Warlord Wants Forever - Kresley Cole [38]
He sought any hint that might tell him how she felt and what she might decide. At times he was optimistic. When they fought mock battles with a game based on military strategy, she seemed to enjoy herself—and to like the fact that he always beat her. She wasn’t a strategist, she’d explained to him. She was “front-line badassness” but she appreciated his talent. One time she had stood and sidled over to straddle him, placing his hands on her breasts. As she slid down his shaft, she whispered in his ear, “My wise warlord. You make my toes curl you’re so good.” He’d shuddered violently and had to fight not to come in an instant.
In fact she seemed to delight in every reminder that he’d fought and warred. She’d admired his sword, eyes widening at the considerable weight of it, only to narrow on him and grow silver with want. Her eyes had only to flicker silver and he went hard as iron.
And last night, as they lay spent in bed, he’d finally asked her, “What do you find attractive about me?” That could possibly compete against a demigod with a “mind-shattering kiss.”
Without hesitation, she answered, “Your scars.”
His brows drew together in surprise. “What? Why?”
“They’re evidence of the pain you’ve survived. Pain survived builds strength.” She traced down his stomach. “This is the one that killed you?”
“Yes.”
“Then this one I admire the most.” She brushed her lips so tenderly over it. “It brought you to me.”
But his contentment was never whole. He’d never been in love, didn’t believe he’d even slept with the same woman twice, yet now he wanted everything from this pagan immortal, was sick with wanting her. He wanted to strip her soul bare and make her give all of herself, all of what she’d been in the beginning before time twisted her.
His dreams reminded him of her past, preventing him from falling for her completely. Though he’d thankfully never seen her making love to another—and for some reason, he believed he never would—he drove himself mad with the mere idea of the lovers she’d taken into her body. He made himself crazed wondering how he compared to them. Each wicked thing she did to him that had him staring at the ceiling in an agony of pleasure and shock had him wondering later where she’d learned it.
How many had she had? She was two thousand years old. One bedmate a year? Two a year? One lover a month…?
And how could he compete with gods for her? She was a creature so passionate and beautiful, it was clear she’d been made to be loved by them alone.
The dreams kept him from believing and falling into the life they could share—the life he wanted so badly he could taste it.
He dreaded sleep and took no succor from it, growing weary with each day though her blood built his muscle, making him physically stronger than he’d ever imagined. Each sunset, he treated her coldly, so she asked about his dreams. But he lied.
She would accept his reassurance, smiling over at him from her window seat. Her smile could bring down an army. Probably had.
How had he thought he was a match for it?
My apologies, Myst thought as she gazed down at Wroth, rolling her hips on him, but she was enjoying the hell out of her vampire.
His eyes were so fierce, his gorgeous, sculpted muscles rigid beneath her claws as she leaned forward to cup her breast to his mouth. He suckled and groaned around her nipple as he tensed to come, and when she exploded, he shot hotly inside her. She fell limp on top of him, loving it when he put his arms around her and clenched her into his chest as he shuddered for long moments afterward.