Again, a short, sharp laugh. “There is naught you can do.”
She was close enough that if she reached out, she could touch his face. Or shoulder. His breathing was rough, and she realized hers had become unsteady as well.
“If I come closer?—”
“Please,” he said in a soft groan.Please,his lips moved silently.
She did. Empowered by the talisman around her neck, compelled by desire and curiosity, reassured by his need, she went to him.
His shoulders trembled as she rested her hands on them, lightly, taking care that he wouldn’t be in pain. She felt him vibrating beneath her touch, and understood he was fighting, struggling against something.
Under her palms, Voss was warm—hot, even. Solid. Broad. The ends of his hair brushed the tops of her fingers and she could smell the citrus and rosemary from his bath. His shoulders rose and fell in little jagged movements.
She looked down and saw his fingers curled up into the coverlet, wrinkling and gathering it into great bunches. His shirt gapped away from his strong, golden neck and she could see down into the back of it…the heavy black tendrils of scarring there on bronze skin.
“My God,” she breathed, and without thinking, she pulled the neckcloth away, pulled aside the opening of the shirt so she could see more of it. “What is it?”
They were like little purplish-black ropes, and seemed to pulse and throb as she looked down at them. Shiny, coursing…the pain must be beyond comprehension. They grew like roots from beneath the hair he kept long at the nape, down over the right side of his back, concentrated at the shoulder but spreading like cracks in his flesh past his rib cage.
“Mark…of Luc…ifer,” he managed to say. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple, and she saw his skin had gone shiny and damp. “Please…Angel…ica…”
She thought he meant for her to move back, to give him relief, but when she began to shift away, he made a sound of negation.No.
Her hands trembled, and she was hot and shivery all over. Something fluttered in her stomach and Angelica felt something deep inside her curling, unfurling, swelling.
Take care.
She remembered his warning, so when she leaned forward, she bent carefully, holding the necklace tight to her skin so that it wouldn’t fall against him, her other hand on his uninjured shoulder. And she lowered her lips to his.
15
AN UNFORTUNATE SLIP
Voss’s world was a war of agony and relief. When her soft lips touched his, half parted and sweet, he nearly cried out from the pleasure, then gasped against her at the sudden, searing pain that followed, driving him to takemore. Oh. God.
The hyssop, small amount that it was, was so close he could barely lift a hand, could barely uncurl his fingers from the bedding beneath him. The delicate curve of her throat was right in front of him, the V of her robe, the golden necklace, there…so close. Yet he couldn’t move to touch her. He felt his muscles slowing, becoming heavy, even as the rush of desire surged through his veins.
And all the while Angelica’s mouth tasted his, and his fought to taste hers back, the Mark on his skin twisted and throbbed, knifing beneath his skin, tempting him…Take, take, take.
Slick and full, her lips molded over his, nibbling and licking as her body strained closer. Her breasts, right there, free and loose just beyond his reach. Her nipple strained against the thin material. The drug-like mix of lavender and orange and Angelica, warm and sweet and sensual.
Her hands brushed over his hot skin and he felt the flesh on his face tighten beneath her fingers. He lifted his chin, and her touch slipped to cup his jaw. More,more…he wanted more. His lungs no longer worked and he felt as if he were drowning, spiraling into a vortex of pain-matched pleasure.
Her hip pressed against his torso; the fabric of her robe slid along his thigh. His fangs thrust hard and sharp, his gums swollen with the same need that filled his cock. Voss tried to say her name, but he couldn’t drag his thoughts together enough to take the breath.
The next thing he knew, she was lifting his shirt, pulling it from his trousers. The cooler air was good against his damp skin, and her hands were there…over his shoulders, his chest, along the tops of his arms. Tentative, so tentative and light he wanted to groan with frustration.
She gasped in horror when she brushed over his Mark, and it leaped and pulsed beneath her touch, shooting dark, evil pain through him.
“Oh, God, Dewhurst…” Angelica breathed.
Voss. Call me Voss.
He didn’t know why it was so important to him, but he wanted it. He wanted her. Deep within, his body strained and writhed with so many battling demands, weak and on fire.
Voss closed his eyes, tried desperately to block out the agony, to gather the strength to touch her. If he didn’t, he would die.
“Dewhurst,” she said, her voice penetrating the blaze of pain. She was close, her words warm on his desperate skin. He managed to lift a hand, though it felt like a hundredweight, and touch her face. “I’m going to take this off.” She lifted the necklace.
