chin lifted. “It’s a goodbye kiss, moron, but never mind. The cloud is yours. I’ll go home and kiss Paris hello. That’ll be more fun, anyway.”

There would be no kissing Paris! Lysander had his tongue sliding into her mouth before he could convince himself otherwise. His arms even wound around her waist, pulling her closer to him—so close their chests rubbed each time they breathed. Her nipples were hard, deliciously abrading.

“Out of the oil,” she murmured. “Clean.”

He was still in the loincloth, but his skin was suddenly free of the oil, his feet on soft yet firm mist. The cloud might belong to him once more, but she could still make reasonable demands.

Bianka tilted her head and took his possession deeper. Their tongues dueled and rolled and their teeth scraped. Her hands were all over him, no part of him forbidden to her.

Goodbye, she had said.

This was it, then. His last chance to touch her skin. To finally know. Yes, he planned to see her again, to watch her from afar, to wait for his chance to rid himself of her permanently, but never again would he allow himself to get this close to her. And he had to know.

So he did it.

He glided his hands forward, tracing from her lower back to her stomach. There, he flattened his palms, and her muscles quivered. Dear Deity of Light and Love. She was softer than he’d realized. Softer than anything else he’d ever touched.

He moaned. Have to touch more. Up he lifted, remaining under her shirt. Warm, smooth, as he’d already known. Still soft, so sweetly soft. Her breasts overflowed, and his mouth watered for a taste of them. Soon, he told himself. Then shook his head. This was it; the last time they would be together. Goodbye, pretty breasts. He kneaded them.

More soft perfection.

Trembling now, he reached her collarbone. Her shoulders. She shivered. Still so wonderfully soft. More, more, more, he had to have more. Had to touch all of her.

“Lysander,” she gasped out. She dropped to her knees, working at the loincloth before he realized what she was doing.

His shaft sprang free, and his hands settled atop her shoulders to push her away. But once he touched that soft skin, he was once again lost to the sensation. Perfection, this was perfection.

“Going to kiss you now. A different kind of kiss.” Warm, wet heat settled over the hard length of him. Another moan escaped him. Up, down that wicked mouth rode him. The pleasure…it was too much, not enough, everything and nothing. In that moment, it was necessary to his survival. His every breath hinged on what she would do next. There would be no pushing her away.

She twirled her tongue over the plump head; her fingers played with his testicles. Soon he was arching his hips, thrusting deep into her mouth. He couldn’t stop moaning, groaning, the gasping breaths leaving him in a constant stream.

“Bianka,” he growled. “Bianka.”

“That’s the way, baby. Give Bianka everything.”

“Yes, yes.” Everything. He would give her everything.

The sensation was building, his skin tightening, his muscles locking down on his bones. And then something exploded inside him. Something hot and wanton. His entire body jerked. Seed jetted from him, and she swallowed every drop.

Finally she pulled away from him, but his body wouldn’t stop shaking. His knees were weak, his limbs nearly uncontrollable. That was pleasure, he realized, dazed. That was passion. That was what human men were willing to die to possess. That was what turned normally sane men into slaves. Like I am now. He was Bianka’s slave.

Fool! You knew this would happen. Fight. It was only as she stood and smiled at him tenderly—and he wanted to tug her into his arms and hold on forever—that a measure of sanity stole back into his mind. Yes. Fight. How could he have allowed her to do that?

How could he still want her?

How could he want to do that to her in return?

How could he ever let her go?

“Bianka,” he said. He needed a moment to catch his breath. No. He needed to think about what had happened and how they should proceed. No. He tangled a hand in his hair. What should he do?

“Don’t say anything.” Her smile disappeared as if it had never been. “The cloud is yours.” Her voice trembled with…fear? Couldn’t be. She hadn’t showed a moment of fear since he’d first abducted her. But she even backed away from him. “Now take me home. Please.”

He opened his mouth to reply. What he would say, he didn’t know. He only knew he did not like seeing her like that.

“Take me home,” she croaked.

He’d never gone back on his word, and he wouldn’t start now. He nodded stiffly, grabbed her hand, and flew her back to the ice mountain in Alaska, exactly as he’d found her. Red coat, tall boots. Sensual in a way he hadn’t understood then.

He maintained his grip on her until the last possible second—until she slipped away from him, taking her warmth and the sweet softness of her skin with her.

“I don’t want to see you again.” Mist wafted around her as she turned her back on him. “Okay?”

She…what? After what had happened between them, she was dismissing him? No, a voice roared inside his head. “Behave, and you will not,” he gritted out. A lie? The bitter taste in his mouth had returned.

“Good.” Without meeting his gaze, she twisted and blew him a kiss as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “I’d say you were an excellent host, but then, you don’t want me to lie, do you?” With that, she strolled away from him, dark hair blowing in the wind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FIRST THING BIANKA DID after bathing, dressing, eating a bag of stolen chips she had hidden in her kitchen, painting her nails, listening to her iPod for half an hour and taking a nap in her secret basement was call Kaia. Not that she had dreaded the call and wanted to put it off or anything. All of those other activities had been necessary. Really.

Plus, it wasn’t like her sister was worried about her anymore. Paris would already have told her what was going on. But Bianka didn’t want to discuss Lysander. Didn’t even want to think about him and the havoc he was causing her emotions—and her body and her thoughts and her common sense.After making out with him a little, she’d wanted to freaking stay with him, curl up in his arms, make love and sleep. And that was unacceptable. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">