Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

All the more so because the next thing I knew, a knee was spreading my thighs, hard hands were gripping my hips, and he was nuzzling my neck with little growling sounds that sent shivers all the way to my belly.

And put a crease in my forehead, because this was so typical.

Not the sexy stuff, although there’d been a few moments. . . . But moments were all they’d been, because of the whole no-sex rule and because, well, it was complicated. But the stubbornness. The arrogance. The absolute certainty that he knew better than me about every damned thing, yeah, that was familiar.

The last time I’d seen him, other than for that glimpse in London, had been the moment he was cursed. And just after, when I was sure I’d lost him for good. It had felt like a punch to the gut. It had felt like the end of the world. I’d thought, if only we had one more minute . . .

And now that we did, all I wanted was to give him a swift kick.

But instead, my hands were finding their way under his shirt, my fingers were ghosting over his ribs and nipples, and my palms were enjoying the feel of springy chest hair under my hands.

And then he pushed me against the wall and kissed me again.

And damn it, I knew what he was doing, I thought, returning the kiss furiously. He was trying to use incubus abilities on me, and it wasn’t going to work. Because he could feed anytime—I broke off to bite on a luscious lower lip—when we weren’t—and to suck on his chin—in the middle—and along his jaw—of a damned crisis! I bit an earlobe and heard him inhale sharply. Served him right, I thought, worrying it, and wondering how I was supposed to face a Pythia at full power when I was barely able to stand up on my own.

And then suddenly I wasn’t.

A single hand curved under my butt, lifting me, another captured my hands, shoving them over my head, and a body pressed against mine, holding me helplessly against the wall. I couldn’t touch him, I couldn’t move, except to wind my legs around his waist, skirts and all, and try to hold on. But he could, and he took full advantage, with little vibrations of his hips against mine that quickly had me gasping and groaning and staring at some cobwebs on the ceiling like I had no idea what they were.

And then he was groaning, too, and talking into my neck.

I couldn’t understand a word because it wasn’t English, at least I didn’t think so. But it was hard to tell with all the white noise suddenly roaring in my ears. Along with the ebb and flow of labored breathing, which might have been mine but I wasn’t sure because he was kissing me again, hot and hard and hungry, almost desperate. And his hips were moving more, pounding me into the wall until he forgot to hold my hands and they found his shoulders and I

just hung on. And every time he did that grind again, the white noise ramped up and my heart sped up and my breathing became sobs became groans became cries until I was just screaming and thrashing and—

And . . . and . . . oh.

I held on as wave after wave of sensation crashed through me, like a hurricane slamming into a beach. Hurricane Pritkin, I thought deliriously, as the vibrations hammered at me, wild and tumultuous and demanding. And then softer, gentler, sweeter, but no less strong for all that. I finally surfaced to find his body still pressed against mine, his breathing uneven and his fingers trembling on my jaw. A piece of my hair was stuck to his cheek. I brushed it off, panting slightly, feeling drugged and delirious and golden warm wherever our skin touched.

And then someone cleared a throat.

It wasn’t Pritkin.

I looked up, blinking. And saw a short, stout, middle-aged woman in a frilly Victorian frock framed in the doorway. She had a head full of improbable violet sausage curls and was carrying a cherry-covered parasol. The frock had cherries on it, too, big red ones on a white background, and small, round, purple glasses were perched on the end of her nose.

She looked totally nuts.

She also looked confused, although not half as much as I was.

“Are you finished?” she finally asked, politely.

I just looked at her.

“Yes, I remember,” she said, a little nostalgically. “Take a moment, girl.”

I took a moment.

And then I took another one.

“Who the hell are you?” I finally asked.

“My very question.”

I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. Then I looked at the two girls in white, who were still imitating statues on either side of the door. “Yours?” I asked carefully.

“Quite.”

I slumped back against the wall in sheer relief. “Oh, thank God.”