Savage Bond (The Fallen) (10 page)

His cock got harder, the tip damp. God, she was good.

Good in more ways than one. He wasn't supposed to want her. And, even if he did, he reminded himself, this was just lust. He didn't need anything else from her besides those damned pictures so he shouldn't be holding his breath when she reached for the zipper on her flightsuit. Her fingers wrapped around the little metal tab and teased it down an inch. The back of her fingers brushed the creamy skin she revealed and he wanted to replace that hand with his mouth.

"I'll show you," she said throatily, nudging that damned zipper down another inch. She unzipped the flight suit as if she were unwrapping a Christmas present, one teasing inch at a time. The sight of that lacy bra she'd been hiding beneath the utilitarian nylon and cotton made him want to tear the wrappings right off of her. Lilac satin cupped her breasts, her hard little nipples peeking over the lace-trimmed edges. Those nipples of hers were the color of summer raspberries and hard with her need.

"These," she whispered, brushing her fingers against her nipples. "Maybe, I want you to touch me right here." Hell, yes, he wanted to touch her. He wanted to taste her nipples, tongue her until he'd learned whether she tasted like raspberries or not and she understood exactly what she wanted from him. He didn't deal in uncertainties. Ever.

His hands gripped her hips, spanning the delicate bones with his hands. She was human, fragile and he couldn't let himself forget that. He needed to remember the consequences of kissing her. Because she tempted him more than any woman he'd ever held and his control was already too tenuous.

"Maybe?" he growled. "Let me know when you've made up your mind, Ria."

Her fingers brushed over her own nipples and the little hum of feminine satisfaction undid him. He could give her more, but he shouldn't. His fingers flexed, his thumb stroking little circles against the soft curves of her stomach as the emotions poured from her. Her aura was as wild and hesitant, as fiery, as a good sunset. He'd watched more than his fair share of sunsets, felt the blaze of heat and color slipping away to be replaced with night. He'd been alone in the dark for thousands of years. He knew better than to reach for that heat of hers, but he couldn't lose her. Not yet.

He brushed his mouth against her skin again, tasting the pulse that beat strong and bright against his lips. That fire of hers undid him.

"Are you ready for me, Ria?"

Her head pushed back against his shoulder, her hands finding his wrists and holding on. He was already lost, his hands moving, pulling apart the jumpsuit, baring all her pretty skin for his touch. He fought for control, a grimace pulling the corners of his lips back. He wanted this to be good for her. To give her what she needs. He could sense all too clearly the need in her. The loneliness. Christ, he understood those emotions too well. When her hands had gone to his wrists, he'd been prepared for her to push him away. He'd go, too. He'd played many sensual games, but he'd never forced a woman and he wasn't starting tonight.

Instead, she held on. She didn't let go of him at all, the sweet heat of her passion rolling over him as she shocked him by guiding his hand closer. Deeper. Harder. That seductive confidence was his undoing.

"I think you are," he growled, sliding his hand down the rounded curve of her belly and over the little lilac panties. She was soaking wet. Blazing hot. Boldly, he caressed that lace-covered mound, drawing his finger down the tempting crease.

"Yes," she said, pressing her mound against his hand. Her thighs parted, opening up for him and he repeated the caress, dragging his finger through those lace-covered folds, rubbing the fabric against her slick flesh. Her juices saturated the cotton, her bare skin temptingly close.

She was supposed to be an MVD agent, all buttoned up and play-by-the-rules. He was in charge here. But he wasn't. Somehow, she'd got him wrapped around her fingers. She'd watched him for months, but he'd been watching her, too. Learning her. And Ria Morgan liked to watch. Liked to tease.

And, apparently, she liked to sin.

He pressed his erection against her sweet ass and she opened up more, letting his hand slip deep and cup her.  The spicy sweet scent of her exploded through his senses as his fingers found her fiery heat. She was wet where she pressed against him, rubbing those soft folds against his fingers. Demanding more.

He could give her that. "I'll make this good," he promised, taking the zipper down further with his free hand. He wanted to see this, to see her opening up for him, letting him in. He pulled her closer, taking in the sight of his fingers on her lacy panties, a dark shadow against the delicate lavender. The shadow of dampness teased him where the panties dipped low beneath the soft curve of her belly, skimming her mound to curve up her ass. Those panties of hers were wicked and provocative and all he wanted was to tear them off her.

"You can," she said, as if she could read his mind, as if they had truly bonded and her feelings were open to him. "If you want to."

He did. He wanted to flip her over, take her deep and hard. Feel every inch of her silky channel clinging to him. That particular fantasy wasn't happening. Not tonight. His erection strained against his pants, begging to get closer, but he wasn't an animal. And she wasn't ready for him.

She moved demandingly against his hand, sensations shuddering through her. "Can you feel it, too?"

"Yeah," he said roughly. "Just like that, baby." His fingers stroked rhythmically down her center, pressing the damp fabric inwards with small, teasing strokes that fed her building hunger. Urged her higher.

"Vkhin." Her eyes closed, her breath catching. She was close, so close, and he wanted nothing more than to watch her go over that edge and find the pleasure waiting for her. He could feel the little tremors starting in her legs, her pussy, as the hunger built and she got close, so close. That little noise she made in her throat had him working a deeper, harder pattern on the damp lace.

 Her hips arched and he drank in the hum of feminine approval. Her quiet, lush enjoyment of his attention.

"Let go for me, baby," he whispered roughly. "Enjoy this for me."

Reaching around her, he hooked her leg around his. The heat of her leg seared him where she pressed against him, the feel of her burning through the fabric of his combat pants. Those lavender panties framed by the opened jumpsuit were the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. He wanted to strip the lace off, bare her for his touch. His kiss. Not yet, he thought desperately, reaching for control.

Fabric rustled as she arched upwards. The muscles in her thighs bunched, clenching as she lifted up into his touch.
Now
. Her clit was a hard little pearl when he thumbed her, stroking over the sensitive skin. She gasped, her nails digging into his arm, and he touched her again and again, driving her towards. He had to look, had to look down at her fire-dappled body. Shadows danced across that creamy, bare skin.

He couldn't take her, he reminded himself desperately. Not here. On the ground. When she was fighting the unfamiliar rush of adrenaline and fear.

She came fast, pushing into his hand as she came apart. Savage satisfaction filled him and he drove his thumb over her hard, needy little clit, his fingers playing with her opening through the thin fabric of her panties. As she closed her thighs around his hand, holding him to her, he eased the tip of one finger beneath the elastic.

"Yes," she groaned. She was hot and slick where he touched her, the spicy-sweet scent of her overwhelming him.

He kept just his finger there. Not demanding. Testing. Waiting for her to decide to accept him. When she did, lifting up to ride the tip of him, he petted at her gently, letting his thumb slide inside her just a fraction. She was tight and wet, her body rising and falling against his as her flesh clenched around him. She gave a choked cry, as if the first little throb had surprised her, but then she was bucking against his fingers, driving herself down, inch by heated inch onto his waiting finger. Like he wanted her to take his cock.

She came in long, hard spasms, her emotions overwhelming him with each strong, short beat. Desire and pleasure.  She let go, came apart in his arms and her mind opened up with her body, sucking him in. He was inside her head before he could stop himself. Heat and need. A slow, heated return to awareness as  the pleasure eased up.  Confusion.
Fear
.

Don't be afraid
, he whispered inside her mind before he could stop himself.
Let me
, he coaxed. Christ, she was delicious. So alive. He drank in the smallest taste of those emotions of hers, all that he could without a bond between them. He was an addict falling off the sober train and deliriously, temporarily, happy about that fall.

She shoved away from him, rolling. The duster trapped her arms, pinning her down.

The hunger beat at him, demanding he feed it. Feed on her. Drink those emotions he could sense, taste, so clearly from her and replace the shame and the need with something else.

Something of her.

"Get. Out." She scrambled away from him, fighting the confines of his coat and his arms. Desperately, he fought to process her words, to push back the red haze, the voracious thirst riding him. She wanted him out of her head. Stat. He pulled back, crouching on the edges of all those emotions.

"Bastard." Her eyes glinted up at him, shiny with tears. The second time he'd made her cry today. He ran a finger down her pale cheek, tracing the angry track.  He'd known better. He was an animal who couldn't be trusted, because he'd done this before. Lost control before.

Shoving the memories back, Vkhin let Ria roll away from him, let her put a handful of inches between them. There was nowhere she could go to escape him, not here. Not with the night outside their shelter and a pack of rogues on their asses. He knew it and she knew it, but he let her move away to preserve the illusion that she still had a choice and he still had control of the thirst.

He hadn't feared anything in millennia—death and pain and a complete lack of the finer emotions made damned sure of that. But Ria Morgan scared the hell out of him. She'd thought about the bond. He could see it in her eyes, hear the unspoken question in every word she spoke. She might not want that connection—yet—but she'd done some thinking. Worse, if she asked long enough, he'd give in and give it all up to her. He wanted
this
, the tenuous emotional connection he could feel forming between them. That fragile emotional bond was more sensual, more tempting than any skin-to-skin he'd ever had. There was just something about
her
and he was a selfish bastard who wanted just that last, little taste.

Of her.

Then, he'd go. Let it all go.

It wouldn't be hard at all out here to die.

Chapter Six

The smell of fresh blood was a wake-up call even before Hazor spotted the bodies. It was pitch black now and he needed to stop for the night, because he ran the risk of missing their tracks now that he'd lost the light.

The stink of fresh blood, however, was too obvious to ignore. That was the stink of fuck-up and failure, which meant he was going to be stopping for a little Q&A.

And, of course, the bodies belonged to the first team of rogues he'd sent after Ria Morgan. If he'd gone with them in the first place, would the outcome have been different? Or would he be dead, too, his blood polka-dotting the clearing when his head parted company with his body? He wanted to believe he'd still be doing the inhale-exhale, but he hadn't achieved his current rank by closing his eyes to the truth, either.

While he'd stayed behind to secure the crash site and wipe it clean—because the Fallen weren't getting that free investigative pass when they sent in their own team—someone had got the jump on him. Fuck. Calling his rogues a team was stretching it—his fighters would happily disembowel each other to keep the wings Hazor had bestowed on them—but the numbers still should have meant something. The four dead rogues had certainly had the very human, very female Ria Morgan outgunned and outpowered. No way a little desk jockey took out four fallen angels by herself.

Which meant there was a whole lot of other shit going on here. Gritting his teeth, he sucked in the scent and considered his next move. He'd fed earlier, and the raw, pounding thirst was gone. Only temporarily, of course. Thirst would be back, but he had enough time to finish this job before he needed to hunt for something more personal. Plenty of time to admit to himself that what he hadn't anticipated were the Fallen
beating
him to the scene. His nemesis wasn't behind him. No, he was goddamned out in front and leading by a mile.

Because a Fallen warrior had already picked up Ria Morgan.

He crouched down, examining the ground. Damp made it easier to read the traces of footmarks marking up the fight's site, but someone real professional had taken the time to erase her backtrail. Those footprints cut off as soon as he moved away from the scene which left him with a whole lot of nothing to go on. Ria Morgan was just gone, right off the grid, and all he had were the bodies.