Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night

20

Bowe swallowed, rubbing his eyes in disbelief...

Yet Mariketa still was there, reaching forward to accept an apple from a ghostly wet hand.

Shooting to his feet, charging for her, he roared, "Doona touch it!"

His bellow echoed again and again. In the shadows all around them, the bats erupted into flight. As he sprinted past the water, out of the corner of his eye he saw the reflection of the witch—but it didn't match her. Mariketa hadn't glanced up at him; the woman in the water kept her brilliant eyes on him.

He lunged for Mariketa, snatching the apple from her hand, then throwing it against the wall so hard it disintegrated. Just as the bats swarmed them, he pressed her down, rolling atop her to protect her head and body.

Minutes passed. When the throng settled at last, she opened her eyes—and they reflected him, before gradually clearing.

"You vowed to me you would no' do magick around me!"

"I-I figured you would be asleep."

"Even worse!" Bowe had woken to find his arms empty of warm, curvy witch and had been displeased about that to a surprising degree. He'd heard her rummaging through his bag and had thought she might be searching his things for the same reason he'd done hers—because she was itching with curiosity about him. Instead she'd been intent on getting to that chilling letter. "You went through my bag."

"You went through mine! Why didn't you give me the letter? It was for me!"

"Because I bloody knew something like this would happen. The thing in the water came about because of that rhyme, did it no'? And just what in the hell was that thing?"

"I don't know."

"It looked like you." In a diabolical way. "If you doona know what it is, then how do you know it will no' harm you?"

She attempted a shrug.

He exhaled. "How am I to protect you if you do things like this?" That was one of the reasons he detested magick so much—it was an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't understand, and couldn't defend against. He comprehended nothing about that rhyme, or why he himself had reacted so strongly to it. "I doona suppose you have any idea about what you canna know?"

"No. No idea." Her gaze flickered over his face.

When her eyes didn't appear witchy, they were so damned lovely. Fringed with thick black lashes, they were gray like fierce storm clouds—and as intense as everything else about her. He felt as if she was supposed to look up at him like this. The pull of the Instinct was strong, making him feel he'd done right to protect her and now was rewarded by having her safe in his arms.

The need to kiss her suddenly became critical...

"Oh, not again!" She tried to wriggle out from under him, which only made his erection grow harder. When her lips parted on a breath, he knew she'd felt it pulse against her.

"I'll put you across the cave, MacRieve."

In a flash, he pinned her wrists behind her back. "I doona believe you can, no' with your hands like this." He eased to her side and used his free hand to begin slowly unbuttoning the shirt.

"What do you think you're do—" She broke off with a little moan when he raised his knee and firmly pressed his thigh between hers, languidly moving it against her sex.

With an openmouthed kiss on her collarbone, he pulled the shirt open, one side then the other, but he fumbled at unclasping her transparent bra from the front. This was partly because he had no experience with modern female undergarments, but also because he couldn't stop staring as her nipples budded right before his eyes, jutting against the gauzy material.

He finally sliced the front clasp with his claw. By the time he brushed the material over the tight peaks, her breathing had grown hectic, making that bared flesh rise and fall so temptingly.

Just when he was about to touch her, she struggled again, and her breasts quivered. His voice rough, he said, "Ah, beauty, now you're just showin' off."

She stilled, her face and chest flushing hotly.

Leaning down to her nipple, he said, "I've heard rumors about bedding witches, heard that if you can close your lips around one of these, the witch will be slave to your hands."

"I'm not a sla—oooh." She arched her back sharply when he licked and sucked at her.

He moved to her other breast, flicking the tip with his tongue. When he saw she hadn't closed her eyes but was raptly watching him, he groaned against her.

Though he burned to rip off her panties and plunge between her thighs, he forced himself to slow his touch, gentling her. Her piercing caught his eye, and he brushed the backs of his fingers over it, making her jerk in reaction. "I've thought of this often over the past weeks. Kissing you all around it, flicking it with my tongue." He knew his words were arousing her even more, could scent how wet she was for him.

"I don't want this," she said with a shiver, her eyes heavy-lidded.

He rubbed his hand up her side and she flexed to it. "You're saying these words, but your body's telling me something altogether different."

"You're wrong."

"I have no' had sex in nearly two centuries, nor any kind of release in three weeks. And the last time I handled myself, I was dreaming about your body beneath mine in just this way. This would be enough to madden a male, but then to know you're aroused for me, too?"

"I am so not turned on for you."

"Lie about other things, but no' about this. You forget I'm a Lykae—I can scent you're aroused, and it's making me crazed. If I stroked you between your thighs, I'd find you wet, would I no'? You ache to be sated."

"Maybe. But not by you, MacRieve." She shook her head hard, and her eyes narrowed. "Never by you." She appeared utterly unflinching. "Get off me, or I'll scream."

Apparently, the young witch could deny her desire for her enemy.

At that moment, he wished he had that talent.