Dark Rival

He strode forward, into the brighter light of the great room.

She now realized he had the same buzz cut as in the photo. Some confusion began. “I…charged a few things….I hope you don’t mind.”

He smiled seductively. “I hope ye charged that dress.” She nodded. “You cut your hair.”

His eyes flickered.

But now, she looked from the marine-style cut to his eyes—and the lines emanating from them. She tensed. He was the same man who had helped her fight off a demonic attack last night, but he looked older—or had she imagined him looking younger in the dark of the night? And he was modern after all. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Last night, I thought you were a medieval man.”

He paused before her. “It dinna matter. I’m the lord o’ Carrick, Ailios. And tonight, yer mine.”

It was hard to think after such a confident statement, not when he stood an inch from her, not when she knew she could shift her body oh so slightly and be in his arms. But he was not, exactly, responding to her question.

She searched his gaze and he stared back, with a promise that told her she was going to heaven really soon. “You helped me last night in South Hampton, didn’t you?”

He took her wineglass from her and set it down on the table behind him. “Ye talk too much.”

She wet her lips. “I almost thought…I’d wake up in an earlier time.”

He didn’t laugh. Staring into her eyes, he said softly, “Aye. I helped ye, but not last night.” And he clasped both of her shoulders, his hands large, strong and unyielding, like the man she somehow knew he was. Every fiber in her tightened. She could barely stand it.

“I helped ye…six centuries ago.”

Allie tried to understand him. How could he mean what he had said? But his grasp had tightened and he pulled her close, so her breasts were crushed by his rock-hard chest. His body was aroused and strained for hers. She began to blank mentally as his massive erection brushed her abdomen. “Oh.”

“I have waited a long time for this moment,” he said bluntly.

Her gaze lifted to his.

“I have waited five hundred an’ seventy-seven years for ye, lass.”

CHAPTER THREE

HE COULD NOT BELIEVE she was finally there with him, in his home, in his arms. Her memory had haunted him for the past five centuries, a confirmation that he had been correct to leave her in the future and return to the fifteenth century alone. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever beheld, but there was so much more. Her pure white power brought forth an intense desperation; even now, he felt her shining light warming him when he had been cold inside for so long.

He moved his hands to her face, held her head steady and finally, after so many years, he kissed her.

He was already swollen and hot. His body clamored to move inside hers and it needed release. But just then he was stunned. All he could think about was the taste of her lips, the caress of her tongue and the warmth seeping from her to him. His heart beating almost frantically, he drank from her mouth. Ailios. And the deep, wet kiss just wasn’t enough.

His body shrieked at him, but so did a part of him he never listened to. He wasn’t sure if it was his heart or his soul. In another moment, he was going to take her to the heights of ecstasy, joining her there in orgasmic release after orgasmic release. But he almost wanted more. Her power already seemed to touch him, and it almost felt like a relief….

It was forbidden, of course. He wasn’t going to touch her power, even if his bones felt old and in need of her healing. Nothing in him was broken. He was old, but powerful and strong. He had never broken the Code. He would not start now.

Her small hands on his waist, she trembled in his arms, kissing him back as frantically, as deeply, her mouth and teeth tearing at his. He felt how swollen and wet she was.

Her lust matched his and he was hardly surprised by the enormity of it for them both. He had known it would be this way. He could control her desire, if he wanted to—he’d learned that skill long ago—but he wasn’t feeding her passion now. It belonged to her and her alone. He was savagely pleased.

Expanding even more, hugely aware of an impending release for them both, he slid his hands down her narrow, slim back and clasped her buttocks, lifting her high. He could feel her pleasure cresting and couldn’t wait. He turned her against the nearest wall and with his thigh, pushed her right leg high.

She hooked her leg high up on his hip.

The wool of his trousers ripped.

He reached and jerked the zipper down, jerked the briefs apart. Her glazed gaze met his. “Ailios, I wish to show ye real pleasure.”

“Hurry,” she whispered, dazed, her palm on his cheek. Then she slid it under his T-shirt, caressing the slab of one of his large pectoral muscles.

As he gasped with desire, it crossed his mind that she deserved to be pleasured in bed. But he had her jersey skirt in his hand and he lifted it out of their way, all patience gone. He smiled at the sight of peach lace straining over wet, waxed flesh and he slipped his fingers past the G-string.

She cried out as he thumbed her soaking, throbbing lips. And he shifted, pushing the huge head of his penis against her, rubbing sensually back and forth. She clawed his back, panting, “Yes. Please!”

He was throbbing dangerously, on the precipice of release. He could make her come this way. He knew it—he felt it with his body, his mind. But it was too soon—and he controlled the cresting wave of her pleasure with his mind and refused to let it break.

She started to weep. Eyes wide, a plea formed there. Why?

He wanted to tell her that they had all night and she would have more pleasure than she’d ever known—so much she’d never think of any other man again. Instead, slowly, he pushed deep. Her pleasure doubled, intensified, roiled over them both. His pleasure surged. One more moment, he thought, and savagely satisfied, moving very deliberately, he controlled the cresting wave in her, allowing it to soar a bit higher, and then higher, bit by agonizing bit.

She called his name, panting, clawing his chest.

Sweat poured down his face and chest. And then he gave in.

“Ailios.”

She met his gaze, panting and writhing, trying to ride him when he was the one riding her, satisfying her.

When he had her attention, he poured his power into her. She cried out—stunned—and he let the dam break.

She sobbed in ecstasy. He closed his eyes and drove hard over and over again, coming with her, encouraging her to come again. She did. He did. She shouted as he roared. He had waited so long…he would pleasure her like this, all night.

ALLIE LAY LIMP and exhausted in Royce’s bed, acutely aware of her wildly pounding heart and the man who lay on his back beside her. Finally her mind started to work.

Was it really dawn? For pale gray light was slipping into the bedchamber.

Her heart refused to slow. She covered it with her hand. They had made love for hours—since early last evening—and for the first time in her life she was sated, oh, yes.

Royce hadn’t tired, flagged, or even softened, not a single time.

She was a Healer but she was very human; clearly he was not. Because he’d climaxed as many times as she had, and she wasn’t sure if she’d had dozens of orgasms or one single, endless one.

And she was pretty certain he’d had some kind of control over her orgasms, too.

She turned her head. “Tyrant,” she whispered, smiling.

He lay on his back, too, but his breathing was slow and even, and he was staring at her. Their gazes locked.

And he smiled at her. It was a surprisingly soft look from such a hard man, and it changed his entire face. He became too beautiful for words. “Are ye pleased?”

She beamed and turned onto her side, aware of his gaze instantly moving to her breasts and belly and legs, before lifting. She laid her hand on his magnificent chest. She traced a frightening scar. “Very pleased. How can you even ask?”