Ilona Andrews - On the Edge

“I can handle the hounds. You don’t have to . . .” she whispered.

“Yes, I do.”

He kissed her again, stealing her breath, and nipped her lip with his teeth. She pulled at his T-shirt. She wanted him naked, she wanted to feel his skin against hers.

He pulled away from her and swept her off her feet. “Bed.”

She wound herself about him, kissing his neck and the corner of his jaw. “Good idea.”

They tore through the house and into the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed, grasped the fabric of her T-shirt, pulled up, and the old worn-out cotton tore in his hands. “Sorry.”

“I have another one.” She pulled off his shirt and ran her hands down his body, from his chest over the hard ridges of his stomach, and then she was sliding him out of his jeans and rubbing her hand down the hard shaft of his erection. He made a raw animal sound in his throat and stripped the last shreds of clothing from her. For a moment she saw him towering above the bed, tall, golden, knitted with carved muscle.

She was too hot and too wet and too impatient.

He lunged for her, and she met him halfway, kissing, rubbing, stoking the fire inside both of them. His tongue played on her skin. He cupped her left breast, stroking the nipple with his fingers until it ached. She moaned. His hips slid between her legs. He dipped his head down and caught her nipple in his hot mouth, sending a wave of pure pleasure through her. She dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his back and arched herself, welcoming him. “Now,” she whispered. “Now, Declan, don’t wait.”

He heard her. His lips found hers. He thrust into her, and she gasped. Her body resonated with pleasure, wanting, demanding more. She ground against him.

He thrust again and again, deep, hard, building to a rapid fiery rhythm, his weight a steady sweet pressure on her. She was full, so wonderfully full of him, and she wanted more.

She kissed his jaw and his throat, and he thrust harder. She clawed at his back, taut with strain, and the aching need within her blossomed into a cascade of bliss. She felt herself rising higher and higher, propelled by his thrusts and lost in the hot glide of their bodies, until something within her snapped. Pleasure drowned her, smothering all thought. She screamed his name. Her body screamed with her, gripping him, pumping. He clenched and emptied himself into her with a hoarse growl. They lay together in a hot, sweaty tangle, and for a while, lost in the aftershocks, she couldn’t tell which limbs were hers and which were his.

“That was not the way it was supposed to go,” he said, his voice still raspy with echoes of lust.

“How was it supposed to go?”

He pulled her to him, closing his arms around her, and Rose sank into him, implausibly happy. He ran his fingers along her arm. “Slow and sensuous. Sophisticated.”

She turned on her side and kissed him. “How terribly inappropriate of you, Earl Declan Riel Martel Camarine.”

“You’ve remembered my name. I feel the need to celebrate this momentous occasion.”

“I thought we just did that,” she murmured, out of breath. “But if you insist on a do-over, I’m sure we can do this again in the near future.”

“Do you know what happens when you overflash?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“I’ve done it once.” He pulled her close, his muscled arm under her breasts. “We were trapped in a field while the Gaul’s summoners ran a horde of marloks at us. They’re simian animals, large predatory apes. There was no cover and no support. There were just the five of us, and we stood back to back and flashed. I remember my mouth was full of blood. My vision wavered. I felt like my arms were stretching out into the distance.”

“What happened?”

“William went into rending . Changelings do this once in a while, especially after puberty. They lose touch with reality and go berserk. He went crazy, and we just hit the ground, because when he rends , he kills everything. I’d asked him about it once, and he told me rending is going to the place where there is no God. Make of that what you will. When he finally wore himself out, the five of us were the only things alive on the field.”

“What would’ve happened if you had kept going, had kept flashing?” she asked.

“I would’ve died. I wouldn’t have even known it. You’d think that you could push just a touch further, and then the world would fade and so would your life.” He kissed her cheek. “I won’t let it happen to you.”

She frowned.

“You don’t know when to stop,” he said. “You overdo it. I’ve watched you flash for two hours straight, when you were trying to get Ataman’s defense down. You have no clue where your limits are.”

She rose on her elbow. “Declan . . .”

“There were times when I’ve deferred to you. The time when you stopped me from going after Simoen or the time when you told your elders about William. I did so because you understood the situation better. It’s your turn to defer to me. I know what I’m talking about, Rose. I was a professional soldier for over a decade. You’re brilliant, but you need training. If you go on that dock alone, you’ll die, and I won’t let it happen.”

“No.” She pushed away from him. “Don’t you see—”

“I see.” He pulled her back and kissed her. “You’ll magnificently kill the first wave of the hounds, and then the second wave will tear your throat out, and everyone will cry at your funeral and describe how you laid down your life for the good of your neighbors.”

She recoiled.

He reached over, picked up her hand, and kissed her fingers. “We do this my way. We both survive, and then we deal with Casshorn.” His stare fixed her. “Promise me, Rose.”

What he said made sense. She wasn’t too proud to understand that, and she still got what she wanted—he wouldn’t be on the dock alone. “Okay,” she said simply. “We’ll do it your way. But we still need something from Casshorn for this curse to work.”

Declan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do you think George is strong enough to reanimate a creature? Only for a short while.”

“He might be,” she said. “We’ll have to ask him.”

“If he can do it, then I might have a plan.”

His hand wandered down her body, stroking. He kissed her, and she slid tighter against him.

“Rose?” Tom’s gruff voice called from the porch.

Declan swore.

GEORGE sat on a fallen log and looked at the three dead crows lying on the ground before him. Sad, black bodies. Lifeless. They had been carefully killed, with a bow and arrow. Not a lot of damage to repair.

Behind him, Jack sniffed at the air. He probably thought the birds would make a nice snack. To the right, Mémère and Rose sat on an old wooden log.

“I can’t believe you’re going to make him do this.” Mémère was angry. Her cheeks were flushed.

“He’ll raise something again, sooner or later,” Rose said.

“But not so soon!”

Rose was using her “reasonable” voice. He never won an argument with that voice.

“When would it be not too soon?” Rose asked.

“I don’t know!” Mémère waved her arms. “Not now.”

“If it was up to you, not too soon would mean never.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“You can’t expect him never to use his talent again,” Rose said.

“George,” Declan said.

George looked at him, crouched by the crows.

“What I’m about to ask you to do is called combat necromancy. We’re going to play some games first, and then we’ll do the hard part. Understand?”

George nodded.

“Before, when you raised things, you felt a connection between you and them, right?”