The Darkest Kiss (25 page)

Trembling, Lucien approached the bed. He hadn't—He stilled abruptly, frowned. Cursed. Death screamed.

“What's wrong?” Anya asked, frowning, too.

“Souls. I hate that this keeps happening at such moments.” He had trouble speaking past the demon's ranting inside his head.

“Lucien—”

“Do not move.
Please.
” He disappeared, letting his spirit be pulled in whatever direction was needed. There were two souls in China in need of transport, their bodies destroyed by poison.

One was bound for heaven, one for hell. One, of course, was happy to go with him. The other fought and screamed. Lucien hated leaving Anya and nearly beat the uncooperative spirit to an ethereal pulp. Death raged all the while. Finally, job done, they were able to return.

Seeing Anya, Lucien sighed contentedly. Death calmed.

She wasn't fingering herself this time, but had waited for him. Through the bra, he could see that her nipples were beaded. Her legs were still parted, and he could see the moisture dampening the panties.

When she spotted him, she grinned slowly. “I didn't want to finish without you.”

“I am glad.” He crawled onto the bed.

Anya stopped him with a foot on his stomach before he could lie on top of her. “I think we need to set a few ground rules.”

“No rules.” He lifted her foot and kissed the arch.

She fell backward, gasping. “Keep that up, and I'll happily look at my feet.”

He licked.

“One. One rule, then.” His tongue flicked out again, darting over her big toe. Goose bumps broke over her skin. “Oh, gods,” she cried. “No one has ever done that. Who would have thought such a thing would be pleasurable? Oh, yes.”

A wave of possessiveness swam through him. The passion on her face would haunt him for the rest of his days, for it was pure and undiluted, uninhibited. “What rule? I have already agreed not to penetrate you.”

“Not that,” she said, hips arching. “Lick again.”

He did.

She moaned.

“What rule?”

“Oh, yeah. My rule.” She removed her bra and tossed it aside. It landed on top of the pile of knives. Her nipples were pink little berries made for his tongue. Kneading her breasts, she gasped out, “Neither of us leave this bed until both of us are satisfied.
That's
my rule.”

Of all the things he had expected her to say, that was not even close. His stomach clenched with something he refused to name. “I agree. If you agree to a rule from me.”

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Here, in this bed, there will be no fighting.” He sucked her toe into his mouth, twirling his tongue. “Only ecstasy.”

She gripped the sheets. “Agreed. Agreed, agreed, agreed!”

There was a bellow of lust in his head as he tore the panties off her and finally crawled on top of her. His cock was hot but her feminine core was hotter as he slid against it, careful not to enter.

She didn't shy away, but let him glide against her. “I've never been this close to a man.”

“Me, either.”

A soft, raspy chuckle escaped her. “Why do I trust you? You, I should run from at every opportunity.”

She paled when she realized what she'd said and he frowned. “What is wrong?”

Determination fell over her features as she stared up at him. “Nothing's wrong. I
don't
trust you. That's what I meant to say. 'Cause I mean, really. Let's be honest. You mean nothing to me but a good time. And why the hell have you stopped? I didn't give you permission to stop.”

She'd spoken loudly, cruelly, practically sneering the words. What was she doing? He might have believed her yesterday, even an hour ago, but not now. Not while she was under him, naked, her body wet with desire for him.

She had not slept with William, had not let the handsome man touch her in any sexual way. She came to Lucien for her needs and trusted him not to take more than she could give. So, yes. He knew she did not mean what she'd said.

Cronus, he thought again, gnashing his teeth. But Lucien didn't challenge her. Not now. She
did
trust him, and he would trust that she did not mean to hurt him, that she believed she was helping him by acting that way.

Leaning down, silent, he cupped her chin and angled her head for a kiss. A deep, probing kiss. At first, she did not respond. She even tried to pry away. Then her tongue tentatively met his, gently, sweetly. She moaned. Her fingers fisted in his hair.

As he tasted her strawberry flavor, a sense of urgency bloomed.
Mark.
He released her jaw and palmed her breast.
Mine.

Mark her.
Yes, yes.
She's mine.
He placed his lips at the center of her throat and sucked. Sucked and sucked. She writhed and writhed, her hands remaining in his hair, holding him captive. She uttered a breathless series of pants, and he felt her nipple pearl against his palm.

When he finally lifted his head, he saw that there was a bruise on her neck, already blue. Satisfaction thrummed through him. “I did not spend enough time with your breasts last time we were together.”

“No.” Her nails scraped over his head, and he knew she was as hot and hungry as he was, already lost in passion. No longer did she try to rebuff him.

“Allow me to remedy that.” Lowering again, he sampled one strawberry nipple, then the other.

“Lucien,” she gasped.

“I love when you say my name.”

“More, Lucien. Please, more.”

Sucking on those nipples, rolling them over his tongue, he slid a hand down the sensuous contours of her body. Her legs spread as wide as she could get them.

She gasped when his fingertip found her clitoris. “No…no entering…but maybe…”

“I know. No sinking them inside, as deep as I can get them. No touching you all the way to your soul. No becoming one being rather than two. No feeling your inner walls spasm around me.”

She gripped his shoulders, nails sharp. Her head thrashed from side to side as if she were imagining all that he said. Her eyelids squeezed together, and her white teeth tortured her bottom lip.

Sweet heaven, she was so wet she drenched his hand.

“I hate my curse,” she croaked.

“I hate it, too. I hate my own curse. But if it is what brought me to you, I will gladly bear both for eternity.” He rubbed her, circling quickly, then slowing when she was close to climax, letting her calm, then quickening again.

Only when she was out of her mind, screaming with the force of her need, shouting his name, begging, pleading, desperate, did he give her release. Her body jerked. Her hands dug into him with so much force his bones would have snapped if he'd been human.

All the while, Lucien watched her face. The way her lips parted and her breath turned shallow. The way sublime pleasure and ultimate satisfaction blanketed her expression. The way her eyelids popped open with wonder, as if she could see stars around her.

When she stilled, he laid his head on her breast, listening to her racing heartbeat. Her skin was slick with sweat and passion. He was ready to explode, but he didn't want to ruin this moment.

She flipped him to his back, however, and smiled down at him. “Now I'll show you how bad I can be.” She reached between her legs and wet her hand with her own juices, and then she gripped his shaft.

Up and down she pumped, a smooth glide that drove him wild. Reaching back, he gripped the headboard and tried to hold himself steady. He had been aroused so many times over the past week, his body was practically weeping with relief as she worked him.

Her fingers slid over the head of his penis with each upward slide, squeezing and teasing. “Anya,” he panted.

“Mmm, I see what you mean about the name thing.” As she spoke, her other hand pulled at his testicles. “I like it. Say mine again.”

“Anya, I'm going to…going to…”

“Do it. Come for me. I want to see.”

His hips lifted. “Don't stop. Don't stop.”

“I won't. Give me,” she purred. Her hand went so far down on his shaft, he couldn't hold the pleasure back a moment more.

He tensed, hot seed shooting from his shaft and onto the ropes of his stomach. He roared and roared and roared. “Anya!”

“More.” Her hand continued to ride him. “Everything. Every drop.”

His muscles were tensing, relaxing, tensing, relaxing. His hips were as far off the bed as possible, his heels digging into the mattress. He would have thought it impossible, but he spurted again, his mind shooting into a winking black hole that sucked him under with wave after wave of pleasure.

“Good, so good,” she praised.

Finally spent, he collapsed. She cleaned him off with a towel before crawling up his body and settling into his side. He wound his arms around her, holding her captive.
Ask her about the key.

No. Not now.

A lifetime is more important than a single moment.

True. He opened his mouth to demand she tell him about the key, but the words refused to form as she snuggled closer, closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.

No, nothing is more important than this moment.
A short while later he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

N
OT EVEN A DAY HAS PASSED
,
and I've already fallen into bed with him,
Anya thought, burrowing deeper into Lucien's body while he slept.

She'd tried to resist, tried to keep him at a distance. But he'd just been so damned passionate, possessive and irresistible. His jealousy toward William…Gods, she could have had an orgasm just watching Lucien struggle with it.

She'd tried to pretend Lucien meant nothing to her, saying horrible things she'd had to rip out of her mouth just in case Cronus the Voyeur had been watching, but she'd been unable to walk away when Lucien told her to choose her place of pleasure.

After what had happened in this bed, she no longer knew what to do about Cronus or how to throw him off the scent of her true desire for Lucien. There'd be no denying it now. Part of her was glad. She couldn't hurt Lucien again, she just couldn't. Over the past week he had somehow become important to her—someone to cherish.

Lucien stirred in her arms, grumbling, before he bolted upright and frowned.

She frowned back. “What's wrong?”

“I'm being summoned,” he said groggily.

He didn't wait for her response; he simply disappeared. Panic infused her as half an hour dragged by and he failed to return. Had souls summoned him or had Cronus? Should she go looking for him? Where the hell should she even start—

Suddenly Lucien appeared, healthy and whole, and curled beside her. His delicious heat surrounded her as he closed his eyes and sighed. “Foolish souls,” he muttered. He didn't sound groggy anymore; he sounded sorrowful. A bit upset. “Why do they fight?”

Relieved, she relaxed against him and traced hearts all over his chest. The few times she'd watched him do his escort duties, he had finished in minutes. She'd wanted to know what had taken him so long tonight, and now she could guess. There'd been a lot of dead people. “Give me a little warning next time, and I'll go with you.”

He opened his eyes to study her. “Why would you want to visit hell?”

So you won't have to bear the burden alone,
she thought, but said only, “Could be fun.”

“Not fun, I promise you.” He traced a path up and down her arm, and she saw a cut healing on his wrist.

Had one of the spirits injured him? If so, they were lucky they were already dead. “Just take me. Okay? Please, please, please with a cherry on top of me. I want to go.”

His palm settled over her breast, and he kissed the mark he'd left on her neck. “Take you. Mmm, I like the sound of that.” His cock swelled and pressed against her clitoris.

Moaning, she opened her legs. “That's not what I meant, but I like where your head's at. Literally.”

He chuckled and proceeded to “take her” over the edge of satisfaction. Only later did she realize he had never answered her.

P
ARIS SLOWLY CRACKED OPEN
his eyelids. They were heavy, as if boulders held them down. His mouth was dry and stale, as if something had died inside it, and his skin was itchy. His ankles and wrists were encased in something cold and heavy.

What the hell was wrong with him? Where was he? He didn't remember agreeing to play bondage games with…whatever her name was.

“Good. You're finally awake.”

He recognized that sweetly innocent voice, yet couldn't match it to a face. He frowned. White lights pulsed in front of him, and he blinked against them as his eyes watered. Last thing he remembered, he'd been kissing a woman. Her warm hazel gaze and brown hair finally flashed across his consciousness. Freckles, a plain face.

He'd been kissing this woman—what was her name?—and then he'd blacked out. Right?

“Paris,” she said, her voice laced with steel now. Suddenly she was crouching in front of him.

The plain face he'd just envisioned was here in the flesh. He scrubbed a shaky hand over his own face, trying to orient himself further. Chains rattled, pulling at his arm. Had she…surely not. She didn't have the strength to take him down.

Hunters must have attacked them.

“Did they lock us up?” His voice was craggy. There was a thick fog in his mind, and he was having trouble fighting past it. He'd been without sex for a while, which explained his weakness and the fact that he'd been overpowered.

“I locked
you
up,” she said with a sigh.

She had what now?
Despite the brain-fog, he gave her his full attention. Her hair was pulled back in a severe twist. Her freckles were covered with makeup, and her eyes were enlarged by thick glasses.

He was rock hard for her in that instant. “Why would you do something like that?”

“Can't you guess?” She reached out and tilted his head to the side, studying his neck. She traced a fingertip over a sore spot. Puncture wound, he realized, the answer to her question slipping into place.

“You're my enemy.” Even as his blood froze, his every cell leapt at her touch, greedy for more. But she didn't appear the least bit aroused by him. She was all business, plain and simple.

“Yes. The wound isn't healing,” she said with a frown. “I didn't mean to jab you with the needle quite so forcefully. For that, I'm sorry.”

She was sorry? Please. Their kiss replayed in his mind. Her hot little tongue in his mouth…her breasts in his hands, small but sensitive…a sharp pain. His eyes narrowed on her. “You tricked me. Played me like a piano.”

Again, “Yes.”

“Why? And don't tell me you're Bait. You're not pretty enough.” He said it just to be cruel.

Her cheeks darkened to a rosy red, taking her from plain to the pretty he'd just denied in seconds. “No, I'm not Bait. Or rather, I wouldn't have been to any warrior but you. But then, you don't care who you screw, do you, Promiscuity?” Every word dripped with disgust.

His gaze roved over her. “Obviously not.”

The color in her cheeks deepened, and his cock hardened another inch.
Down boy.

“Aren't you afraid I'll hurt you?” he asked silkily.

“No.” She arched a dark brow. “You haven't the strength. I made sure of that.”

Don't antagonize her, idiot. Seduce her, get your strength back and blow this place.
He forced his expression to soften, to glaze with passion. Sadly, he didn't have to force the passion. “You enjoyed yourself while you were in my arms. Admit it. I know women, and I know passion. You were on fire for me.”

“Shut up,” she snapped.

Emotion. Excellent. “Want to give me a go before your friends show up?”

She gnashed her teeth and straightened, widening the distance between them. Without her in his face, claiming his attention, he was able to study the room. Or rather, prison. Dirt floor, barred walls.

He snorted in disgust—a disgust reserved all for himself. He'd known better. He'd known to be careful, yet he'd been careless and stupid. He'd practically handed himself to the Hunters with a bow and a thank-you card. How the other warriors would laugh at him when they found out.

“So you're a Hunter, are you?”

“If by Hunter you mean a defender of all that is good and right and just, then yes.” Refusing to look at him, she removed her watch and showed him the tattoo of Infinity etched there. “I've been fascinated with demons and their evil crimes my entire life—was always buying books about them, attending meetings and seminars. These men approached me about a year ago, asked me to join them. I said yes and I've never regretted it.”

The symbol should have sickened him; it always had before. This time, his tongue ached to trace the hated image. “And what do you hope to do with me?” he asked. He wasn't panicked. Yet. Hundreds of years ago, he'd been cornered by Hunters. He'd managed to escape with only a few wounds.

This time would be no different; he'd make sure of it.

“We're going to experiment on you. Observe you. Use you as bait to capture more demons. And then, we're going to draw out your demon when we find Pandora's box, killing you and trapping the monster inside.” Once again, she was matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing what to eat for dinner.

His brow quirked. “That it?”

“For now.”

“You might as well kill me, then, sweetheart. My friends won't surrender themselves to save little old me.” No, they'd kill everyone in this building.

“We'll see about that, won't we?” she said, defensive.

Stop antagonizing her.
He needed to romance her, this enemy—by whatever means necessary. Once he climaxed inside her, he would have the strength to kill anyone who got in his path. Even her. Bitch.

Why couldn't he have been given the spirit of Violence, like Maddox? He wouldn't have had to rely on anything except anger to gain strength. Fucking demon of Promiscuity. It was nothing but a nuisance.

A few times, in desperation, the demon had forced him to turn to—
don't think of that. Not now, not when you need to be aroused.
“Love,” he said, using his huskiest tone. “I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings a moment ago. I was angry and lashing out at you.” He made sure to soften his expression again, to let his eyelids drift to half-mast, to let his lips relax as if preparing for a kiss.

She smoothed a hand over her mousy hair and looked down at her white tennis shoes. “That's fine. I understand. You are a slave to your evil nature.”

She'd only been a Hunter for a year, she'd said. She was a baby, naive. Any other Hunter would have realized what he was doing and left him. Would have cursed at him, slapped him, not radiated a sense of vulnerability.

“I think you're lovely,” he said. Unfortunately, that was the truth.

“You're lying.”

“No. I was lying earlier, when I called you plain. The moment I saw you, I wanted you. I imagined your naked body on my bed, your head thrown back, your hands, oh, your hands—” His gaze sought them. Yes. They were as smooth and perfect as he remembered. “Your hands seeking the moist heat between your legs, unable to wait for me to join you.”

As he spoke, he projected the images into her head. That was the only benefit to the demon. It could ride the undercurrents of his voice and enter a human's mind, showing the listener exactly what Paris described.

Most times, he hated to use the gift. The guilt afterward…He made people desire what they normally wouldn't desire, just as the demon did to him. But this woman was a Hunter, and she didn't deserve his concern.

“Don't—don't talk like that,” she whispered. A tremor racked her.

“When you're close to orgasm, I'll lick you. Right between your legs. You'll scream my name.”

Her breathing became choppy; her nipples hardened underneath her shirt—a white shirt that did nothing to hide the lace of her bra. An unexpected bit of femininity, considering she was dressed like a sexually repressed ice maiden. Why?

On her legs she wore unflattering black slacks that bagged, and her tennis shoes were clunky and mannish.

“I'm going to pound inside you all the way to the hilt, and then I'm going to flip over and you're going to ride me.”

“Don't say things like that,” she scolded breathlessly. She pulled at the collar of her shirt. “You're evil, and…and…”

“A man who craves your touch.” He was a lot of things, but he wasn't evil. He didn't kill indiscriminately, didn't rape. He and his friends poured money into Buda, fortifying the economy, supplying food to the needy. That counted for something, right?

Hunters were the evil ones, viewing the world in black and white to justify their relentless pursuit of “Utopia,” mowing over any human who got in their way.

Her breath hitched.

“I'm picturing you naked even now,” he forced himself to continue. “Your skin is flushed, your nipples hard, moisture dripping between your legs.”

Gasping, she shut her eyes. “S-stop. Please.”

“You're aching for a man's touch, aren't you, sweetheart?”
What the hell was her name?

He never remembered names. He could fuck a woman only once, so there was never any need. Besides, he didn't want to call out the wrong name in the midst of passion. Women tended to take offense at that. “Come here. Let me give you what you need.”

“This isn't right,” she breathed, but she stepped closer to him.

There was limited slack on his chains, so he couldn't reach out. He'd have to convince her to do all the work. “I'm hard for you. My cock is hungry for you. Only you.”

Goose bumps broke over her skin.

With her face softened with arousal, she was almost beautiful. Her lashes were long, the longest he'd ever seen, and feathered like a peacock's tail. “Feel your breasts for me. They want to be touched.”

Tentatively she reached up and did as he'd commanded. Another gasp escaped her. “Oh, my.”

“Good. That's good.”

“I—I—”

Don't give her time to think
. But watching her was destroying his concentration. “Unbutton your pants and reach underneath them for me. Under your panties, too. Touch your clitoris. Spread your moisture around.”

She started to do as commanded, but froze with her hand poised at her flat belly. “I can't. I shouldn't.”

“You can. You should. You want to, you know you do. It will feel so good.”

“No, I…” She shook her head, horror sprinkling into her eyes, as if she were seconds away from fighting past his hold on her mind.

Confusion and shock rocked him. She should not be able to fight him. “Your clit is crying for your touch…sweet. But if you don't want to touch yourself, come over here and I'll lick you. I'll lick you until you scream.”

She was walking toward him before he'd gotten the last word out. He breathed a sigh of relief. Almost…there…“Just a little more, sweetheart. Just a little closer.”

Just before she reached him, however, and just before he could nuzzle her pants down and sink his tongue inside her hot sheath—where he would refuse to give her an orgasm until she rode him—she froze again.

“You keep calling me
sweet
and
sweetheart.
”

“That's because you are sweet. I can't reach you like this,” he said, trying not to whine. “Just a little closer,” he repeated. “I need you so badly.”

“What's my name?” She no longer sounded quite so breathless.

His jaw clenched and panic infused him. “What does a name matter? You want me, and I want you.”

She frowned and backed away from him. “You don't even know my name, and yet you're willing to sleep with me?”

“I would not be sleeping.”

“They told me not to trust you. They told me not to get close.”

His panic increased, hope slipping away. “Sweet, let's—”

“Shut up!” Scowling, she massaged her temples. “I don't know how you did that to me, reduced me to
that,
and right now I don't care. But don't you ever—ever!—do it again or I won't wait to find the box before I kill you.”

She stomped away, opened the barred door and slammed it shut behind her, locking him inside. Alone.

To grow weaker. Fuck.

 

M
ADDOX CARRIED A TRAY
of food to the dungeon. He hated that Aeron had to be locked away like this, but like the other warriors, he had no alternate solution. Aeron had once been the strongest-willed among them. Fierce but loyal, by turns as rigorously controlled as Lucien and as volatile as Maddox used to be.