The Darkest Kiss. Gena Showalter

leaned into her, hot, floral-scented breath scorching her skin. “What will a single kiss accomplish?”

      Everything. Anticipation beating through her, she traced the tip of her tongue along the seam of her lips. “Are you always this talkative?”

      “No.”

      “Kiss her, Lucien, before I do. Bait or not,” Paris called with a laugh. Good-natured as the laugh was, it was still edged with steel.

      Lucien continued to resist. She could feel his heart beating against his ribs. Was he embarrassed by their audience? Too bad. She’d risked everything for this, and she wasn’t about to let him back out now.

      “This is futile,” he said.

      “So what. Futile can be fun. Now, no more stalling. Only doing.” Anya jerked his head down to hers and smashed her lips against his. His mouth instantly opened, and their tongues met in a deep, wet thrust. There was an intense rush of heat through her as the addictive flavor of roses and mint bombarded her.

      She pressed deeper, needing more of him. All of him. Plumes of fire infused her entire body. She rubbed against his cock, unable to stop herself. He fisted her hair, taking complete control of her mouth. Just like that, she was caught in a whirlwind of passion and thirst only Lucien could quench. She’d entered the gates of heaven without taking a single step.

      Someone cheered. Someone whistled.

      For a moment, she felt as if her feet were swept off the ground and she was without any kind of anchor. A moment later, her back was shoved against a cold wall. The cheers had somehow suddenly died. Frigid air nipped at her skin.

      Outside? she wondered. Then she was moaning, unconcerned, and winding her legs around Lucien’s waist as his tongue conquered hers. One of his hands crushed her hip in a bruising grip—gods, she loved it—and the other tunneled through her hair, fingers once again curling tightly around the thick mass and angling her head to the side for deeper contact.

      “You are—you are—” he whispered fiercely.

      “Desperate. No talking. More kissing.”

      His control vanished. His tongue thrust back inside her mouth, their teeth banging together. Passion and arousal were a hot blaze between them, a raging inferno. Truly, she was on fire. Frantic. Achy. He was all over her, already a part of her.

      She never wanted it to end.

      “More,” he said roughly, palming her breast.

      “Yes.” Her nipples tightened, throbbing for his touch. “More, more, more.”

      “So good.”

      “Amazing.”

      “Touch me,” he growled.

      “Am.”

      “No. Me.”

      Understanding dawned, and with it an intensification of her desire. Maybe he did want her. After all, he yearned to have her hands on his skin, which meant he longed for more than just a kiss.

      “My pleasure.” With one hand, she gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted. With the other, she caressed the ropes of his stomach. Scars. She felt scars and shivered, the jagged tissue wonderfully hot.

      His muscles clenched against each stroke, and he bit her bottom lip. “Yes, like that.”

      She almost came, his reaction like fuel to an already blazing fire. She did moan.

      Her fingers traced the circle of his nipples before dabbling at the tips. Each time she grazed them, her clitoris throbbed as if she were touching herself. “I love the feel of you.”

      Lucien licked his way down the column of her throat, his tongue leaving a trail of sensual lightning. Her eyelids cracked open, and she nearly gasped when she realized they were indeed outside, leaning against the club’s exterior in a shadowed corner. He must have flashed them there, the naughty boy.

      He was the only Lord capable of transporting himself from one location to another with only a thought. A skill she possessed, as well. She only wished he’d flashed them to a bedroom.

      No, she forced herself to add, fighting a wave of despair. Bedroom bad. Bad, bad, bad. Bad Anya for thinking otherwise, even for a second. Other women could enjoy the electric press of skin against skin and naked bodies straining for release, but not Anya. Never Anya.

      “I want you,” he bit out roughly.

      “About time,” she whispered.

      He raised his darkly haloed head, blue and brown irises intense, before pinning her with another scorching kiss. On and on it continued, until she was willingly, blissfully drowning in him. Branded to her very soul, where she was no longer Anya but Lucien’s woman. Lucien’s slave. She might never get enough of him, would have allowed him to penetrate her then and there if she’d been able. Gods, reality was so much better than fantasy.

      “I need to feel more of you. I need your hands on me.” She dropped her legs from him, standing, and was just reaching for his fly, wanting to free his cock and wrap her fingers around its swollen thickness, when she heard a nearby echo of footsteps.

      Lucien must have heard them, too. He stiffened and jerked away from her.

      He was panting. So was she. Her knees almost buckled as their gazes locked together, time momentarily suspended. Passion-lightning still sparked between them; never would she have guessed a kiss could be that combustible.

      “Right your clothing,” he commanded.

      “But…but…” She wasn’t ready to stop, audience or not. If he’d just give her a moment, she could flash them someplace else.

      “Do it. Now.”

      No, there would be no flashing, she realized with disappointment. His hard expression proclaimed he was done. With the kiss, with her.

      Tearing her gaze from him, she looked down at herself. Her top had been anchored underneath her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so the hardened pink tips of her nipples were visible, two little beacons in the night. Her skirt was around her waist, showing off the front of that barely-there thong.

      She smoothed her outfit, blushing for the first time in hundreds of years. Why now? Does it matter? Her hands were shaking, an embarrassing weakness. She tried to will them to stop, but the only command her body wanted to hear was to jump back into Lucien’s arms.

      Several of the Lords rounded the corner, each glaring and sullen.

      “I love it when you disappear like that,” the one called Gideon said, his irritated tone making it clear he didn’t love it at all. He was possessed by the spirit of Lies, Anya knew, so he wasn’t capable of uttering a single truth.

      “Shut up,” Reyes snapped. Poor, tortured Reyes, keeper of Pain. He liked to cut himself. Once, she’d even seen him jump from the top of the warriors’ fortress and luxuriate in the feel of his broken bones. “She might appear innocent, Lucien, but you failed to check her for weapons before you swallowed her tongue.”

      “I’m practically naked,” she pointed out, exasperated. Not that anyone paid her any heed. “What weapon could I possibly be hiding?” Okay, so she was hiding a few. Big deal. A girl had to protect herself.

      “I had everything under control,” Lucien said in that unaffected voice of his. “I think I can handle one lone female, armed or not.”

      Anya had always been fascinated by his calmness. Until now. Where was his lingering passion? Wasn’t fair that he’d recovered so quickly while she still struggled for breath. Her limbs hadn’t even stopped trembling. Worse, her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest.

      “So who is she?” Reyes asked.

      “She might not be Bait, but she’s something,” Paris said. “You flashed her, but she isn’t screaming.”