King of the Damned (League of Guardians 2)

Then his mouth was at her breast as he pushed aside her bra and enveloped a turgid peak deep into his warmth. He teased and suckled, each draw hitting her hard between the legs. Never had she experienced such sensation. Such raw passion.

The man was a bloody plus eleven if that was possible.

Her hands were anchored in the thick hair atop his head, holding him steady as he fed from her breasts, while his free hand sank into the hot crevice between her legs. Even through her jeans she felt the burn of his flesh, and each stroke of his finger drew such friction across her that she ached with pleasure and rocked into him. Pushing. Straining. Groaning.

Deep inside her body, a tremor grew—a spiral of pleasure that quickly spread. He rubbed and sucked and tugged at her, and it expanded into a ball of exquisite pressure that spun crazily, each pass of his hand stoking and intensifying. She moaned, her hips bucking as the tidal wave built and rolled through her, faster and harder until it broke, and she was limp in his hands.

Slowly he pushed her bra back into place—though his right hand still cupped the juncture between her legs as he gazed into her eyes. His expression was unreadable, and she swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable and ashamed. She’d literally thrown herself at him. What did that say about her?

She watched as the black slowly faded from his eyes, leaving only the eerie gold that was so unique.

“I only wanted a kiss.” She was horrified to hear her whispered thoughts echo between them. Her cheeks burned scarlet, and her hands crept up to her chest.

“I could have had you, right here against this shed.” He paused, his gaze running from her head to her toes. “If I’d wanted to.”

The inference wasn’t lost on Rowan. “You’re an asshole,” she spat, her anger overriding anything else.

Azaiel nodded. “I’ve been called a hell of a lot worse, but you should remember, I did warn you.” His voice lowered. “I’m not a nice man, Rowan. I haven’t been for a very long time. You would do well to remember that.”

A throat cleared behind them—a masculine, pissed-off kind of sound—and Rowan froze.

Azaiel’s eyes widened for just a second before he straightened his body though she noted he was careful to keep her concealed as he cocked his head to the side. “Enjoy the show?”

“Not particularly.”

Rowan banged her head against the shed and squirmed so she could see around Azaiel. A tall man glared at her, his handsome face familiar . . . as was the expression that sat upon it. Anger. Pain. Disappointment.

“Kellen,” she said hoarsely.

Azaiel stiffened. She stared up into a face of stone, the warmth they’d shared only moments earlier long gone. He stepped away, and Rowan glared at him, hating the way his control had never wavered. Hating the way he’d made her feel. Hating that he appeared to be not affected at all.

He nodded toward Kellen. “She’s all yours.”

And then he left her alone in the early-morning gloom with the twin brother she’d nearly killed six years earlier.

Chapter 18

She watched Kellen warily. From her vantage point she didn’t see any weapons, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t packing. In fact it most likely meant he was armed to the teeth. He wore a plain black T-shirt and military-style pants in the same shade. The boots on his feet could hold a dagger . . . or two, and she knew from experience Kellen’s pants were usually weighted down with a host of weaponry—all of it aimed at killing.

She clutched the edges of her T-shirt, tied them together, and zipped her leather jacket tight. Behind him lights from inside the house glowed softly, and she noticed that the light in her Nana’s rooms were lit as well. Small darts of it filtered between the boards that had been pounded across the shattered glass window.

Was it less than a week ago she’d been in ignorant bliss?

“What are you doing?” Kellen asked harshly.

His anger was palpable. She got it. But she sure as hell didn’t plan on taking the brunt of it.

Rowan pushed away from the shed and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The gloom was considerably lighter than only fifteen minutes ago, and she knew sunrise wasn’t far behind. She cracked her neck. God, she was so tired.

“Just getting some fresh air. You?”

His face darkened. Okay, maybe he was more than a little pissed. “I don’t care about your fucking boy toy, Ro. Let’s talk about our mother.”

Her heart clutched at the sound of her nickname and, for a second she thought that maybe things would be all right. That maybe he didn’t hate her as much as she feared and that he’d forgiven her for the last time they’d been together.

“If you’ve harmed one hair on Marie-Noelle’s head, I will make you pay.” Kellen spoke slowly, enunciating his words so that there was no doubt as to the depth of his anger toward her. His eyes flashed, and he took a step toward her. She noted the way his right hand was loose near his pocket. That wasn’t good.

Okay, so the whole hate thing was still ongoing.