Kresley Cole - Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night

He cupped the back of her neck, staring down at her. As she gazed up in fascination, the amber of his eyes turned to ice blue. He seemed desperate to recognize something in her, and when he clearly didn't find it, his hand on her began to shake. "Damn you, witch, I doona want another."

She suddenly knew two things: He was about to kiss her so fiercely she would never be the same again.

And he would hate himself for it afterward and despise her forever...

The witch seethed with power. Spells and magicks swirled about her. Bowe could sense them, could perceive them tangling around him, binding him to her—because she was beckoning him to kiss her...

No, he couldn't get distracted from his aim! He wouldn't. So much was at stake with this competition. His past, his future. He knew this—knew what he was fighting for—so why couldn't he drag his eyes away from the witch's face?

As she gazed up at him, her features seemed to shift. Her irises briefly flickered from an ordinary blue to a stormy, intense gray. She licked her lips, and right before him they turned from pink to the deepest, most enticing red. His shaft throbbed harder, straining against his pants.

Yes, he had to taste her. To walk away without knowing what those glistening lips promised... ? Impossible. Not after beholding the body she'd concealed beneath her cloak. She was lush, surprisingly curvy with high, plump breasts. And in that tunnel, when he'd gazed upon her crawling in front of him, the allure of her generous hips and arse had been as strong as a siren's call to him. He'd have followed her for miles, hard as rock, heart thundering in anticipation.

Then to be wedged against her in that position? Hell, he'd just stopped himself from thrusting uncontrollably against her—

" Bowen... " she whispered, an edge of need in her voice.

The witch wanted; he was helpless not to give.

His first kiss in nearly two centuries.

Pulling her closer with his hand at her nape, he leaned down and took her mouth with his. The merest contact rocked him. From the first touch, he felt how giving her lips were, parting in welcome. She gave a cry against him, and her palms traced up his chest to rest at his neck, her fingers twining in his hair.

He slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she met it with her own, with slow, wicked laps that made him inhale sharply to groan against her. His free hand grasped her waist to hold her as he deepened the kiss, and she moaned her approval, going soft against him.

She was the one enthralling him, so why did she seem to be going out of her head with desire? She seemed... lost for him. When would she pull back? Surely he couldn't be expected to. She would tell him to stop, and he would somehow manage to relinquish what he desired, as he had hundreds of times before.

But she didn't tell him. Between licks, she whispered, " Yes, Bowen, yes ." Instead of checking his lust, she urged him on, as if she wanted him, a Lykae, to lose control.

He clutched her neck hard. For over a thousand years, he'd unwaveringly scorned witches. Yet now he was savoring the wanton, drugging kiss of one—a soft, ruby-lipped witch who, he feared, could make all his sexual dreams come true. Having been without sex for so long, Bowe dreamed about it constantly .

To be lost after so long... Follow her into oblivion. Follow her down .

At last Mari sensed him letting go, growing more aggressive, turning as fierce as she'd expected.

His kiss was hard and heated as he claimed her mouth. And she was more than ready to match his need. She found herself going up on her knees, brazenly pressing her body into his, feeling his unyielding erection against her belly.

She would become an immortal soon, she sensed it, and everyone had told her the flood of desires she'd experience leading up to the change would be strong. So far it had proved overwhelming . Was that what was happening here? Was she enjoying her first taste of lust between two immortals?

He was the most sinful kisser she'd ever had, and she knew she wasn't going to get another chance with him ever. So she gripped his head, kissing him as if her life depended on it.

When she'd made love in the past, Mari had felt that something vital was missing, something she'd feared she couldn't do without for much longer. Now she knew what she'd missed. Intensity. That hectic passion so strong it made good sense—made thought itself—fade to nothing but feeling. He could give that to her.

With the hand gripping her waist, he rubbed his thumb up and down her torso. When he made contact with the small ring at her navel, he drew a quick, surprised breath against her lips.

His shaking hand finally trailed lower...

Aching to touch him as well, she ran her fingers down his broad chest. Just as she reached the waist of his jeans, he began working his fingers into her shorts. Their kiss grew more desperate.

When she thought about them touching each other like this, pleasuring each other, she couldn't prevent her hips from rocking up to his hand. But when her curious fingertips dipped down, and she brushed the broad, slick head of his erection, he jerked as if in shock at the touch, as if she'd seared him.

He grabbed her wrist, seeming to decide if he should pull her hand away or press it against him. " Need this, " he finally rasped, forcing her hand into the heat of his jeans to grip his thick shaft. " So damned much ."

"Yes!" she cried, feeling him stroking at the lace edge of her panties.

He groaned and reached lower. When he cupped the wet flesh between her legs, he shuddered, thrusting himself into her fist.

Just when she had no doubt they were about indulge in each other, he stilled. Even as his erection throbbed in her grip, and his breaths were ragged, he withdrew his hand from her and shook his head hard. "But canna have it."

Suddenly, he snatched her hand from him, squeezing her wrist so tightly, magick began building in her palm in reflex. His ghostly blue eyes flickered over the light. Then, as if reminded of what she was, he looked disgusted with her. His voice low, he said, "Quit the Hie, witch."

She slowly shook her head. "Not on your life, MacRieve." Not after everything she'd done to get here. And not when the next Hie wouldn't be for another two hundred and fifty years.

His lips were subtly drawing back to bare his lengthening fangs. "Vow you'll quit, or I swear I will make it so you do no' distract me again."

"I wasn't trying to distract you—"

"Bullshite!" He shoved aside the sarcophagus cover she was perched on, jarring her. His hand rooted down, and he plucked out the headdress—a stunning gold and jade piece. "You could almost make me forget what I really want." Fisting his fingers around it, he cast her a menacing smile. They both knew that all he had to do was lift the prize above his heart, and it would travel to Riora, the goddess of the Hie. He raised it, and the headdress disappeared; for a second afterward, Mari felt the magick, clear and true, and smelled the goddess's forest temple halfway around the world.

So easily, Mari had just lost those points—or had had them taken from her.

"Do you really think you can defeat me?" he demanded. "And if no' me, then the Valkyrie or the vampire?"

"A seer predicted Kaderin will lose the Hie for once. This is anyone's game."

He eyed her. "You know why I will win. What do you seek?"

To show everyone! "It's personal," she said instead. "Look, we could team up. The key works twice."

"Team with you? What could you possibly offer me?" The expression he gave her said he was amused by her statement. Her eyes narrowed. He shouldn't be amused.