J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [431]
He left with the others, and as the night air hit him, he nearly doubled over from the need to light up.
As everyone else scattered to their cars and engines started and headlights came on, he sat on one of the swings with his hands on his knees and his feet planted on the patch of raw earth.
For a second, he thought he was being watched—although maybe paranoia was an offshoot of recovery, who the hell knew.
After about ten minutes, he found a dark shadow and dematerialized upstate to Rehv’s place.
As he took form behind the Adirondack-style great camp, the first thing he saw was a figure at the sliding glass doors of the den.
Cormia was waiting for him.
Slipping outside, she quietly closed the slider and crossed her arms for warmth. The bulky Irish knit sweater she had on was his, and the leggings had been borrowed from Bella. Her hair was long and loose, down to her hips, and the lights from the house’s diamond-pane windows made it glow like gold.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
He came forward, moving up the lawn and onto the stone terrace. “You cold?”
“A little.”
“Good, that means I can warm you.” He opened his arms, and she stepped into them. Even through the sweater’s thick heft, he felt her body against his. “Thank you for not asking how it went. I’m still trying. . . . I don’t know what to say, really.”
Her hands went from his waist up to his shoulders. “You’ll tell me if and when you’re ready.”
“I’m going back again.”
“Good.”
They stood one to the other in the cool night, and they were warm, very warm.
He shifted his lips to her ear and breathed, “I want to be in you.”
“Yes . . .” she replied, drawing out the word.
They would not be alone inside, but they were alone here in the quiet, dark lee of the house. Moving her backward, even deeper into the shadows, he slipped his palms under the lip of his sweater and onto the skin of his shellan. Smooth, warm, vital, she arched under his touch.
“I’ll let you keep your top on,” he said. “But those tights are going down.”
Hooking his thumbs into the waistband, he took them to her ankles and slipped them off her feet.
“You’re not cold, are you?” he asked, even though he could feel and catch the scent of the answer.
“Not at all.”
The side of the house was stone, but he knew that heavy Irish knit would mattress her shoulders. “Lean back for me.”
As she did, he put his arm around her waist to give her more cushioning, and found her breast with his free hand. He kissed her deep and long and slow, and her mouth moved under his in ways that were both familiar and mysterious—but, then, that was making love with her, wasn’t it. By now, he was well acquainted with her from the inside out—there was nothing of his that hadn’t been inside her in one form or another. And yet being with her was as wondrous as the first time.
She was the same, yet she was always new.
And she was aware what this was about. She knew he needed to be in control of them right now, knew he needed to be the driver. At this moment, he wanted to do something that was right and beautiful and do it well, because after that meeting all he could think about was how much ugliness he’d done to himself and to others, and, nearly, to her.
He took his time, with his tongue dipping in and out of her mouth and his hand caressing her breast, and the investments had a dividend that left his erection nearly punching the way out of his pants: Cormia melted in his hold, getting fluid and hot.
His hand drifted downward. “I think I should make sure you’re not catching a draft.”
“Please . . . do,” she groaned, her head falling to the side.
He wasn’t sure whether she exposed her throat on purpose, but his fangs didn’t care. They instantly readied for penetration, dropping down from his upper jaw, sharp and hungry.
His hand went between her thighs, and the welling heat he found buckled his knees. He’d meant to keep going slowly, but there would be no more of that.
“Oh, Cormia,” he moaned, slipping both his hands around the contours of her hips and picking her up. His