Bethany's Rite (2 page)

He took half a step back and held up his hands. “I’m not
going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you. I’ve been looking for you for a
long time.” The fear on her face was slowly replaced by curiosity. He smiled.

He swept assurance across her mind, letting her know she had
nothing to fear from him.

Her eyes widened, incredible green eyes that flashed in
sudden irritation.

“Is that you? Doing that freaky telepathic thing?”

He raised his eyebrows and let her feel his answer rather
than hear it.

“Stop it. However you’re doing it, stop it. I refuse to hold
a conversation with someone who isn’t talking. And if you do that whisper in my
head thing again, I’m out of here.”

“Okay. But I’d rather not stand in the parking lot to talk.
We can take my—”

“Oh no. I don’t know you from Adam, and I am not going
anywhere with you.”

She stooped down to pick up her keys and Wyc watched the
skirt mold as tight as a second skin around her ass and slide up to within an
inch of her pussy. He was becoming very fond of that little black skirt.

“Then I’ll meet you at your apartment.”

She turned to unlock her door and shook her head. “You are
insane. And I’m leaving.”

He smiled at her naiveté. She could run, but he’d catch her.
She could hide, but he’d find her. The better part of his life had been spent
searching for her, and now that he’d found her, there was no way in hell he’d
let her just walk away. It wasn’t only his future at stake here, but the future
of his entire race. And suddenly even more important to him—her future, and
possibly even her life, hung in the balance as well.

Bethany grabbed the handle to open the door, but stopped
when the man’s hand curled around her own. His touch shot electricity through
her, focusing her senses on the stranger behind her. Despite the only physical
contact between them being the light touch of his hand on hers, his presence
surrounded her. Held her.

The heat radiating off his body warmed her back in the cool
night air, and his breath brushed against her cheek as he said, “I will not
hurt you, but I will not let this night pass without talking to you.”

His voice, low and a little rough, coursed through her like
the extremely expensive bourbon Barry kept hidden in his office. This man could
probably talk a woman to climax. Every time he started to speak, her stomach
fluttered like a butterfly on speed, and it had nothing to do with how he
appeared out of the dark and scared the hell out of her.

Turning to face him, she swallowed a gasp at the
determination in his eyes. She had a feeling that once he set his mind on
something, he wasn’t easily dissuaded.

He wanted to talk to her? Fine. She’d let him talk.
Following her thoughts, her gaze dropped to his mouth. A sudden rush of need
poured through her. The man might be irritating and overbearing, but he had the
sexiest mouth and voice she had ever encountered. Firm lips, the bottom one a
shade fuller than the top with a paper-thin, half-inch scar right underneath.

A slight breeze brought his scent to her. One of leather and
exotic cologne that made her body hum in response. Pulled toward him, she
instinctively lifted her face, aligning her lips with that fantasy-inducing
mouth of his.

His hand lifted, and he traced her bottom lip with his
fingertips. Then he closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “Bethany, sweet
babydoll, you tempt me too much.”

He could probably crack her spine in two without blinking,
but the heat building in his eyes made it more than evident that other than
being jumped, her bones weren’t in much danger. There was no threat of harm
either in his expression or in his hold on her. If anything, he looked like he
was trying his hardest
not
to scare her with the fierce attraction
whipping between them. His effort calmed her fears and stroked her confidence.
With a kittenish smile of feminine gratification, she watched the very powerful
man in front of her fight the need she stirred in him. “Who’s running scared
now, Mr. Macho?”

His hand slipped behind her neck, and he pulled her against
him. “That mouth of yours needs some discipline,” he breathed against her lips.

She tried to drag air into her lungs, but the feel of his
chest against her breasts made it stutter out again on a low moan. His embrace
tightened. His eyes narrowed, and she swore he was trying to inhale her
perfume, only she wasn’t wearing any.

Hot and hard, the furiousness of his kiss caught Bethany by
surprise. What had spurred her into taunting him, she might never know.
Fractured thoughts skittered like shattering glass through her mind. This was
not a normal kiss, and it was quickly heading into dangerous territory. Their
explosive chemistry had her arching into him and opening her mouth at the
insistence of his tongue.

He swept in with a shocking possessiveness. Turning
slightly, he pressed her against the car. His hands skimmed over the curve of
her waist, down her hips and back up. When the heels of his hands pressed
against the sides of her breasts, a soft moan of pleasure sighed out of her
mouth. Needing more of his taste, she clutched at his shoulders, closed her
lips around his tongue and sucked.

She had teased him, and he had countered her attack, not
intending to take more than a quick taste. Just hard and deep enough to force
her to recognize the bond she had to him.

He had controlled himself after drawing in her scent. A
scent that he would recognize among a million others, one that was uniquely
hers and belonged to him. Controlled himself after that first taste and the
press of her soft body against his. Even when that goddamn fuck-me-now moan of
hers slipped into his mouth.

Then her arms moved up around his neck and her body
undulated in a slow wave against his. And when she closed those pink lips
around his tongue and sucked, he was lost.

To hell with good intentions.

A violent shudder shook him, and his hands shot down and
around to cup her bottom, lifting her until his throbbing erection pressed
against her mound. He thrust hard against her, but she kept her thighs closely
locked together. With a low growl of irritation, he lifted his head. Before he
could tell her to open for him, she brought his face back down to hers and
plunged into his mouth, her tongue on a fierce mission of seduction.

Her boldness surprised him. Pleased him. He rocked against
her, once, twice, as he continued to plunder the sweet recesses of her mouth.

He wanted her. Here. Now. The need was brutal and ripped his
common sense to shreds. The long years of searching were finally ended, and she
was in his arms, where she belonged. Even if it took her mind time to catch up,
her body and heart accepted him. Wanted him. Reached for him. Knew she was his.

The hardened peaks of her nipples pressed into his chest,
and his senses expanded to completely capture her reaction. A risky move. He
might not be able to rein back his own response once he set himself free to
explore his mate’s on every level.

He had been denied her for so long. Too long. He wanted to
taste that passion already pulsing with indomitable force between them. Wanted
to taste her. All of her.

He heard the pulse of her blood as it raced through her
veins and the catch in her breath as her excitement grew. Heard the desperate
desire in her thoughts as they swirled in confusion. Triumph roared through him
as a yearning heat rose under her skin and her breasts plumped at the brush of
his hand. The scent of her arousal speared straight to the center of his being.
Knowing she was wet for him tempted him beyond endurance.

With a rough sound low in his chest, he shifted her, pulling
her thighs open and wrapping her legs around his waist. She cried out,
tightened her hold, and for a brief moment ground against him like a wild
woman. Even through their clothes, the heat and soft give of her pussy against
his cock fueled the need to have all that heat wrapped around him, milking him
deep inside her sweet body.

With a rough movement, he slid his hands back up her thighs.
His fingers had just dived under the hem of her skirt when she twisted her face
away from his.

“No. Please.”

Her ragged plea sliced into his desire. He forced himself to
still as she planted her hands against his chest and tried to arch away from
him.

She shook her head. “No more.”

Lust still flamed in her eyes, but now it was mixed with
panic. He took a deep breath and looked down at her hands curling into fists
against his shirt. Not pushing him away exactly, but keeping a distance between
them while she caught her breath. Her head fell backwards onto the roof of the
car as she breathed in long and deep.

He watched her breasts rise and fall and wondered where the
hell he went from here. Nothing like skipping from step one to step
twenty-three in a well-laid plan. Involuntarily, he groaned at his own
thoughts. Right now, the only thing he cared about being well-laid was the
woman he held in his hands.

“Whew.” Bethany patted his chest. “Time to put me down, big
guy, and tell me your name.”

He didn’t want to let her go. The primal hunger for her body
raging within him demanded he overwhelm her with kisses and caresses until she
forgot about resisting him. Forgot about everything but opening herself
completely to him.

Suppressing a violent curse of denial, he loosened his grip
and allowed her to slowly ease down his body until her feet returned to earth.

His gaze drifted from her swollen lips, the surrounding skin
red from whisker burn, to the pulse beating erratically at the base of her
throat. He placed his hands on the car and reluctantly pushed himself away.
Though no longer touching her, he couldn’t bring himself to drop his arms,
keeping her caught between him and the car.

“Wyc Kilth.”

Nervously, Bethany licked her lips and looked up at the man
who had just incinerated the memories of every other kiss she had ever
received. Burned them to less than ash.

“I’m not sure what just happened here, but it makes me think
I shouldn’t be anywhere with you that isn’t a public place.” Her hands were
still pressed against him and she tapped his chest, gauging the space between
them. “A very public place.”

“What are you scared of, Bethany? Me?” His voice rumbled
low, the struggle he waged for control still evident.

She looked away from his gaze. “I don’t think so. Though you
haven’t really given me a reason not to be. Any woman in her right mind would be
at least a little suspicious of a stranger who sat and watched her for hours,
then backed her up against a car and kissed her into oblivion.”

The fierce lines of lust on Wyc’s face softened to something
less desperate, but just as dangerous. The change in his expression eased her
wariness.

Wary? She was wary? She shouldn’t be wary. She should be
frightened as hell. But there was an aching familiarity about him that she
couldn’t explain. Like he lived in an elusive memory drifting on the outside
edge of her consciousness. By the same token, she was certain Wyc Kilth was not
a man any woman could forget.

If she believed in reincarnation, she’d think they had been
lovers in some past life. But belief in anything along that route was parked
strictly in the science fiction category. Emphasis on
fiction
.

He lifted her chin with the tip of his finger so she was
once more staring into his unfathomable gaze. “What’s the frown for?”

She still couldn’t tell the exact color of his eyes. “How
did you do that earlier? Talk inside my head? Was it some kind of subliminal
suggestion?”

“No.” He took a deep breath and, with the tips of his
fingers, brushed her brow and over her cheek in a gentle touch. “Where do you
want to go to talk? I promise. No kissing unless you ask.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

A dark flame leaped in his eyes. He leaned in close and
whispered in that smoky voice, “There’ll come a time, Bethany, when you won’t
only ask me to kiss you, you’ll beg me to fuck you.” The absolute certainty
with which he spoke made her skin tingle with unwanted anticipation.

But from experience, she knew that anticipation would be all
she got. Being cursed was the only explanation she could come up with. She’d
never had a man go down on her or even give her a simple freaking finger-fuck.

A year ago she had tried nearly every night for a month to
get laid. Different men, different bars, even different cities. Every single
time, something happened to the guy she picked up, cutting the evening short
well before she attained any hint of satisfaction. Whenever a man got close
enough to do some good, he would get suddenly and violently ill, start cramping
up, turn ghostly pale and thrash around in pain. One even passed out cold and
scared the crap out of her.

Once, out of desperation, she had stripped and straddled a
guy as soon as they got to his place. In a heartbeat, he had gone from grinning
like a lottery-winning loon to screeching. A horrible, high-pitched shriek that
sounded like a small, cornered animal and made her want to check to see if her
ears were bleeding. He pushed her off and swore she had stabbed his dick,
though when he checked, he was completely whole—and completely deflated.

No matter how turned on a man was with her, he never got
close to finishing what he started. Much to her endless frustration. And men
thought a woman with PMS was a bitch to be around. They had no idea.

Surprisingly, Wyc hadn’t fallen prey to the curse. Maybe it
was because she was still dressed when she started climbing up his body. She
wondered if she could rub herself to climax against his erection through their
clothes. If they had kept going, she might have found out.