Nalini Singh: Archangel's Blade

“Are you sorry about this change?”

“No.”

Honor challenged Dmitri to a sparring session that afternoonand lost. He took her to his bed that night, laid her out for his delectation. When she bit her lower lip and whispered, “I thought you said something about a velvet whip?” in a voice that held both anticipation and the tang of sensual nervousness, he took her mouth with a voracious need that had her scenting the air with the sweet musk of her arousal.

Drawing it in, he made her lie on her back—her unbound hands holding on to the bars of the headboard—and began to kiss, to taste, every tiny inch of her, from the smooth warmth of her brow to the hollow of her throat and the tight furl of her nipples. There, he stopped, took his time, until her nipples were wet and pouting, before moving to the dip of her navel, the quivering nub of flesh between her thighs, the curve of her knee, and finally, the graceful arch of her foot.

Breath coming out in ragged gasps, she shook her head when he told her to turn over.

“Honor.” It was a command.

“No.” Haunting eyes full of defiance that was an invitation, her body so sensitized that when he ran his finger lightly between her legs, she jerked up, her eyes clenched tight and her muscles tensed in readiness for a shattering peak. “Dmitri.”

“No,” he said, removing his touch and dipping his head to speak with his lips against her ear. “You don’t get rewarded for misbehavior.”

Unrepentant, she kissed the side of his face, his jaw. Soft, wet kisses that made his cock throb in the black pants he still wore, while she lay bare to him, her skin hot silk, her blood warm and aroused and whispering to him of an erotic addiction he couldn’t afford to indulge.

“Does bribery work?” Another kiss.

He pressed his hand to her abdomen, nudging her flat onto her back again. “That’s another rule you’ve broken.” He’d ordered her to lie motionless.

“You’re not going to have mercy on me, are you?” It was a husky question as he rose from the bed and went to a closet . . . but she kept the promise she’d made to him at the start, stayed in bed.

“You should know better than to expect it from me,” he said, closing his hand around the handle of a soft velvet whip he’d never before used, as he hadn’t used anything in this room. He’d built a bed for Ingrede, and in the same way, he’d put this room together for Honor.

Now, running his hand over the whip, he flicked the tails over his arm to ensure it would cause her no pain, only the most excruciating pleasure. Her eyes went to the whip when he turned to walk back to her, and he saw her hips twist in a way that told him she was very close to the edge. Allowing his lips to curve just a little, he ran the soft tails over her body from chest to thigh.

“Where,” he murmured, “would you like to take your licks?” He circled the strands around her breasts. “Here?” Stroking lower, over her thighs. “Here?” Going back up, switching his hold to run the handle through her delicate folds. “Or maybe here?”

She cried out, and he knew she was on the precipice. Drawing back, he switched his hold again and flicked out with his hand. The velvet tails kissed the flushed skin of her thighs and her whimper turned into a throaty moan.

“Wider,” he ordered.

Spreading her thighs, she locked gazes with him.

His next stroke hit her inner thighs and he saw the storm rising in those eyes akin to midnight forests. Gauging it precisely, he flicked out his hand again . . . so the velvet fell on the damp folds between her thighs.

She came with a scream, her arms straining as she continued to cling to the iron bars of the headboard, her breasts flushed and her back arched.

Wanting her to ride it, to squeeze every drop of ecstasy out of it, he flicked the whip again, over her breasts.

Her pleasure took her over, and she was beautiful. Dropping the whip, he got rid of the remainder of his clothes and settled himself between her thighs, pushing inside her as she came down from the high, her flesh quivering with aftershocks. Tiny inner muscles spasmed around him, almost stealing his control. But he’d had centuries to hone it and he intended to draw out the night’s pleasure.

Groaning, Honor held him tight as he rocked inside her in slow, shallow thrusts that tempted but never delivered. Sweat slicked their bodies ten long minutes later and the woman who was his lay on her back, clawing at the sheets and attempting to force him deeper with her ankles locked around his back. “Faster.”

“I won the sparring session,” he reminded her. “I get to do whatever I like.” Leaning down, he licked up a droplet of sweat from along her throat. “Right now, I want to take you slow and easy.”

Her chest heaving, she tried to thrust a hand between their bodies. Grabbing it, he pinned it above her head, before taking her other one and pinioning them both at the wrists with one hand. “Bad girl.” Holding her gaze, he stroked again, heard her frustration in the low moan at the back of her throat. “Scared?” It was a serious question, because he had her restrained.

“No.” Arching up, she bit his jaw. “You should be, though.”

Rolling his hips, he loved her in ways that had her eyes closing and her breasts rising up toward his mouth. He took advantage, sucking and playing with her nipples as he continued to torment her with his cock. When he lifted his head and claimed a kiss, she sucked on his tongue . . . then she did the one thing that had always made him lose control, even before he was Made. Nuzzling her way down to his throat, she clamped her teeth over his pulse and licked out with her tongue.

Snarling, he released her wrists to fist a hand in her hair, pulling her off his throat—taking care so she felt no hurt—even as he seated his cock balls-deep inside her in the same motion.

She gasped. “Oh, God.”

“How,” he whispered, using his other hand to push up one of her knees, spreading her wider for him, “did you know to do that?” It was a very specific caress, one he’d discovered with Ingrede. In the years since, other women—Favashi included—had tried to go for his throat, but he’d never, ever left it unprotected.

Until Honor.

“You refused to fall in love with anyone else, Dmitri.” A whisper with the impact of a gunshot. “So I had to come back for you . . . husband.”

Every muscle in his body locked. “No.”

Honor’s response to that single harsh word was nothing he could’ve predicted. “It’s okay.” Cupping his face with gentle hands, she smiled crookedly, her eyes luminous with a love so deep, he thought he’d drown in the shimmering midnight green. “You don’t have to believe me, or even think me sane. Just let me love you.”

Her next words were whispered in an ancient, forgotten language, the dialect one that had been spoken only in a tiny village long since crumbled to the earth—a dialect Dmitri alone remembered. Except the lilting rhythm of it fell from Honor’s lips as if she’d run wild through the same fields, danced under the same brilliant sun. “I’ve always been a little bit crazy when it comes to you.”

“I can’t—” he began, because what she was offering, it was too much, a gift too painful.

“Shh.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”

“No.” It wasn’t okay, wouldn’t be okay until he had the answers he needed.

“So stubborn.” Kissing him slow and deep, she held him to her with her legs around his hips when he would’ve pulled out. “I should’ve expected it from the man who once clambered up a mountainside at dawn to bring me wildflowers.”