Conspiracy Game (GhostWalkers #4)(24)
Author: Christine Feehan

He breathed deep to maintain control, when he felt like a man long starved for this one woman, this perfect body, a perfect fit. The taste of her-the feel of her-was almost more than he could bear. In his wildest, most erotic fantasy, he had never had a partner he wanted the way he wanted Briony-and she had to be a virgin.

There wasn’t a square inch of his skin that wasn’t sliced to pieces; he couldn’t hold her against him, couldn’t make contact the way he wanted. He needed to hold her close, crush her body beneath his, yet he breathed. Restraint. Restraint. Restraint. He was not going to scare her by demanding too much, by taking too much. So okay, there was something deep and primitive and satisfying about knowing he was the only man who had ever touched her this way. He was a selfish bastard-a groan escaped, his mind hazing over. He couldn’t think anymore, the pleasure wiping out every coherent thought.

Piercing pleasure washed over Briony, rushing through her body with far more force than she’d ever imagined. Every stroke sent streaks of lightning racing over her skin, sizzling through her veins, and contracting her womb. Her muscles tightened and tightened, an unrelenting pressure that continued to build past any expectation she’d ever had. It was frightening to be held down, to look up at his face, the savage lines cut deep, the intensity in his turbulent eyes, yet at the same time it heightened her sexual pleasure, pushing her beyond any limits she might have had.

He surged into her again and again, stretching her impossibly, filling her so full she wanted to scream with pleasure, yet it was almost too much. The scent of him nearly drove her crazy, the building inferno she couldn’t stop. She needed to catch her breath, to pause, just for a second. Her muscles shuddered, clamped down as he slammed the full length of his shaft deep into her, driving into her over and over like a man possessed.

There was pleasure and pain, fear and joy. Sweat broke out on his body, several of his stitches across his bu**ocks and h*ps burst as he surged deeper, harder, the friction from her velvet, tight sheath nearly spiraling him out of control. She began to struggle for freedom the moment she realized cuts were opening on his body, but he couldn’t stop. No, baby, don’t. Don’t fight me. We’re there. I need this. You need this. Let yourself go. Come with me.

The words brushed intimately against her mind. Perhaps if he’d spoken them aloud she would have found the strength to stop him for his own sake, but his plea was too caressing, too needy. She lifted her h*ps to meet his invasion, rising with every stroke, tightening her muscles around him to heighten their pleasure, feeling it crash over her-through her-building to such an intensity she could barely keep from screaming. Her inner muscles spasmed, and Jack’s body jerked as she clamped down. His voice, a hoarse whisper, sounded sexy, even erotic, as he emptied himself deep inside of her. She felt the thick hot jets filling her, mixing with her own cream, their combined musky scent triggering another wild spasm.

Jack’s hands slowly slid away from her wrists, down her arms to tunnel in her hair. He closed his eyes, just feeling her, savoring her hot body tight around his, her skin unbelievably soft, her hair thick and beautiful through the pads of his fingers. He kissed her again, needing the taste of her in his mouth. Pain began to creep into his sensitized nerve endings, but he held it at bay just a few moments longer, giving him enough time to trail kisses down her throat to her breast, just to feel her skin. He opened his eyes to take in the sight of her stretched out like a sacrifice-a gift.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Briony reached up to touch his face, her touch so gentle it nearly was his undoing. He pulled away from her, feeling the burn of tears. Hell. He hadn’t cried since he was a toddler. The woman was killing him.

“Get dressed,” he said gruffly, looking around for his clothes. He dressed in silence, a small part of him ashamed of himself that he’d taken her offering, but the bigger part wanting her again and again.

“Jack, I have to go,” Briony said. “We don’t have much time. If my brothers come and the door is locked… ”

“Jeb knows I’m with you; he’ll assume you were trying to protect me.” He wished to hell he hadn’t used that particular word. He should have been protecting her. He held her close, stroking caresses through her hair. “I should have waited until we were in your bedroom. Tonight, after you do your thing, I promise to do a better job.”

“It was my first time, Jack. For a first time, with me not knowing what I was doing, rockets went off.” She lifted her face so he could kiss her. “I have to go to the dressing room. We’ll have my brothers looking for me soon if we wait much longer, and you need to get out of sight.”

“Sometimes out of sight is in plain sight. I’m watching you tonight.”

She kissed him again, suddenly hungry for him. “Stay safe.” She hurried off, turning to wave twice, her smile melting the hard knots in his belly.

From his position in the shadows near the entrance for performers, Jack found his heart in his throat, watching her body flying through the air, her sequined costume glittering like a star speeding across the sky. The stunts were fast-paced and dangerous, a blend of fire, rope, and swing, with everyone in constant motion. Jack watched Briony, hardly noticing her brothers. Mostly he felt her.

The stunts required her full attention and there was no way for her to hide the pain wracking her body. He was a trained soldier, had extensive combat experience, and knew torture on a much more intimate basis than he would like. He knew how to separate his body and mind and block pain. She didn’t block it exactly. She felt it, but refused to acknowledge it. She endured.

He felt every hammer blow as if someone was driving a sharp stake through her skull. The blows fell with rhythmic force as the anxiety level in the audience grew with each succeeding stunt. He pressed a hand to his cramping stomach. Bile rose, but he fought it down. He willed himself not to get a nosebleed, felt the blood trickle to the corner of his mouth, and narrowed his eyes when he saw her hand move with blurring speed to wipe her face.

He detested watching the performance, his fingers curling into fists at the certain knowledge that she was suffering-and she did this several times a day-nearly every day. He turned away, swearing under his breath. Why would her family allow such a thing? What the hell was wrong with them? And what was wrong with her that she deliberately tortured her body every single day?

He wanted to snatch her up and run, take her somewhere he could protect her and keep her safe from the constant bombardment of everyday emotions. If he stayed there a moment longer, he was going to climb the rope and pull her out of there right in front of all of the soldiers and whatever rebels were scattered in the audience.