J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [268]
Mine.
Phury yanked the robing out of the way of her sex and— Oh, yeah, there it was. He could feel the heat come up and—
“Fuck,” he groaned. She was wet, welling up, overflowing.
If there had been any way to keep her at his vein while he went down on her, he would have shifted around in a heartbeat. The best he could do was whip his hand up and shove it into his mouth and suck. . . .
Phury shuddered at the taste, licking and drawing at his fingers as his hips pushed forward and the head of his cock nudged at the entrance of her core.
Just as he pressed in and felt her flesh give way to his . . . that goddamn, motherfucking Primale medallion went off on the bureau right next to them. Loud as a fire alarm.
Ignore it, ignore it, ignore—
Cormia’s mouth broke its seal on his throat, and her eyes, wide, fuzzy with bloodlust and sex, lifted to the sound of the rattling. “What is that?”
“Nothing.”
The thing shook even harder, as if it were protesting. Either that or celebrating the fact that it had ruined the moment.
Maybe it was in with the wizard.
Ya welcome, the wizard sang out.
Phury rolled off Cormia, covering her up as he did. With a nasty, vicious stream of curses, he pushed himself back until he was leaning against his bed and cradling his head in his hands.
Both of them panted while that slug of gold banged around the brush set.
The sound of the thing reminded him that there was no privacy between him and Cormia. The mantle of tradition and circumstance was all around them, and anything they did had huge repercussions that were greater than just feeding and sex between a male and a female.
Cormia got to her feet as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Thank you for the gift of your vein.”
There was nothing he could say in response. His throat was too full of frustration and curses.
As the door shut behind her, he knew precisely why he’d stopped, and it had nothing to do with the interruption. Had he wanted to, he could have kept going.
But thing was, if he slept with her, he had to sleep with them all.
He reached up to the bedside table, got a blunt, and lit it.
If he slept with Cormia, there was no going back. He had to create forty Bellas . . . impregnate forty Chosen and leave them at the mercy of the birthing bed.
He had to be a lover to all of them and a father to all their children and a leader for all their traditions, when he felt as though he could barely get through the days and nights with only himself to worry about.
Phury stared at the glowing tip of the hand-rolled. It was a shock to realize that he would have taken Cormia if it had just been about them. He wanted her that much.
He frowned. Jesus . . . he’d wanted her all along, hadn’t he.
But it was more than that. Wasn’t it.
He thought of her brushing out his hair, and realized with a shock that she had actually managed to calm him in those moments—and not just through the strokes of the brush, either. Her very presence eased him, from her jasmine scent, to the way she moved so fluidly, to the soft sound of her voice.
No one, not even Bella, could ease him down. Make the cage of his ribs loosen. Allow him to take a deep breath.
Cormia could.
Cormia did.
Which meant that at this point he craved her on pretty much every godforsaken level he had.
And doesn’t that make her a lucky girl, the wizard drawled. Hey, why don’t you tell her that you want to turn her into your new drug of choice. She’ll be thrilled to know that she can be your next addiction, used to try and get you out of your fucked-up head.
She’ll be thrilled, mate, because that’s every lass’s dream— and besides, we all know how you’re the king of healthy relationships. A real golden-boy winner in that department.
Phury let his head fall back, inhaled hard, and held the smoke until his lungs burned like a brush fire.
Chapter Twelve
That evening, as night fell across Caldwell and did absolutely nothing