King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

“You tempt me like no other,” he said, then his mouth was on hers, his tongue inside. Seeking. Touching. Tasting. Her legs fell wide, and his hand was there, her zipper loosened, her jeans halfway down her hips. His long fingers sought the slick heat, which ached and throbbed, and when he plunged inside her, she lost all conscious thought.

Rowan’s head fell back, and she was aware of straining bodies in the shadows. Of grunts of pleasure and watching eyes that lingered. It excited her, and the pressure built so hard inside that it made her cry out.

She wanted Azaiel inside her. Here. On this table. In this club. She felt as if she were losing her mind, and the witch’s song burned into her brain. A slow, seductive melody she’d never forget.

Azaiel leaned over her, his eyes fierce, his face slick with sweat and passion. She reached up, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him as if he were the very air she needed to live. And for that moment he was everything to her.

Something vibrated then . . . in her jacket pocket. It was accompanied by a shrill ring. At first they both ignored it. They were too busy touching and tasting and tearing at each other. But the ringtone didn’t stop, and eventually the piercing key was enough to cut through the madness that had enveloped them both.

She pushed him away, slightly disoriented. “What are we . . .”

Azaiel swore, scooped her up, and moved them deeper into the shadows. He was breathing hard as he set Rowan away from him, and he turned, cursing roughly as he straightened his clothes.

“Oh Azaiel.” She glanced up into dark eyes that regarded her fiercely. “What have we . . . what are we . . .” Her head was thick, as if it were full of cotton, and she shook it aggressively, wanting the song to end.

Her breasts hung loose, her nipples hard and throbbing, the tender flesh aching. She jumped from the table, ashamed, as she buttoned her top, tucking the loose ends back into the waist of her jeans.

I can’t look at him.

The phone vibrated again. She licked her lips, her mouth bruised and swollen and she reached for her cell. Oh God, I had him in my mouth. Never had she ever acted in such a way with a man. Christ, she’d dated Mason for three whole months before she’d slept with him.

She glanced down and ran her hands through the mess of hair at her nape. She bit her lip. “It’s Kellen.”

“Did anyone ever tell that guy his timing sucks?” His voice was rough, his features harsh.

She flinched. “It would have been better if he’d called fifteen minutes ago.” She exhaled and read the text, hating the way her stomach clenched as she read the words.

“Has something happened?” Azaiel moved closer, and she wished he’d move the hell to the other side of the bar. Her body still thrummed and ached, and he smelled way too damn good.

She glared at the stage. And still Alexis crooned.

“I have to go and meet Kellen. Marie-Noelle is awake, and she wants both of her children.”

“Both of her? Who . . .” He moved in front of her then, something new in his eyes. “You and Kellen are . . . siblings?”

She looked up at him more than just a little irritated as she nodded. “Kellen is my brother, my twin. Who did you think he was?”

Azaiel stared down at her. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Did she even hear his words? He looked like decadent, sinful, caramel-glazed chocolate. The throb between her legs burned, and she fought the urge to put her own hands there. Anything to alleviate the ache.

Shame burned her cheeks a deep rose, and Rowan glanced away, not liking the intensity of his eyes. What was he thinking? She’d thrown herself at him earlier and now . . . what they’d done here in the shadows.

She’d never lost control like that. Not even in her wild days. The last time she’d visited The Witches Brew had been ages ago. Back then, she’d come with her cousins Vicki and Hannah. To watch and titillate. But they’d always protected themselves with charms and had never participated.

“We have to go.” She ran her tongue across her lips. “We should . . .” She glanced around, and when she turned to him, she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “We need to keep this to ourselves. Don’t tell anyone we were at The Witches Brew. If Vicki finds out, she’ll know . . . and I . . . I just . . .” She paused—tongue-tied and hating that he still stared at her in silence. “We need to forget this happened.”

Just like that the reality of their situation smashed the sexual fantasy Alexis had unleashed in the both of them.

“This . . . what we just did isn’t our fault. Not really. It’s Alexis. It’s what she does. We shouldn’t have come in here,” she finished lamely. “I tried to warn you.”

He ran his hand through the thick blond hair atop his head, and Rowan tried not to think of what his hands had felt like. Of what he’d done to her this morning. Of what she’d done to him here, in this bar. In public.

“Oh God,” she whispered, feeling slightly ill. She turned and pushed her way through the dense crowed, wanting only fresh air to clear her head.

And to forget.

“She’s waiting for you, Miss Rowan.” Cedric smiled though his sad dark eyes had lost some of their glimmer.