Moonstruck (10 page)

She sighed in answer, eyes closing as he kissed the side of her throat. He felt good. He felt
right
.

“There’s a time and place for rank and rules,” he breathed in her ear. “One’s bed is not one of them.”

“We’re not in bed yet.”

“No?” He let go and her gown whooshed into a puddle of silk around her ankles. Then he swept her off her feet so fast that she gasped, a breath interrupted when he sealed his lips over hers.

A second later, her back hit the mattress. The solid weight of Rorkken’s body followed. She was nude; he was fully clothed, boots and all. “We are now,” he said gruffly, crushing his mouth to hers all over again.

The kiss wasn’t meant to tease or to coax; it was raw and hungry, making no secret of what he wanted of her.

Good, it matched what she wanted from him.

She wanted his touch all over, and he seemed to know it. Hot and callused, his hands smoothed over her bare flesh, sending her into a frenzy of need—of
now.

The unending kiss broke only when she helped him struggle out of his uniform jacket and undertank. A glimpse of broad shoulders, ripped abs, a hard chest and just the right amount of chest hair tempted her before he returned for more kissing. He looked and felt like a man; he smelled like a man under the fresh soapy smell of cleanser. He didn’t douse himself in exotic oils like the man-toys did, something she’d always found unnecessary and often a turnoff. When she was in a man’s arms, she wanted to know it.

“I’m still wearing too many clothes,” he said a short, breathless while later. He reached for the waistband of his pants, unfastening it with one hand. Rolling off her body, he shoved off his boots.

Her lips tingled, missing his mouth already. She curled up on her side to watch him undress. His pants came off next, treating her to a view of a muscled back and tight buttocks. It seemed the Scourge of the Borderlands had a very nice backside. He was, however, nothing like her past lovers. The man-toys were physical perfection. Rorkken, on the other hand, wore his life’s history on his skin.

A scar, waxy and lumpy, sliced across his rib cage. Another on his thigh looked like a healed-over puncture wound. He’d been stabbed with a knife or sword. As a pirate, a Drakken combatant…or as a hungry, desperate orphan?

Sympathy swelled in her heart for the tragedy of his upbringing. She blocked the emotion immediately. If she felt anything for this man, it was to be lust. Nothing more. Yet, her gaze was drawn to his body even though every glimpse of that golden, imperfect flesh reminded her of what she had done—and what she was about to do. Whitish slashes laced his chest and stomach, most of them lost in the tattooing that covered his shoulders and swirled onto his pecs, all of it created with black ink, not by painless imprinting with nano-dye, she was certain. He’d gotten that body art the hard way.

The savage way.

Don’t look at him.
She forced her eyes away for the last time. She didn’t want to see the scars, the tattoos. She didn’t want to see a Drakken.

With a feral twinkle in his eye, he climbed back into bed, taking her by the shoulder and rolling her onto her back. “Mmm,” she purred. Finally.

Leaning over her, he braced his upper body with extended arms. His erection seared the flesh of her inner thigh as he straddled her. He should be inside her already. What was taking so long?

“Come here.” She tried to pull him closer.

He resisted, locking his arms. “In a moment.” His mouth formed a mischievous smile. A rugged, wicked boy, that’s what he reminded her of when he smiled like that.

A very grown-up boy,
she thought, acutely conscious of the feel of him against her thigh. As if he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts, he moved his hips, sliding between her legs, intimately, but not penetrating. Damn him. She made a strangled moan of frustration, which only intensified his look of satisfaction. “Why are you waiting?” she asked, impatient.

“I’m soaking it all in.”

“Soaking in what?”

“This—me, here with a beautiful woman.” His voice was huskier now. “Me, in bed with you.”

Unfortunately, she didn’t want to be reminded that they actually knew each other. She didn’t want his sentimentality, either. It was just sex. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. “Take me, Rorkken. Take me now.”

“Finn.”

She groaned. “Finn.”

“All in good time.” He sifted his fingers through her hair, watching in awe as it rippled down. “Gods, you’re beautiful, Brit. I know I said as much before, but you truly are.”

The sound of her given name on his lips wasn’t something she’d given him permission to use, but of course he would. The bed was no place for rank he’d said, and he was right.

“Thank you,” she murmured, suddenly shy. She’d been paid similar compliments by many men over the years, men she’d paid to say such pretty words. Yet none displayed the frankness in their eyes that Rorkken did now. None had actually made her
feel
beautiful with one look, like he did.

Finally, he lowered his head. Thank the stars that he’d stopped talking and started exploring. He took one nipple into his mouth, hot and wet, suckling. A sigh slipped out of her, her back arching with the gentle, erotic tugs of his lips, the rasping of his tongue. Yes…Her eyes closed as his touch took her away to another place, another time. Then he moved lower, kissing his way to her navel and below.

She choked back a moan when he started pleasuring her between her legs. What was he doing? Hadn’t she been clear enough regarding her desires? If he kept this up, she was going to come apart. That was not the way she wanted it done. She wanted intercourse. She wanted it over and done with.

She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down with a firm, flattened hand on her stomach. “Enough foreplay,” she protested. She had not the patience for it. “I want you inside me.”

His grin was smug, his eyes dark and hooded. “All in good time.”

“No. Not in good time.
Now.
”

He chuckled, slipping two fingers inside her. “Is that an order?” His voice was husky, sounding as if it had come from far away.

Against her will she made a strangled moan as those wicked, determined fingers explored her. Her thighs fell open, hiding nothing from his view. He found her clit and she gasped. Damn him to the Dark Reaches. He wasn’t as practiced with his touch as the man-toys were, but it was that lack of bought-and-paid-for finesse that pushed her to an unexpected and far-too-fast climax.

She cried out as her body convulsed. “Damn it!” He’d made her come. He’d taken over the entire act, right down to her premature orgasm. How dare he?

He withdrew those magic fingers, leaving her throbbing with little aftershocks of pleasure. Eyes squeezed shut, she felt rather than saw that damned boyish grin as he returned to kiss her, murmuring smugly against her lips, “All that swearing, Brit. Why? You seemed to like it very much.”

“I wanted you to be inside me when it happened.”

“I plan to be, when you come the next time. And come again, you will. All in good—”

“No, damn it. Not in good time. Now.” She found his mouth for a scorching kiss. There was no time for teasing, no time for talk. He was here for one reason, and it was this.

She threw her leg over his buttocks to keep him from escaping. He caught the fever; his kiss was hard, burning. The weight of his strong body pressed her into the sheets. His movements were less controlled now. His scent was sharp. Soon, she thought. Soon he wouldn’t be able to hold back, no matter what his damned timeline was.

As she’d guessed, he moved between her legs. Closing his hands in her hair, he lifted his hips and thrust oh, so deep.
Yes…
Her entire body sang out in pleasure, welcoming him.

He slid a hand under her thigh, gripping her backside to keep her pressed close. She swayed with him, letting him take charge of their rhythm.

Ah, yes…

His touch was firm, possessive. His breaths were harsh, his skin damp with exertion. Brit savored the sounds and scents, letting the sex sweep her back to the past, a time before pain, before the grinding loneliness. Eyes closed, she escaped into her mind.

Seff…
She imagined their small, narrow bed, and the window above open to Arrayar’s dry night breezes. She was so young then; Seff, too. Afterward, they’d cuddle and giggle, careful to keep their voices low.

“Brit,” he said on a groan. “Ah, Brit.”

Why, oh why was he compelled to talk? His voice was nothing like Seff’s. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, it threatened to spoil the mood. Yet even in the silences, even when there was nothing but breathing and sighs, Rorkken kept jolting her out of the past, reminding her quite vividly with every heated caress, every kiss, every thrust of his hips, that she was in bed with him: a man, not a long-dead boy. Even with her eyes closed and the past filling her mind, she felt the scrape of his shaved beard, something Seff didn’t yet have. Those rough whiskers contrasted with soft lips, grazing down her throat, her shoulder, her breasts. No, Rorkken didn’t feel like Seff and yet, damn it, he felt so
good.

Worse, the longer he made love to her, the more difficult it became to block out his unique scent, the feel of his scarred body, the tinkle of the jewelry piercing his ear. Every time she felt a scar under the palm of her hand, every time she felt his powerful body move, she was reminded of who he wasn’t. Yet it was his frank desire for her, and the obvious and genuine pleasure he took in making love to her—
to her
—that pushed her closer to the edge. The man-toys could fake passion so well that sometimes she would almost believe they were overcome with it. Rorkken’s desire, however, was genuine.

With that realization, she convulsed with pleasure, bringing her precipitously close to climax. Crying out softly, she tried to hold back. She wouldn’t let go with Rorkken in her mind’s eye.

It needs to be Seff.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” a deep, raspy voice urged. “Let go.”

She almost exploded with that gentle command, as if she were Rorkken’s puppet, climaxing on order. Holding back, she gritted her teeth, moaning.

Where was Seff?

“Brit,” he whispered in her ear. “Look at me….”

She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and buried her face in the warm, scented hollow between his shoulder and neck. Skin that tasted and smelled like Finn Rorkken. His powerful pulse rapped against her cheek.

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him. No! Her head hung low. She didn’t want him to see her face, to see her eyes closed. To invade her fantasy—or to prevent it altogether.

He remained hard, seated deep inside her, but his touch was warm and tender as he touched her cheek. “I want you to see me when you come, Brit. Me. I want you to know who’s making love to you.”

That was the thing: she didn’t want to know who was making love to her.

He pushed upward to get her attention, grinding against her so that she couldn’t ignore him any longer. She moaned. “Please.”

Rorkken made a deep, satisfied sound. Her body was so taut, so ready. One more push like that and she’d…

“Sweetheart. Look at me.”

Sweetheart.
She didn’t like that he called her that.

She loved that he called her that.

Gasping, she opened her eyes to his hard-featured face and the eyes that didn’t look quite so much like Seff’s anymore. His gaze was less boyish, less playful, darker and more intense. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. Look at me. Feel me.”

She did feel him. Gods, she did.
She brought her head down to kiss him, a spontaneous move. He held her there, stroking her back as he kissed her, sweetly, hotly, and with feeling, feeling that she, incredibly, returned.

One more thrust, and she was gone, shattering with pleasure. It so blinded her to anything else that she was only vaguely aware of Rorkken’s fingers pressing into the flesh of her upper arms, and the violence of his last plunges, as he, too, peaked at last.

He tore his mouth from hers, growling her name, shuddering as heat spurted into her. And then it was quiet.

Dazed, she sagged atop him, blinking, trying to collect her wits. Somewhere in the midst of her passion, she’d closed her eyes again—not to block out sensation this time, but to hold it in.

Gradually, her mind cleared of fog. Below her, Rorkken wore a soft expression as he threaded his fingers through her dangling tresses, bringing her hair to his lips as he inhaled then twisting the strands around one thick finger. The way he lay there, sated and drowsy as he played with her hair, seemed almost more intimate than the sex. She shivered, enjoying that affectionate touch, hungrier for it than she ever would have guessed.

He’d wedged his left hand between his head and the pillow. On the underside of that raised arm, just to the inside of his rounded bicep was a single tattoo. Her gaze stopped there as if tripping over a roadblock. It was separate from the other tattoos as if in a place of honor: a black bird of prey clutching two crossed sabers in its talons.

Sudden recognition sent a chill racing down her spine. That raptor had visited her in nightmares more times than she could count; it had haunted her ever since the day it swooped heartlessly down from the sky to steal what she loved most. It was the centuries-old symbol of the Drakken Empire, and her lover wore it on the arm closest to his heart.

Drakken…

Her ears began to ring, and it suddenly became hard to breathe.

What have you done?

A small sound of pain escaped her lips as the full impact of her actions slammed into her. She’d taken a Hordish soldier to bed. She’d fucked the enemy.

What have you done!

She’d abandoned everything she stood for.

She’d disgraced the memory of those she’d loved.

Slut, she called herself.
Traitor.
She struggled out of bed. With a hand pressed to her stomach, she fled to the bathroom and slammed the door.