Deadly Desire (Riley Jenson Guardian 7)

"No."

His hands slid around my hips, until the length of me was pressed against the long, hard length of him. It felt so good I stopped thinking and just started reacting, letting my hands slide down his back to cup his butt and press him even harder against me. Slowly, sensually, I rubbed myself against him, enjoying the heat of him, the hard press of his erection.

He smiled, his dark gaze holding mine, afire with the same need that burned through me. His hands slid up my back and with one clever flick of his fingers, my bra came undone. A second later, he was sliding both my jacket and my bra from my shoulders and dropping them to the floor.

He kissed one puckered nipple, then the other, then murmured, "Turn around."

I did as bid, and found myself pressed against the cool glass, the heat of my body making the surface flare and go clear. Suddenly everything on the street below was visible.

"I want everyone to know that this gorgeous body is mine," he murmured, sweeping my hair to one side and kissing the nape of my neck. "I want everyone to see just how glorious you look when you come."

His words had me shuddering in pleasure, and it was all I could do not to turn around, to take what I so desperately needed.

But this was his game. Mine could wait until later.

His fingertips slid up my bare leg, making my muscles twitch in delight and the deep-seated ache all that much fiercer. When he reached the top of the skirt's split, he hesitated, and my breath hitched in expectation. I wanted, needed his touch to slide underneath the material. To explore where I ached.

Instead, his hand moved down to my thighs and slowly, surely, the skirt slid upward.

For several seconds, he didn't do anything more than simply stand behind me. But I could feel the weight of his gaze on my body, hear the rapid intake of his breath, smell the raging of his desire. And it was as arousing as a touch, making the throb of desire fiercer than I'd ever thought possible.

More minutes ticked by, and sweat began to trickle down the back of my neck. The weight of expectation was not something I'd experienced before, and while it might be sweet, it was also torturous.

Finally, his hands touched my shoulders and moved down, sliding around to my breasts. His body pressed lightly against mine as he caressed and pinched my nipples, and I moaned, thrusting back against him, enjoying the steel of his erection pressed so firmly against my butt.

Then one hand began to move downward, along the flat of my stomach, across to my hip, down the outside of my thigh. My breathing was getting harsher by the moment, and expectation was rising, until it felt like I would surely burst if he didn't damn well touch me there soon.

His fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, and my breathing hitched. Slowly, surely, his caress moved upward, and when he finally brushed my clit, I cried out in sheer, aching pleasure. His fingers slid through the wetness, caressing, delving, and all I could do was shudder and writhe and moan. And then he was in me, thrusting hard and deep, and I came, shaking with the sheer force of my climax. And still he thrust, the thick heat of him stabbing deep, the sensation so glorious pleasure rose thick and strong all over again. Then he came, and his teeth were in my neck, and the dual sensations was so glorious I came a second time.

For several minutes we did nothing more than merely stand there, our bodies locked together and the heat of our union clearing the glass. On the street below, several men had gathered, obviously trying to figure out if they had just seen what they thought they'd seen. If I'd had the energy, I would have waved.

"That," I said eventually, "was a brilliant start to the evening."

"It surely was."

He dropped a kiss on my shoulder blade, then stepped back. I turned and followed, letting the glass go smoky again. Quinn placed his hands on each side of my face and gently kissed me. It was a sweet kiss, yet one that spoke of passion not yet sated.

The thought had my hormones coursing in delight.

He leaned down to pick up the drinks, his undone shirt revealing delicious glimpses of toned stomach muscles as he gave me my glass. I took a sip, enjoying the coolness of the sweet liquid, then said, "So, where was our conversation again?"

"I believe I said something along the lines of Madrilene not going out of her way to help her brother solve these murders."

"Ah yes." I took another sip of wine and idly wondered if it would taste as good if it was licked off his skin. "Why do you call her Madrilene when she's known everywhere else as Alex?"

His smile was sensual and dangerous. A man getting ready to seduce again. "Most older vampires have had several names over the years. I met her when she was Madrilene, so that is what I call her."

"And what does she call you?"

"Ciaran. Quinn is a derivative of my original surname, O'Cuinn."

"Ciaran O'Cuinn." The name rolled off the tongue sweetly. "It suits you."

"But it is no longer the name I go by."

"And will your current moniker also hit the dust one day?"

"It's hard to say, because the existence of nonhumans is an accepted fact now. Back when I was young, they were very much a myth, and anyone who lived too long or didn't age was treated with great suspicion-and that often resulted in death." His shrug was an elegant thing. "But enough of me. Continue with your tales of death."