Kim Harrison - Hotter Than Hell

“Vampires tend to be territorial, so maybe.” He shrugged. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He didn’t touch me this time. Perhaps his control was as tenuous as mine.

I followed him out, and let him answer the mother’s questions with his usual charm and reassurance. He was better at that sort of stuff than me. The werewolf aura and all that.

We got into the car and headed back to Mari’s to collect the list of Jon’s friends. There were four other teenagers in his gang, and after interviewing three of them, one thing became clear.

They were all lying.

“But why?” I asked, as we climbed back into the car after interviewing the third kid. “It just doesn’t make sense. They were all scared that what had happened to Jon and Brad would happen to them, so why wouldn’t they want to do everything they can to protect themselves?”

“We’re talking about teenage boys here.”

I frowned at him. “So?”

“So,” he said, starting the car. “Teenage boys don’t tattle on their friends, especially if they were doing something illegal.”

“And you think they were?”

He shrugged. “Logical reason for the lies. You want to grab some dinner before we interview the last kid?”

I looked at my watch and nodded. “We’ve got an hour or so before he’s home.”

“Time enough.”

There was something in the way he said those words that had my pulse skipping. “Time enough for what?”

He gave me one of those to-die-for smiles. “Time enough to eat. What else do you think I meant?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” I muttered, looking away from his knowing gaze.

He laughed softly. I continued to ignore him.

We grabbed a couple of burgers and some chips, and headed on down to the beach. Ethan parked, then grabbed a blanket from the back seat and climbed out. I followed with the food and drinks.

“So,” I said, once the blanket was spread over the sand and we were munching our burgers. “What sort of illegal activities do you think the boys were up to?”

He shrugged. “It could be anything, from peeking into bedroom windows to breaking into houses. Whatever it is, they’ve obviously made a pact not to talk about it.”

“Boys are weird.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement playing around his lips. “And girls aren’t?”

“It’s a well-known fact girls are the sensible species. You boys are just all hormones and need.”

“Meaning girls don’t need?”

“Meaning girls aren’t a prisoner to their needs.” And this was a conversation I should not be having. Not with this man.

“Oh, really?” That gleam was back in his eyes, stronger, lustier, than before. “Want to bet on that, Ravioli?”

I finished my burger and brushed the crumbs from my hands. All the while avoiding his heated, steady gaze. “I told you before, I don’t bet.”

“And why is that? Afraid you’ll lose?”

My gaze rose to his. “Yes.”

He somehow seemed closer, though he hadn’t actually moved. Maybe it was merely a sharpening in my awareness of him. Maybe it was simply the erotic and sensual heat of him wrapping around me, cradling me like a lover.

“Afraid of me?” he asked softly.

“No,” I answered. “Afraid of me.” Afraid of wanting more than would ever be offered.

“Ah.”

If one single word could say many things, then that one word did. He understood what I meant. But as I stared into bright gaze, I realized understanding did not equate to backing away or backing down. That it had, in fact, only hardened resolve.

“Don’t,” I said, my words a bare whisper quickly whisked away by the wind, “play with me.”

He rose on all fours and moved toward me. I watched him warily, knowing I should move and yet not wanting to. He straddled my legs and stared at me eye to eye.

“I have never played with you, Grace.”

The delicious scent of man and musk and spices swept around me, sending my hormones into another wild dance. He raised an eyebrow, as if daring me to retreat.

I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not this time.

“Only because I’ve never given you the chance.”

“Then you have one chance now.” He lowered his mouth toward mine, but didn’t quite kiss me, his breath a delicious whisper on my lips as he added, “Yes or no?”

For one second, the sane half of me raised a reminder that getting physically involved with this man was utter madness. That he was after a good time, not a long time, and I was the one who’d be left feeling awkward and uncomfortable long after the brief affair had ended. That he would go on just fine, pretending nothing had ever happened and that we could just be casual friends and sometimes partners. But the part that had gone hungry for well over two years shouted the reminders down and said, “Yes. If you can avoid sand in bits.”

“No sand,” he promised, then kissed me.

It was an urgent, hungry thing, that kiss, and so very, very thorough. He kissed me until my head was spinning and my heart was pounding so loudly it seemed to drown out the sound of crashing surf. Kissed me until the thick scent of desire filled the air, until it felt like a blanket that burned and suffocated. Kissed me until I wanted him as I’d never wanted another man.

All with a kiss. I couldn’t wait to see what he could do once his hands and body were involved.

“Why don’t we strip,” he said, after a long, long while.

“Sounds like a plan,” I murmured, and began to do just that.

He removed his clothes more slowly, a master of control and a man who knew how to work a strip-tease. I smiled when we were both naked, and ran a hand across the warm hard planes of his abs. In the sunshine, his golden skin glowed with an almost unearthly fire. It was beautiful, as he was beautiful.

He caught my hand, brought it up to his lips, and kissed it gently. Then he tugged on my fingers lightly, dragging me down, until we were both kneeling on the rug again.

“Let the games begin,” I murmured softly.

“It’s never been a game, Grace. It’s all been foreplay building to this moment.”

His hand gently touched my cheek then slid slowly, sensually, down my neck and onto my shoulders. His mouth followed his caress, kissing and nipping my flesh, making me shudder and squirm in pleasure.

When his tongue circled the dark ring of one nipple, teasing but not touching the oversensitive center, I moaned, wanting more, wanting it now, but at the same time, not wanting to rush. Every inch of me trembled—ached—with expectation. And waiting that moment when he did more than circle was a part of that. I closed my eyes and pushed my breasts forward, offering them fully to the delight that was his tongue. He nipped lightly, then drew one aching nipple deep into his mouth, sucking on it hard. The unexpected rush of pleasure had me gasping.

As he suckled and nipped my breasts, his caress moved, with agonizing slowness, down my belly, touching, teasing, exploring. Drawing ever closer to the one place I wanted him most. Goosebumps scurried across my sweat-beaded skin, and my heart hammered so loudly its beat seemed to echo across the evening.

When his fingers finally brushed my clit, I could only shudder and press harder into his touch. Then his caress delved deeper, sliding through wetness, one finger plunging inside, then two, but neither staying long enough. Longing flowed like a fire through my veins, until my whole body quivered and throbbed to the tune of that gentle yet insistent caress. A caress that quickly created a tide threatening to overload my senses.

And as much as I wanted the rush his touch was building, I wanted him more. Wanted to caress and stroke and taste him .