Dark Celebration (19 page)

Barack groaned aloud.
You cannot do that to me and not expect reprisals
.

Her laughter was low and sensual—a definite invitation. He closed his eyes, savoring her response to him—the acknowledgment of her need for him. He simply lifted her, cradling her to his chest while she fed, and took to the air.

Syndil licked his chest, closing the tiny pinpricks, and lifted her mouth to his neck. Her hands slid inside his open shirt. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" she murmured against his skin. "I have always wanted to make love in the snow. What's the use of being able to control our temperatures if we can't utilize it for our enjoyment?"

Barack didn't care where they were. If she wanted snow, there was a perfectly good spot he could see that looked somewhat protected from the elements. He dropped down fast, his mouth already on hers, fire flaring between them. His need of her was always hot—shattering—yet he kept his hands gentle and his aggression controlled, not wanting to frighten her. She panicked when she was beneath him, and never once had he assumed a dominant sexual position.

She pushed his shirt aside, shoving it down his arms as if she was in such a frenzy to get to his skin that she'd forgotten she could brush the offensive material away with her mind. He watched the rising desire on her face, the burning intensity in her eyes, as she spread kisses across his chest, up to his throat, caught his mouth with hers and returned to his chest with teasing bites.

Never had she acted this way toward him, and he couldn't stop his body's response, his own desire building faster and hotter than ever before. Syndil wanting him, initiating their lovemaking, was more of an aphrodisiac than anything else could ever be. She'd never shown a hint of the same urgent need he always felt when he touched her.

Of course I feel it
. Her teeth tugged at his ear. Her tongue swirled and played and danced over his skin.
I just don't know how to show you properly
.

Was there a touch of shame in her voice? He hoped not; she had nothing to be ashamed of. He would spend eternity trying to take away the betrayal and memory of Savon raping her—and there was a part of him that would never forgive himself for not being there to protect her.

You show me just fine
. He put all the fierce love he had for her into his voice, his hands coming up to tangle in her impossibly long hair. She always wore part of it up, and he loosened the pins to let it all fall free. Her hair was so sensual, and right now, with her mouth doing sinful things to his body, he craved the warm silk of her hair spilling over him. He didn't want her to ever stop, but he needed her clothes gone.

Then take them off.

He smiled at the impatience in her voice. He always asked permission so as not to alarm her, but maybe—hopefully—they were past that now. He waved his hand and she stood before him, stark naked except for her long hair, a silken cloak to frame her soft skin and luscious body. As always, when he looked at her, his heart pounded, his lungs seized, and he felt tears burning in his throat. No one would ever be more beautiful to him.

She lifted her head as she followed suit and whisked off his trousers and shoes, leaving him naked in the snow and starkly aroused. "I want to be past that now," she whispered. "I love you so much, Barack, and I need to be able to show you. More than that, I need for you to show me. I know you have to hold back and I don't want that for you—for us—anymore." Her fingers whispered over his thickened shaft and his breath left his lungs in a heated rush. "I just have never wanted to start something I couldn't finish." She kissed her way down his belly, her hands caressing and stroking until he was afraid he might go out of his mind.
Do you understand what I'm saying to you
?

I always understand you, my love. There is no need to warn me
. He was proud of her for her boldness, but he feared he might not make it through this night. She was reading his mind, feeling the fire building in his groin as she wrapped her fist around his heavy erection and bent her head to breathe warm air over him.

She was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen, her body perfect, breasts full and ripe, her long black hair a stark contrast to the white snow. When he saw her intention, the erotic image in her mind, his body hardened even more. He waved his hand and the sky rained rose petals alongside the drifting snow. "Sweetheart, you don't have to do this."

But she did. She wanted it nearly as much as he did—he could see it on her face. Just once, he wanted her like this—enjoying him. Wanting his body as much as he wanted hers. No, more than that. Needing him in the way he needed her. Desperate to touch him, to taste him, to feel his body moving in hers, his heart beating the same rhythm as hers. Just once. Mostly he needed to see the dark hunger in her eyes, feel it in every touch of her hands. He needed to see eagerness and enjoyment when she looked at him. Just this once—that was all he would ask for.

He closed his eyes briefly as her fingertips trailed lightly over his shaft, sending small electrical charges whipping through his bloodstream. She looked up at him and smiled as her tongue slid over the broad head in a curling dance that took his senses to an entirely new level. A soft growl escaped when she raked her fingernails along the inside of his thigh. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and tangled his fingers in her silky hair, gently pushing it over her shoulders. Looking down at her kneeling before him, with that small, mysterious half smile on her face and that too-hot look in her eyes, nearly was his undoing.

He kneaded her shoulders for a moment, eased the tension from the nape of her neck and then slid his palms over her soft skin to her breasts—all the while breathing deep to stay in control. His thumbs found her nipples, brushing them into hard peaks, his caresses drawing a gasp of pleasure from her. His hands cupped her breasts, fingers stroking and caressing with an expertise of knowing her body so well.

Syndil cried out with pleasure as the sensations swamped her. As always, with one touch of his hands, she was on fire. She knew he could shatter her, bring her to a fever pitch with just the strong pull of his mouth or the scrape of his teeth. He knew everything about her body, every way to bring her pleasure, and he always did—unselfishly and wholeheartedly. He always put her pleasure before his own. It wasn't fair. She desperately wanted to bring him to that same fever pitch, sweep him away on a tidal wave of passion, bring him the kind of ecstasy he always brought her.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. His mouth and stroking hands sent vibrations humming through her bloodstream and quickening her pulse. Her womb clenched, and she felt the familiar urgent need gathering deep in her core. She forced herself back in control, her fist closing over the silky-hard length of his erection, deliberately sending warm air over him to distract him.

His breath caught in his throat and he straightened, throwing his head back when her mouth closed over him, tongue sliding and curling as all the while she kept the suction tight. He rewarded her with a groan, thickening even more.

Pleasure flashed through her. She kept her mind firmly merged in his, reading his every thought, every image, making adjustments to push his pleasure higher, until his hands gripped her hair, his hips thrust helplessly and guttural sounds escaped his throat.

She felt his body tighten, the rush of fire spreading from his toes through his body straight to his groin. She took him deeper, finding the perfect rhythm so that he shuddered and muttered an expletive she'd never heard him use.

"You're killing me," he whispered hoarsely.

In a good way, Syndil knew. Her entire body reacted to the knowledge that she was pushing Barack to the very edge of his control. She wanted to shatter it, to do to him what he did to her. The power felt incredible, and the satisfaction even more so. She was almost euphoric with happiness, kissing her way up his belly to his chest, his throat, urging him over the top of her, so frantic to have him buried deep inside her she couldn't think of anything but pleasing him—pleasing herself.

She fell back into the rose petal-covered snow, dragging him with her. Skin pressed to skin, hearts beat the same rhythm. She felt his weight settle over hers, his hands hard on her hips, his knee nudging her thighs apart. He thrust hard, entering her body, joining them together in one fiercely primitive stroke. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Lightning streaked through her body, and she cried out with drowning pleasure.

He moved in her, hard, sure strokes, filling her emptiness until she felt as if she were soaring free. His hair slid over her skin, a sensuous silk brushing her already hypersensitive breasts. Her body tightened, muscles clenching and gripping as her hips rose to meet the fast rhythm of his. She moved slightly, adjusting her position, and his hands gripped her hard, holding her down.

At once she was aware of her surroundings, of the man on top of her. Syndil looked up at the face, almost savage in his desire, red flames flickering in the depths of his black eyes. She could see his teeth, already lengthened, the muscles clearly defined in his arms.

Syndil tried desperately to hold onto the passion that seemed to always be locked away inside her. It poured out on occasion, but somewhere, somehow, just when she thought she had conquered her fears, a door slammed shut and dammed up her needs, her physical desires, behind a wall of terror. She fought it, fought the rising panic and the memory of teeth biting at her, of brutal hands hurting her, of something obscene and unnatural ripping through her, taking her virginity without love or thought for her innocence. He had been family, a loved one, yet he had attacked her, nearly tearing out her throat, beating her, raping her in every way possible. She had fought until the bones in her hands were broken and her flesh was saturated with blood and she thought he would kill her.

This wasn't Savon, her attacker, this was Barack, the man she loved above all others, yet she couldn't separate the two when Barack covered her body with his and held her down. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hear him trying to soothe her. She could only feel the weight of him crushing her, feel the grip of his hands, see the glow of red flames in his eyes.

"Stop." She whispered the word, tears beginning to form in her eyes. Her throat swelled, threatening to choke her. "Stop. Oh, God, Barack, you have to stop." Her voice swung toward hysteria as her control shattered, her mind seemed to fragment and she couldn't distinguish past from present. She began to fight him, hitting hard, clawing at his face, pushing at his chest.

She drew blood before he caught her wrists, shaking her head back and forth to avoid his mouth when he bent close. He whispered something to her, but she couldn't hear him, caught up in the deadly illusion she couldn't seem to escape.

Barack groaned and rolled off her, to lie faceup in the snow, staring at the flakes as they fell from the sky. He slung one arm across his eyes to hide his expression, shielding his mind so she couldn't see the anguish and frustration filling him. He wanted to roar with rage to the heavens, but he stayed silent, struggling to bring his body under control. He heard her choke back a sob, and turned his head toward her.

Tear sparkled like diamonds in her eyes, trailed down her face to drop into the snow-covered ground. "I'm sorry, Barack. I'm sorry. What's wrong with me?" She covered her face with her hands and wept as if her heart were breaking.

"Syndil, there's nothing wrong with you." Barack came up on his knees and reached for her, keeping his movements slow and gentle. "Come here to me, baby, let me hold you."

She could see the scratches on his face and chest, down one forearm, even a long thin scratch on his hip. Tiny drops of blood beaded up, crisscrossing his skin so that he looked as if he'd been attacked by a cat.

"What have I done?" Ashamed, she tried to struggle, to break his grip on her arm. "I have to go away. We can't keep doing this. Let me go, Barack. I'll go back to leopard form and stay in the earth until this passes."

"I don't want to hear that. You aren't leaving me. You have a duty to your lifemate, and it isn't sex. You stay aboveground, with me, in your natural form, do you hear me, Syndil? I expect nothing less of you." This time he didn't hide the Carpathian male. He made it a command, and bared his white teeth to emphasize he meant business.

"Why? Why would you even want me? I can't keep doing this to you and live with myself. How long is your patience going to last? How long before you turn to another woman for the things I can't give you?"

"Another woman?" he echoed, so shocked at the suggestion it showed on his face. "Syndil, you aren't making sense. There is no other woman for me. What aren't you giving me? I make love to you all the time."

"
You
make love to me. I should be loving you back."

"You do love me back." He raked a hand through his dark hair, clearly agitated. "So you have a small problem with one position.
One
. Do you think it matters to me?"

She didn't respond, simply shook her head, covering her face tightly with both hands. Tears leaked out and her shoulders heaved as she fought for breath through the sobs.

"Syndil, I love you. You're my life. We have years, centuries to get this right. You matter to me, not sex." He gave her a little shake. "Look at me, Syndil. If you never can let me lie over the top of you, so be it. Why is it so important to you? You don't see that image in my mind. It doesn't matter to me what position we make love in, not now, nor will it ever. Damn it, look at me."

He caught her hands and pulled them from her face, staring into her eyes. "I love you more than life itself. So we can't make love with me on top. Is that some sort of red badge of courage to force yourself into a position you feel threatened in? Do you honestly, for one moment, think what position we have sex in is important to me?"

"
It is to me,"
she whispered, ducking her head. "I'm so ashamed I can't love my lifemate the way he deserves. I can heal the earth after the worst of battles, but I can't heal myself. I can't be a decent mate to you. I try so hard, Barack, I really want you. I love the way you make me feel as if I'm the only woman in the world, as if no one else could ever please you, but I can't do it. I can't."