Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“I try to forget, as much as I can; otherwise I couldn’t go on; I couldn’t do my job. And even though I screwed up and people died, the only way to atone for that is to keep destroying the evil ones.”

“It wouldn’t help anyone for you to quit.”

“I won’t, but I want you to back off and let me handle this.”

I gave one short, sharp bark of laughter. “Yeah, right. You bet.”

“I’m serious. Look what happened last night.”

“Another person died. That’s as much my fault as yours.”

He grabbed me by the elbows and shook me a little. “You could have been killed. That thing threw you against the wall.”

“If you think that would kill me, you obviously have a misguided view of me. My brothers did worse than that every day of the week.”

His eyes flickered, topaz, then brown, war bird, then furious man. “I want to meet your brothers.”

His face, his tone, his eyes—he wanted to do more than meet them; he wanted to beat the crap out of them. I should have been insulted; I wasn’t a damsel in distress. Instead I was touched, and that was a more dangerous feeling than just wanting him.

Ian loved his wife; he still wasn’t over her. She’d been gentle and sweet and soft-spoken—three more things I could never be.

“I survived,” I said. “Being the only girl in a household of men made me stronger. Stronger than you seem to think I am. I’m the sheriff here. I can’t just sit back and do my nails while you save the world. Not even my little corner.”

“I can’t protect you,” he whispered. “Just like I couldn’t protect her.”

He moved past me, headed for the door, and I reached out, caught his hand, clung. “I’m not her, Ian. I don’t need you to protect me. I don’t want you to. I can take care of myself.”

“Grace—” He tugged on his hand; I wouldn’t let go. “I know what’s out there. I won’t be surprised by it.

“I’m not going to let this witch win. This is my home; I’ve protected it before, and I’ll do it again.”

I kissed him, the one way I knew to shut him up, shut him down.

I took charge, needing to show him my strength, convince him that he shouldn’t worry. I was at his side in this, not hiding behind him, getting picked off like a weak link when he wasn’t paying attention.

I experienced a moment of unease for thinking of his wife like that, but truth was truth. Ian had been wrong to keep her in the dark, so she hadn’t known what she was facing and could then not be prepared for it. However, I couldn’t help but think she’d been foolish, allowing some bloodsucking fiend to get the better of her.

That was uncharitable, downright mean. But the way he’d said her name, the way he mourned her, the way he described her, like a saint who’d loved him too much, made my stomach jitter with jealousy. I didn’t like the feeling.

But I was here with him now, and from the beat of his erection pressing against my stomach, I was the only one who mattered.

I slipped my hands beneath his shirt, traced my palms across his flat abdomen, dipped my fingers below the waistband of his jeans, under the elastic of his boxers until I brushed his tip. He jerked, and I closed my fingers around him, slowly sliding them up and down in a rhythm to match the pace of my tongue past his lips.

He groaned, the sound vibrating through his mouth, his chest, through me, then grabbed my hips and yanked me against him. I rolled my thumb over him once, then slid a fingernail down his length.

Cursing, he pulled away. My hand came out of his pants. We were both breathing heavily, staring at each other in the silver-shrouded night. I inched sideways, blocking the door.

He reached down, pulling the black T-shirt up, up, up, revealing stomach, then ribs, then chest, his biceps flexing and releasing, the muscles in his belly rippling like water. I was suddenly parched.

I led him to the bed and after a slight shove of my palm against his chest he went down. I pressed my mouth to the hard ridge just above his navel, then drew my tongue across his abs and scored his ribs with my teeth. He tasted like the ocean—both salt and the sea—I wanted to savor so much more.

He tugged on my clothes. “I need to feel your skin against mine.”

I yanked off my shirt, then my bra, and tossed them away before pressing an openmouthed kiss to the curve of his waist, then suckling hard enough to leave a mark.

His long, beautiful, yet slightly rough fingers ran over my shoulders, my back, then loosened my hair. I mouthed him through the denim, using my teeth at the tip of his erection. He grasped me by the elbows and hauled me up his body, latching onto my mouth, then grinding our hips together until I was rubbing against him as if there weren’t four layers of clothing in the way.

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