Captive Of The Warg, (Wargs of the Outland #2)

Skin

You are mine.

Reia licked her lips, fighting against the current those words stirred in her belly. She'd never belonged to anyone. But, of course, he didn't mean it that way.

"Your captive, you mean." She wanted him to confirm it—to say anything that would jerk her from the strange intoxication flooding her blood. But he said nothing more as he halted beside the bed, his knee sliding onto the mattress. Then the other leg. He leaned closer, stalking her.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, lashes floating down, feather slow. She was dimly aware of the large hands depressing the mattress either side of her hips. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the pulse roaring in her loins. The hum in her breasts.

He was so close, his body radiating with strength and fire.

"What did you do to me?" she said, trembling, unsure if she meant when he'd saved her in the fox hole or...if he'd somehow ensorcelled her in her sleep. What else could this be? This burning ache welling up from her sex. Where was the hate and the fury? The fear and distrust?

Gone. In its place—only fire.

"I did nothing," he growled, his lips almost touching hers, "that you did not do to me first." And that was all the warning she got before his mouth collided with hers.

All thoughts of protest ignited with a flash. His scent, swift as nightshade, flooding her senses.

With a hungry sigh, she fell back, her hands clutching his shoulders. And with that, she let her mind unravel in a plume of smoke and heat.

Reia arched her back, her fingertips sliding up Bayne's tunic. Her nails dragging back down. How could she feel drunk just touching him? Everywhere her skin met his, a sublime flood of tingling awareness spread. It rippled everywhere, flooding her mind with more of that intoxicating smoke. That rousing liquid warmth burbling deep in her belly like mead.

She was only dimly aware of the noises in the hall—the laughter. Chairs scraping and drums beating. The thud of boots like a din of rhythmic heartbeats. Like the drum filling her ears, her skin was stretched taut over her trembling bones, her blood roaring in her ears. And Bayne's heart pounded against her chest, filling her senses. The smell and feel of him worked to plunge her deeper and deeper into that vat of hot mead. Until she was nothing but liquid and rhythm and heat. Nothing but two bodies twisting in a subaqueous cadence where time fell away.

The mountain seemed alive with heady chaos, but she sensed it through a faraway lens. One clouded with his deep woodsy scent and the unearthly heat of his skin sliding against hers.

Without her knowing how or when, their tunics melted away. Her breasts ached and strained, hungry for every inch of chest gliding against her. At first his kiss was fierce, demanding. His fangs nicked her lips more than once but she was too far gone to care. But he slowed down, lips aslant, the kiss shifting from predatory to one of exploration. His tongue delved between her lips, spiking her pulse.

Breathing his musk in deep, she trailed her fingers down the broad veins rampant on his forearms. Down, inch by inch, lost in that addictive hum. It was a tempo that only existed in the world whenever they were skin to skin. But this touch was uncharted terrain, and she'd only glimpsed once before. Right before the bear attack.

A sort of feeling of not knowing where her skin ended and his began. Even their hearts matched pace, as though their bodies were built for this dance alone—this wild abandon. Her being molded by the gods just for him.

A thought too mad and enrapturing to grasp hold of. It flickered in and out of her mind too fast to distract her from his mouth.

Her eyes fluttered closed, too unfocused to see straight, so she gave up fighting it. Instead, she reveled in the dark, wildering sweep of his tongue and the stalking press of those long canines.