Shards of Hope (Psy-Changeling 14)

“Always have been.”

Zaira rubbed her nose against his, and the spontaneous act of affection tipped him over. Shoving up the skirt of her dress as desire burned, he kissed her hard. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her tongue licking against his. Groaning, he reached between them and somehow managed to undo his jeans, shove down the denim and his briefs. It took a little more effort to kick them off, but he was highly motivated.

Naked at last, he nudged aside the gusset of her panties. A single stroke of his finger through her wetness and her back arched, the sensations that came shooting back at him through the bond threatening to make his eyes roll back in his head. Then she bit him on the jaw and it was all over.

He thrust into her wet heat in a single, demanding push.

Clenching around him as their mouths tangled, Zaira moved with him, the rug bunching up under her body. Some small part of him realized she’d be bruised from being on the bottom, so he flipped them over, but they stayed locked together, his right hand holding the back of her neck and his left gripping her hip as they rocked together.

Her own hands were all over him, petting and clawing and owning.

When her body stiffened on his, her pleasure went straight to his blood, a drug punched into his system. He could no more stop the orgasm than he could let her go.

Chapter 81

ZAIRA WOKE NAKED in bed under the diffuse sunlight that filtered in through the curtains. Her ears and other senses told her it wasn’t long after dawn, the village yet waking. The man who slept with his leg thrown across her thighs and his arm curved below her breasts, however, wasn’t awake. Turning only her head so as not to disturb him, she watched him sleep.

His hair had fallen across his face, his features relaxed, and she suddenly realized how young he truly was. Twenty-nine a bare three weeks ago. Less than a quarter of the normal life span of a hundred and thirty. And yet he’d been a leader since as long as she could remember. He’d been that when he was a mere boy unlocking her manacles.

All his life, he had been forced to be older than his years, to make decisions that should’ve been made by those who’d lived far longer. All Arrows were forced to grow up fast, but Aden, he’d been born into a pressure cooker that had never let up. She’d seen how his parents treated him—not as a son, but as a soldier in their war.

That war might have been for the good of the squad, but it had stolen something from Aden. Even she, feral, bloodthirsty creature that she’d been, had understood what it was to be a child. She didn’t think Aden ever had.

Will you teach me to play?

At the memory of his question, she thought of how she’d seen Ivy Jane laughing as she teased Vasic, of how the teleporter would quietly say something back that made the empath laugh even harder, her eyes bright. That was play and it was what Aden needed.

How extraordinary that she should be the one to think that, to believe that she could lead him into play. What did she know about such things?

“I know,” she whispered almost soundlessly, “that he is more important to me than anything, even the squad.” It was exactly as it should be—he needed to be someone’s number one priority. And if he needed play, Zaira would learn how.

Last night.

The telepathic words were in his voice, and yet he was asleep, the words muffled. As if he’d heard her thoughts in his sleep through their bond—their bond—and given her an answer.

Last night had been play.

She hadn’t consciously considered it that way, but he was right. It had been play. Just the two of them, doing what they wanted to do. No rules, no expectations. They’d ended up tangled on the floor after that first time, had lain there wrecked for long, long minutes before Aden finally groaned and got up, throwing her limp form onto the bed.

She’d laid back lazily and let him strip her, and by the time he finished, she’d revived enough to pounce on him. He hadn’t complained, not in the least. Especially when she used her mouth on him—at one point, he’d muttered that she didn’t need any manual. All she had to do was put her mouth near his erection and he was done.

The memory had her dropping a kiss to his throat, the rage inside her stretched out and lazy. Its insane possessiveness was as deep as always, but it wouldn’t slip the leash, not now, because Aden belonged to her. Before anyone else, he belonged to her. It made her feel smug and content.

Zaira didn’t think she’d ever been content.

“You look like a happy cat,” Aden murmured when his lashes lifted. “I can feel you purring at the back of my mind.”

Shifting to lie flat on her stomach, Zaira kicked up her legs. “Want me to stop?”

“No.” He ran his fingers down her spine. “I like it.”

They lay in silence so long that the village noises changed, became those of people going off to work or to school. Fine lines formed between Aden’s eyebrows toward the end. Reaching out, she rubbed them away. “Tell me what you’ve been obsessing over since you woke from the surgery.” She’d sensed that he needed time to think about it, had given it to him.

Placing one of his legs, hot and muscled once more over her thighs, he absently massaged her nape. “The Consortium made us all dance to their tune.” The hairs on his leg caused a delicious ripple of sensation down her body as he moved slightly. “We survived not because we were prepared, but because we were lucky.”

Zaira scowled. “It wasn’t luck—people talked to one another.”

“But piecemeal.” Rolling onto his back, Aden put an arm over his forehead. “What if Lucas had never said anything to me? What if Bo hadn’t trusted me with the incidents that had affected the Alliance?”