The Darkest Touch

But she moaned her approval and after a while, the warnings inside his head ceased to matter. No such thing as too rough, she’d said, and she never lied. Her tongue eagerly met his, thrusting hard, eliciting a wild, carnal pleasure inside him. The more she demanded from him...the more she responded to him, the more he devoured her—feasted.

Have been starving, and she’s a banquet.

“More,” he commanded.

She tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged the strands. To make him stop? “I’ll give you more if you stop holding back,” she said. “I won’t break.”

Well, he might. He was already panting. But my woman is panting harder. Her mouth was red, moist and swollen. Claimed.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he told her.

“Asking? No, Charming. I’m demanding. Give me harder,” she said and pressed her mouth against his, firm and determined as she licked inside.

The leash on my control is fraying....

His tongue rolled against hers with more force, and though he hated himself, knew the pressure was too much; even though she’d demanded he take, take, take, he couldn’t stop. Because he ached. Terribly. His muscles were clenched on bone. The fiercest desire he’d ever experienced raged through his veins, an unquenchable fire. He didn’t just want to touch Keeley. He wanted to own her and force her to feel as violently as he was.

Leash...broken.

Screw gentle. He would bring her to climax and then he would chase his own.

He took her harder, and faster, but she didn’t seem to mind. Moaning, she squirmed against him. Her nails scraped his back, and if not for what remained of his shirt, the material barely hanging on, she would have drawn blood.

He loved it.

He palmed her breasts again, those full, heavy breasts, and scored his thumbs over her nipples. The gloves annoyed him, and he stopped kissing her only long enough to rip one off with his teeth. That hand returned to her immediately, his thumb once again stroking over that sweet little bud. Still a barrier. He yanked her shirt over her head, cupped her and shuddered. She was as soft as satin. Warm. Perhaps the sweetest thing he’d ever touched.

He lowered his head. She gave another moan, arching into him, and his shaft jerked against his fly. Damn. He was close to tossing her to her back, tearing her panties off and plunging inside her, the pressure inside him building to an almost unbearable degree.

She had been made for him. He was sure of it.

He cupped her ass and forced her into a hard, punishing grind against him, but she didn’t seem to mind that, either. Her nipples abraded his chest, and she seemed to love the friction as much as he did, gasping his name again and again.

Slow down! Any moment, he would blow. This need...

It was too much. Too intense, he thought again. Rushing through him, firing up his blood—she was kindling, making him burn all the hotter. Addicting him.

Can’t ever give her up. The demon didn’t matter—wouldn’t matter until later.

A shower of ice inside him.

The demon. Later.

The words echoed in his mind, the ice drizzling through the rest of him. Keeley was going to sicken. Again. With their actions, they’d made sure of it. For all he knew, the longer he kissed and touched her, the sicker she would become.

He’d only ever touched someone briefly. Never had this kind of prolonged contact. This was new territory for him, and he couldn’t be sure of what would happen next.

What if she died this time?

With a roar, he wrenched away from her. She plopped to the floor as he stood. Damn it! What had he done? “I’m sorry. So sorry, princess. I should have forced you to wait.”

She lumbered to trembling legs. “I’m only sorry you stopped.” Eyes dazed, she reached for him.

He dodged her. Killing me! But better his death than hers. “Don’t. We can’t.”

“We can.” Again, she reached.

Again, he dodged. “No, Keys, we can’t.” He took another step away from her. At my breaking point. If she came at him again, he might just let her catch him. “We should prepare ourselves. You’re going to sicken.”

She stopped, the reminder changing her entire demeanor. From pliant and willing to tense and guarded.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, but the words would never be good enough.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

KEELEY DUG TWO T-shirts out of the backpack. One proclaimed “Strider Can Beat Me Anytime,” and the other “I Left My Heart In Paris.” She couldn’t mask her trembling. After she and Torin dressed, she rummaged through the house for a pair of scissors, a needle and some thread.

“Your shirts have the weirdest sayings,” she muttered.

“My friends make them for me.”

No wonder he loved the men so deeply.

She sat in front of the crackling fireplace and got to work, cutting and sewing bits and pieces of their old shirts, though her mind wasn’t on her task. What have I done? How had she managed to convince herself that she wouldn’t sicken...and that, if she did, enduring another illness would be okay? Sick equaled weak and weak equaled vulnerable.

Outside, snow blustered, her emotions turning the autumn season to winter.

“How do you feel?” Torin asked, breaking the silence as he paced in front of her.

“Fine.” And it was true. She did. But she’d felt fine the last time, too.

“Good. That’s good.”

But how long would it last?

She held the shirt to the light. Great! She’d done everything wrong. She undid her stitches and, doing her best to remain calm, started again.