Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5)(43)
Author: Anne Bishop

"GET OUT!" Lucivar screamed.

"No." As she stepped away from the wall, she thought of the basic rules of survival.Move slowly because fast moves excite the predator instinct, and he’ll be on you without thought, without mercy. Stay passive. Don’t refuse him. Don’t offer resistance to anything he wants to do to you.

Lucivar snarled, his glazed eyes watching her.

Vanishing her undershirt, Marian slowly unbuttoned her tunic and pulled it open just enough to display her br**sts.

His breathing became ragged. His hands curled into fists.

"I’m not leaving," she said quietly.

He was on her so fast, there wasn’t even time to draw breath. One hand fisted in her long hair, pulling her head back, exposing her throat. The other hand pressed her against the c**k straining to be free of the leather trousers.

"You should have run," he snarled.

He lowered his head. His teeth closed on the spot where her neck joined her shoulder…not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her heart pound.

When she remained passive, he shifted suddenly, his teeth closing on her neck. He licked, explored, until her pulse throbbed against the tip of his tongue.

Moving slowly, she raised her hands and rested them on his waist. His teeth tightened in warning, then he shifted again capturing her earlobe.

Quiet. Passive. The only way to survive. But she couldn’t stop her hands from stroking his hot skin, couldn’t slow her pounding heart when every breath rubbed her br**sts against his chest, teasing, arousing.

"Give me your mouth." His voice sounded rough, barely human.

She hesitated, then parted her lips. Those wild, glazed eyes stared at her too long before his mouth covered hers.

She was prepared for teeth and pain. Instead, he gave her a long, lazy kiss, his tongue playing with hers. Her hands slid up his back, curled around his shoulders, pressing her tighter against him. The fist that gripped her hair relaxed, opening to cradle her head. And still he kissed her as if there was nothing more to want, nothing more to need.

Then he broke the kiss, yanked her off her feet, and carried her into his bedroom.

He vanished her clothes as he laid her on the bed, then grabbed her hands and pinned them on either side of her head. When he let go, phantom restraints kept her hands locked in position. He spread her legs, using more phantom restraints to keep her open for his pleasure, then lifted her enough so that she could tuck her wings tight to her body.

He vanished his clothes and stretched out beside her.

She expected him to mount her and take his release, fast and hard. In-

stead, he started with her arms and licked, nibbled, caressed. He suckled one breast while his thumb stroked the nipple of the other. Finally he moved lower, his mouth brushing the hair between her legs, his fingers delicately stroking, slick with her readiness. He moved lower, licking the skin on her inner thighs, nibbling on her calves, his hands always moving.

Finally, he sheathed himself inside her in one slow stroke. His hips pressed down on hers, denying her any movement while he braced himself on his elbows and went back to suckling her br**sts, flexing his hips just enough to keep her on the edge but not enough for release. He held her on that edge for a lifetime while he licked, suckled, demanded kisses.

If she could have gotten her hands free of the phantom restraints, she would have strangled him.

Desperate to respond in some way to this tormenting pleasure, she settled for the only thing she could reach. She raised her head, clamped her teeth on his upper arm and bit down.

His snarl mixed pain and fury. He clamped a hand around her throat.

"Get your teeth out of my arm."

Even knowing she was pushing him toward violence, she paused to lick his skin before she let go.

His glazed eyes studied her as his hand relaxed around her throat. "You do get feisty when you’re riled." His mouth hovered over hers. Hesitated. Withdrew. "Don’t bite me again until you’re coming."

He moved then. Deep, strong thrusts that sent her soaring, sent her over the edge. Before she could glide down all the way, he drove her up again.

"Not yet, witchling," he growled."You haven’t flown high enough yet."

Driving her up and up until her world narrowed to the feel of his c**k inside her. When he thrust her over the edge this time, her teeth found his arm again, muffling her scream as she climaxed.

This time he laughed, a sound ripe with dark pleasure, as he set his teeth into her shoulder and followed her.

Shivering, Marian eased into the kitchen, wishing she could have put her winter robe on over the flannel nightgown. But the only time Lucivar had turned violent was when she’d offered to get them some food. He’d

agreed to that…until she’d put some clothes on. He attacked without warning, ripping the clothes off her before flinging her back on the bed and pinning her down. When she didn’t struggle, his temper shifted back to that raging sexual hunger, and he spent the next hour playing with her and feasting on her arousal and climaxes until they were both wrung dry and exhausted. Since then, he hadn’t allowed her out of the bedroom any farther than the adjoining bathroom.

The only thing she could figure out was the clothing signaled an attempt to leave him. Coming to the kitchen now might provoke another attack, even though a nightgown was hardly sufficient clothing if she tried to leave the eyrie in this storm, but he’d been gone so long, she’d become worried about him.

Apparently, she’d worried for nothing. He was standing at the stove, tending the skillets filled with food, looking much the way he did on other mornings when he insisted on cooking breakfast…if she discounted the fact that he was naked, half aroused, and didn’t seem to notice the warming spells had faded to the point where the eyrie was chilly, almost cold.

Lucivar had put the warming spells on the eyrie the morning the storm started and told her they would last two days before he’d have to replenish the power in the spells. Which meant they were starting the third day of the rut. Maybe it was over, or at least easing. Should she mention the warming spells?

She shifted from one foot to the other as the cold seeping up from the stone floor bit into her bare feet.

Lucivar gave her a slashing look before turning his attention back to the food. "Go back to bed."

"I could—"

He charged. She stumbled back and hit the wall. His hands slapped the stone on either side of her head.

She stared into those wild, glazed eyes. No, the rut hadn’t eased.

"You need to eat," he snarled. "I’ll bring you food."

She swallowed hard. "I could—"

"You’re not going anywhere! There’s a damn blizzard out there.Nothing is going anvwhere until it blows out. And the only thing you’re doing is getting back into bed." He pushed away from the wall and went back to the stove. "Get out of here before I take you where you stand."