Mind Game (GhostWalkers #2)(64)
Author: Christine Feehan

He caught her leg, guided it around his waist to align their bodies. She made a soft kitten noise, very close to a purr that nearly made him crazy. His head roared with thunder. Lightning seemed to strike behind his eyelids, lashed through his blood. He caught her h*ps with both hands to hold her still while he entered her. The breath left his lungs in a sudden rush, the now familiar sparks lit up the air around them. Electricity crackled and snapped around them, barely registering in his mind. She was tight and hot and gripping him with a fierce need and hunger every bit as urgent as his own. She practically melted into him, riding him as hard as he was thrusting into her. The only thing in his mind was to bury himself deeper and harder with each stroke. He wanted to crawl inside of her, to feel her hot, slick sheath wrapped so tightly around him.

Dahlia wanted to lose herself in him, in the fire and heat and passion of Nicolas Trevane. He kept her from thinking too much, kept her from facing things and people she didn’t want to face. He did things to her body that burned up the energy, even the sexual energy surrounding them, every bit as efficiently as when she raced over rooftops in the city and through the swamps in the bayou. She could feel the pressure building too fast, too soon, a flashfire between them that ignited instantaneously and just as quickly was used up. She clung to him, digging her fingers into the hard muscle of his shoulder, attempting to take back some of the control to ride slower, wanting to curb the gathering force. It was too late. He was filling her, the friction turning her insides to an inferno, pushing them both over the edge into a wild orgasm. She lay in his arms while her body rocked and rippled. For a moment she was certain the earth moved.

Nicolas held her close to him, his face buried in the mass of silken hair, just breathing her into his lungs. “I wish we had more time, Dahlia.”

“Me too,” she agreed, turning her face up to his throat. She pressed her lips against his chin. “I wish we could go some place where no one would find us and it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t have any clothes.” She sighed. Not so much for her lack of clothes as the inevitable task of facing his friends.

“I’ll find you something to wear, Dahlia,” Nicolas said. “Stop worrying over silly things.” He lifted her chin to kiss her one more time before padding across the floor to look in his pack.

“I don’t think clothes are silly when there are men in the other room,” she pointed out. “Unless you want me to go parading around in front of them like this.”

“That wouldn’t be safe for anyone,” he said and turned to glare at her. His quick flash of primitive possessiveness died a quiet death as he looked at her. Dahlia sat in the middle of the bed without a stitch on looking incredibly sexy with her hair tousled and tumbling down her back. He swallowed a sudden lump. “You have perfect br**sts.”

She laughed, just the way he knew she would, the worry in her eyes gone. “You definitely have a fixation.”

He loved the sound of her laughter. For all of her childhood nightmares and the terrible reality of her life, Dahlia found ways to laugh, to genuinely enjoy her world. Her laughter was contagious and all the more treasured because it was rare. “I love to make you laugh.”

“That’s good, because you always manage to say something outrageous. Are my jeans dry?”

He went into the bathroom where they had hung all their newly washed clothes to dry. “Your jeans are still wet, Dahlia, all the clothes are. I don’t have anything small enough for you. I thinking we’re going to have to do a little clothes shopping.”

“I’ll wear them wet. Better to have clothes than not with your friends waiting outside.” She tried desperately to push down the apprehension flooding her. It was natural, but for her dangerous. She should have been embarrassed about making love to Nicolas separated only by a wall from a roomful of other people, but she wished she could stay lost in the heat and safety of their union.

She sighed. She really was becoming one of those women who wanted to cling all the time. As long as Nicolas had his arms around her, she felt very protected. Now, having to dress and face a roomful of strangers, she felt more vulnerable than she’d ever felt. Dahlia tried to analyze why. She had long ago trained herself to care nothing for others’ opinions of her. The hurtful remarks had taken their toll, and her temper had spiraled out into a wave of retaliation each time. It was dangerous to care what others said or thought about her. And it was horribly humiliating to have anyone witness her breakdown of control.

Dahlia took the shirt Nicolas handed to her. “How’s your shoulder feeling this morning?”

“It’s fine. A scratch. The bullet just kissed me thanks to you. Your fireworks distracted him long enough to save my life. He should have just shot me instead of talking about it.”

She leaned over to brush a light kiss over his shoulder. “Well, I’m very glad he didn’t. Give me a few minutes to pull myself together and I’ll be right out.”

“Don’t disappear into the bathroom and leave me without my jeans.”

She looked him up and down, a slow smile curving her mouth. “I don’t know, I rather like you like that.”

“That’s because I’m astonishing.”

“Oh, is that the reason?” How had she become comfortable with him? How come every time she looked at him she wanted to trace the weathered lines in his bronzed face and smooth back the tumble of dark hair? What made her melt inside when nothing and no one had ever done so? The intensity of her emotions shook her, frightened her. Just as before when she’d awakened with her heart pounding in the middle of the night, her pulse went wild and tiny flames licked at the windowsill.

Nicolas glanced at the dancing flames and back at her. A slow smile softened the hard angles and planes of his face. “You just can’t get enough of me, can you? I see your call sign, wanting me to come back to bed.”

She flung the pillow at him, laughing because she couldn’t help herself. “A sane man would run from a room where a woman sets the windowsills on fire.” The tiny flames were already dying down into embers. “He wouldn’t come running.”

“But the wise man knows the real fire is in the woman in the bed, and he rushes to her side to put it out.” He spoke in his best “wise man” voice.

She flung the second pillow at him. “How much damage did I do to your poor friend’s house?”

Nicolas looked at the scorch marks around the window. Most were from the night before. “It adds charm to the place. The resale value is bound to skyrocket.”