Murder Game (GhostWalkers #7)(107)
Author: Christine Feehan

He stood across the room from her, his back to her, strapping on a belt and shoving knives and guns into every conceivable loop. He pushed extra clips into a zippered pocket and reached for more.

She opened her mouth to call to him, but nothing came out, her throat was too raw and damaged. She reached with her mind, connecting, wanting him, needing him, only he wasn’t there. In his place was something else, something not quite human. Ice-cold. A machine bent on destruction. Where there had been cool logic and distance, there was now utter chaos. He was no thinking person. Tansy doubted if he even knew what he was doing. He simply reacted. His warrior persona was his most familiar, and he took it like the chameleon he was, wearing the outer skin when his mind was fragmented.

He thought I was dead. He had probably watched her die. Her heart clenched. She couldn’t imagine watching Kadan die. Tansy pressed a hand to her heart. He’d probably tried to revive her. She was fairly certain her chest was bruised.

Kadan. She sent his name to him wrapped in love as she sat up a little unsteadily.

He didn’t turn around, the ice block in his mind an effective barrier.

She reached again, filling his mind with her, with the scent and taste of her—of cinnamon. Of love. She poured warmth into his mind. His entire body could be ice and she’d find a way to warm him. She tried to stand, needing to go to him, her body swaying weakly.

A small corner of his mind thawed just enough to let out raw pain. It burst from him in a rush of agony, so intense, so strong, it drove her to her knees. Kadan whirled around, gun in his fist, his eyes piercing cold, remote, distant, sorrow etched deep into the lines of his face.

Kadan. She whispered his name again, calling him back to her. She pushed her way deeper into his mind, filling him full of erotic images, of heat and love and her wrapped in the same skin with him. The scent of cinnamon grew stronger. Look at me. Really look at me.

His glacier-cold eyes flicked over her face, still remote, still distant, as if he didn’t know who she was, as if he didn’t see her. His hand tightened around the barrel of the gun.

She pulled herself up, hanging on to the bed. His mouth stiffened. His mind rejected what he was seeing. She forced her taste into his mouth, her scent into his nostrils, deeper, into his lungs. Breathe me in, Kadan. Let me in.

Fear flickered in his eyes and he took a step back. He shook his head slightly. He wasn’t going to let himself feel that raw pain, no matter how real the hallucination was.

Tansy smiled at him. Gentle. Warm. She stepped closer, pushing aside the gun to move in close to him, to circle his neck with her arms and press her body, soft and pliant and so familiar, against his. He stiffened, both hands locking on her h*ps to push her away. She could feel the outline of the gun pressed tightly into her skin. There was only a thin shirt between them, and her warmth slid into the palm of his hands.

Does this feel like a hallucination? She stood on her toes and lifted her face, finding his mouth to brush her lips back and forth persistently over his. Does this?

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His eyes, like a cat’s, remained wide open and staring, focused on her face, but he wasn’t seeing her. The denial in his mind was loud. He wouldn’t go there. He wouldn’t feel.

With one hand wrapped around the nape of his neck to keep him close to her, she unbuttoned her shirt with the other. His arm was heavy, but he didn’t resist her when she cupped his palm around the warm, soft, inviting mound of her breast and pressed her hand over his to hold him there. Is this a hallucination, Kadan? Come back to me.

He blinked. She felt his mind move against hers. Tentative. Raw anguish. Fear mounting to terror. A tendril of hope. He inhaled, drawing the scent of cinnamon deep into his lungs, as if he could trust his sense of smell, but not his mind. The cold receded just a little more.

His hand moved against her breast, an involuntary reflex. His thumb brushed over her nipple, sending a shiver of awareness down her spine. She went up on her toes again and kissed his mouth. “Kadan.” His name came out. A croak. Her throat protested, but she got his name out, aching for him, for that man crouched behind a wall of ice. A man shielded by the cold.

And then he crushed her. His arms whipped up and around her, nearly breaking her ribs with their strength. The gun landed on the chair, and the momentum of his body took her backward until she hit the wall. He enveloped her, his body so tight against hers she could barely breathe, his mouth in the hollow of her shoulder, his face wet against her skin. His body shuddered, wracked by silent sobs. He held her for a long time, just held her, without speaking, his mind in a turmoil, wild and unrestrained.

When he moved, his hand whipped up to span her throat, this time gently, but his thumb tipped her head back and he took her mouth, and there was nothing gentle there. He was rough, possessive, taking over, wanting to crawl inside her.

Tansy went pliant and accepting, kissing him back, letting his marauding hands tug away her shirt so he could slide his hands over every inch of her skin, whatever he wanted, whatever he needed. His mouth left hers, trailing kisses over her chin, down her throat, to her breast. She circled his neck with one arm and arched into him, a little helplessly as he took, frantic for the taste and feel of her.

“I have to be inside you right now,” he whispered hoarsely. “Right now, Tansy.”

The urgency in his voice, the mesmerizing need and desperation, had her tugging at his belt, his jeans, shoving them partway down his h*ps even as his mouth pulled strongly at her breast and his teeth tugged at her nipple. She was suddenly nearly as frantic as he was, her body clenching and dripping with liquid heat.

He lifted her, hands hard on her bottom, fingers digging deep as she wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her ankles tight. She could feel him pushing at her entrance, driving through tight folds to stretch her with his invasion. He didn’t give her time to adjust, but thrust upward as he dropped her down hard, her sheath enclosing him like a tight fist. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, throwing her head back, a moan escaping.

Kadan turned, angling her body so her back was against the wall and he could slam hard and fast, pounding deep in a frenzy of need to be part of her, to know she was alive, surrounding him with silken walls and scorching fire to melt away the last of the cold. He didn’t allow himself thought. He wanted only to feel. To know she was alive by touch, by sound, by scent. He didn’t trust his own mind, but his body knew hers, his hands and his burning, aching shaft as he thrust into her over and over.