Page 69 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
She kissed him.
Everything else faded to black.
It was the same as the first time he’d kissed her at the hotel, the same as the next time in the jungle, when he was so overcome with emotion all he could do was lash out like a cornered animal because he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know why but she made him feel things he’d never felt before.
Things he was afraid of, because he knew he could never have them.
Things that threatened to swallow him whole.
Of course he kissed her back; he didn’t have a choice. Once her lips were on his, instinct and desire took over and pushed his rational mind aside. His hand found the firm roundness of her bottom, and he stroked his fingers over it, pinching and rubbing, the chemise silky soft against his palm. She moaned into his mouth and he shuddered, wanting so badly to hear that while he was inside her and her legs were wrapped around his waist.
“Please, Lucas,” she whispered, rubbing her breasts against his chest. Her nipples strained hard and pink through the thin fabric of the chemise. “Please. You know what I need. Please give it to me.”
He groaned, closing his eyes. It killed him when she called him by his given name. And to ask for that . . .
He was going to die. That’s all there was to it. She was going to kill him.
“I can’t, namorada . . . it would be taking advantage of you. I might be a selfish, miserable bastard, but I don’t take advantage of women when they’re drugged!”
“What if I took advantage of you, then?” She slipped one arm from around his neck to stroke his erection through the front of his pants.
He froze. Another groan escaped his lips as she rubbed her thumb over his swollen head. He gripped her wrist and said through gritted teeth, “Don’t. Do. That.”
“You like it. You love it. You should see your eyes,” she said, still stroking him.
He was throbbing beneath her hand. Twitching. Aching.
He whispered her name, teetering on the razor’s edge of restraint, staring down at her in agony. I can’t do this. She’ll hate me. This is wrong—she doesn’t know what she’s doing!
With a depth of self-control he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of, he placed his hands on her shoulders and set her away from him, giving her a hard little shake.
“No!” he shouted hoarsely.
She arched a brow and blinked. “You don’t have to be so crabby about it.”
Hand shaking, Hawk pointed to the bed. “Go back to bed, lie down, and sleep it off!”
Impossibly, she yawned, not even bothering to cover her mouth. “Maybe you’re right. I am kind of sleepy.” Then in a totally uncharacteristic show of obedience, she turned around, crawled up on the bed, and lay on her side with her knees pulled up and her hands folded beneath her face, as if in prayer.
She promptly fell asleep.
Hawk stood staring at her in disbelief, panting and sweating as if he’d just run a sprint.
He was going to kill kalum.
He went into the bathroom, unzipped his pants, took his swollen cock in hand, and stroked himself until he came with a stifled groan and mighty spurts, the entire time imagining Jacqueline on her knees before him, her cheeks hollowed as she sucked him into ecstasy, her eyes upturned to his, shining blue and lustfully bright.
Kalum, Keeper of the Ancient Ways, lived in a cave that Hawk had always been insanely jealous of, both for its distance from the rest of the tribe and its incredible view.
Situated on a rocky outcropping at the top of a hill beside a roaring waterfall, the cave had been hand dug by one of kalum’s ancestors, yet sported perfectly smooth walls and floors that conducted the wind in sighs and groans along its winding corridors. The main room gaped wide yet felt somehow snug. Thick woven rugs interrupted the cold expanse of stone floors, and clusters of candles burned in niches in the walls day and night, casting warmth and wavering light into the echoing spaces.
When Hawk came barging in like an angry bull, kalum was busy preparing something in a kettle hanging over a small fire.
“You gave me the wrong thing!” His voice bounced off the stone walls, repeating itself before fading into silence.
The old man glanced up at him, his face impassive as he stirred the gently simmering broth in the pot. “A proper greeting, if you please, mar sarrim.”
Prince. It was kalum’s pet name for Hawk, one that made no sense in the context of his life and which Hawk always supposed the old priest uttered with irony.
