Dark Promises (Dark 25)

Her heart jumped. Jerked hard in her chest. Her feminine channel convulsed in utter shock. His kiss was hot. Hard. Wet. Sexy as hell. It went on forever. He kissed her over and over and she thought she wouldn't remember how to kiss, but she just melted into him and he was so fine, her mouth opened for him and their tongues tangled and danced and he filled her with red-hot urgency and a terrible need that sank straight between her legs and clawed at her stomach.

"Susu," he whispered into her mouth. "I am home."

Home. He said he was home. Home was . . . her. She knew what he was saying to her. She knew what his kisses were saying. He wanted her. She wasn't young. She wasn't beautiful. She wasn't even a stick, like the accepted norm. Her time had long since passed even for this to happen in a dream. It felt all too real.

His body was hard and hot and she couldn't stop her hands from roaming over his skin. She found the ridges on his back, and she wanted to see what the tattoo was like. Her fingers traced the artwork. It was large, flowing across his back and up over his shoulders and arms. Not ink. At least not any ink she had ever seen. Characters. Letters. All woven into the tattoo.

She almost asked him to turn around, to let her see it, but she knew if she did, she would know too much. She would go too far with this man and not be able to pull back. Trixie had a secret that she kept strictly to herself. She wouldn't have given it up to anyone. Ever. She had great confidence in her abilities to raise her granddaughters. To work long hard hours and provide a home. She could gossip with the best of them and she had turned sarcasm and snark into an art form. People were afraid to cross her. She exuded confidence when she confronted others. She fought for her girls in every respect and never backed down.

Truthfully, she had absolutely zero confidence in her ability to be a sexy woman. She had given up on that dream too long ago, and she had no skills and even less desire. She'd fought too hard to stop needing a man. To stop needing sex. To stop needing comfort and protection.

"You don't understand," she whispered. "It's too late for me. You're too late. You can be in my dreams, but you can't be real."

She was shy. She'd always been shy around men she found attractive. She got tongue-tied and she felt like a silly teenager. She didn't know how to handle a man's attention, and she usually ran him off fast with her sarcasm and attitude. She had a special prop she called up. Her sea hag. No one could do sea hag like she could. She was going to have to find her fast, because she couldn't get any deeper with Fane. Not if he was real, and he felt all too real when he kissed her.

She couldn't feel this urgent hunger clawing at her. She had sacrificed being a woman for her family. She couldn't go back on that. She wouldn't know how.

"Han sivamak," he said softly, right into her mouth. He poured the endearment down her throat. Into her lungs so that she breathed--him. The word found her veins and crawled inside, to spread through her body like hot lava, burning her from the inside out.

"I don't understand," she whispered. She couldn't find her voice or her attitude. Her sea hag had disappeared completely. She just refused to come out around this man.

"My lifemate is my home and she is han sivamak--beloved."

Beloved. She couldn't be anyone's beloved. "I'm a grandmother," she blurted out. "I'm a great-grandmother. I'm probably old enough to be your grandmother. I am not your beloved. You have to stop kissing me because I think there's some kind of law against it. And if there's not, there should be."

"I am centuries old. An ancient among my people. I am locked in this monastery away from all humans. Away from my own people, those I have protected all of my existence, because it is not safe to be among them. Or it was not. Now, with you, it is. You will bring hope to my brethren here. My beautiful, beloved lifemate."

She was horrified. Hor-rif-ied. "Now you're talking crazy. Seriously crazy. Centuries, in case your English isn't so good, means hundreds of years. People don't live that long."

He had to stop stroking her skin. His fingers had gone to the nape of her neck and just stayed there. She squirmed a little to remind him she was half lying on a sleeping bag and he was half lying over the top of her and this wasn't going to happen. Even if he could kiss like sin. Even if he looked like sin. Even if he was sin.

"Humans do not live that long," he corrected gently, and leaned in to brush his mouth over hers. "There is no need to tremble. I could never harm you, but we are tied together now and the ritual must be completed. I am far too close to darkness to wait. You want me. I want you."

She pushed at his chest again, giving it some muscle this time. He didn't rock back so much as an inch. In fact, he didn't appear to notice.

"I have news for you, Fane. Any woman would want you. But it isn't going to happen. Not with me. There's really pretty women down in the village and you just have to waltz right in and any number of them will oblige you." It hurt to say the words. In fact they tasted bitter in her mouth. She was encouraging this gorgeous man who wanted her to find someone else. Better now than later, when he realized she wasn't the only woman available to him, and once he saw the others he would throw her away. Just like before. And that hurt. Bad. She wasn't going there again. Not ever.

"Lady, you think I do not see your mind? I see you. The one you hide away from everyone else. That is my woman. The woman belonging to me. And I know what the English word centuries means."

For one horrible moment she couldn't breathe. She didn't know why she believed him, but she did. He was centuries old. He had perfect skin and perfect teeth. He had the body of a man who was a warrior and maybe in his late thirties. She was not going there with him just for that alone. Sheesh. Was he crazy?

"I need my gun back. If you're centuries old and you sleep underground, you have to be a vampire and I'm obligated to kill you."

He moved. Just inches. That was all--a few inches--but she found herself on her back, staring up at his beautiful face. That mouth. Those eyes. Her heart pounded in anticipation, not fear. That in itself was scary. He was scary. Everything about him was scary because she couldn't seem to find the strength to shove him off her and make a mad scramble for the gun.

He brushed back her hair and framed her face with his hands. "You are obsessed with that silly gun. Han sivamak, it will not kill me. It will not kill a vampire. You are clinging to it because you are afraid to face being my lifemate."

"You aren't human," she pointed out. Again her voice refused to go above a whisper and there wasn't a single note of snark. Or attitude. She felt exposed and vulnerable, afraid he could really read her mind, and that would be so embarrassing.

"Would you kill me because I am not human?" His eyes stayed on hers, holding her captive while the pad of his thumb traced her lips. "Would you, Trixie? Would you kill me simply because I am not human?"

There was no way she could kill him. Not really. She had closed her eyes when she fired the stake gun, but it was rather jerky of him to point it out. "No." His song was too beautiful. His music was already wrapped around hers. She heard their song, their harmony, the way they belonged.

He smiled down at her and brushed his mouth over hers. "I told you, lady, you can trust me to tak

e care of you."

"See, that's the thing," she said, determined not to get lost in his gaze. That was hard. She was falling fast into all that beautiful blue. The odds were stacking up very quickly against her. This couldn't happen. But his hands moved down her body, and he had great hands. She felt the peculiar lethargy that had overtaken her before. Her body lay under his, wanting him. Even her brain betrayed her, whispering, Just this once. You're alone with him. Just this once let yourself feel beautiful. Sexy. Like a woman.

"I don't need taking care of," she informed him.

His hand slid under her shirt and moved up her side, fingers taking in her skin. Skin that was hot. Needy. Skin that longed for his touch. His hand reached the sides of her breasts and stroked. Her breath hitched in her throat. Left her lungs in a rush. She should have screamed and pushed him away. That was the only sane thing to do.

Once she had this beautiful memory, it would haunt her forever. She wasn't stupid. She knew she felt things too deeply. She had to protect herself or she would be scarred by him for life. Until the day she died. She would feel beautiful. Sexy. A woman. And then he would be gone and she would be alone.

"You live too much in your mind."

He took her mouth. Not gentle. Not coaxing. He took it. As in claiming it. As in making her mouth--his. She could never kiss another man. Not ever. Not without tasting him and thinking of him and comparing. There would be no comparison. Every other man would come up short.

She tried to keep her sanity. She tried to chant in her mind who she was. Who she would always be. But his kisses swept through her like a drug. So hot. So tempting. So demanding. She gave herself up to have more. So many more. He had to exchange breath with her to keep her from passing out. Still he kissed her, and then his hands were on her breast and she heard herself cry out. Soft. Exposed. Needing him. Needing more.

Somehow, after all the years of emptiness, he poured himself into her, filling every empty place. Giving her something she was terrified of taking. Waking her body up when it had gone to sleep so long ago. She felt like a virgin. A terrified virgin. That was totally humiliating considering her age and that she should be a woman, not a teenager unable to control herself.