Page 115 of Kiss of Wrath

She could barely stand when he was done with her mouth and moved his kisses to her neck, where he was licking and nipping, restraining himself from fanging her.

Staring forward, she could barely recognize herself. Her hair, which had been in a neat ponytail, was now loose and wild and curly. Her eyes were half lidded. Her lips were bruised and rosy hued from kissing. From this prism, she didn’t look half bad, she decided. A male fantasy, for sure. Who was she kidding? It was a female fantasy, too.

“Don’t you want to know if I’m seduced yet?” she murmured as she arched her breasts out to ease the ache that throbbed in them.

“Not yet.”

“Touch me some more,” she told him, rubbing her bottom against his erection, which felt hot and even bigger. Harder.

“I have a better idea, sweetling.” He undid the scarves, but when she tried to turn in his arms, he stopped her. “Touch yourself.”

“What? No.”

“Do not go shy on me now, love. I want to watch when you bring yourself to peak.”

Miranda had never done this before. Well, not in front of a mirror. And definitely not in front of a man. But Mordr wasn’t any man. And he had called her “love.”

So she caressed her own body and took the most pleasure in his glittering silver eyes, his flared nostrils, his parted lips, his hands which were fisted and pressed against either wall. When she could feel her climax coming, she turned and reached for him. “Not alone.”

Braced against the wall now, he lifted her up and onto his penis. Slow, slow, slow until he filled her. His hands held her up from under the buttocks and guided the rhythm. Meanwhile he kissed her and whispered, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” When her orgasm came with a pounding crash, she found herself lying on the carpeted floor with Mordr above her, neck stretched back, straining to his own climax. Before the end, he put his fangs to her neck and bit her. “Just a little, just a little.” Which caused her arousal to rise all over again in shooting waves of the most intense pleasure as her inner folds locked around him, trying to keep him inside. She came again, and then again.

When Mordr’s breathing slowed and she felt as if she might actually live, he raised his head and extended his arms, relieving his weight off her. “Will you marry me, Miranda?”

She put a loving hand up to his face. “You have a lot of baggage, Mordr. Marrying you is not as simple as marrying most men.”

“I know. It would be asking a lot of you to share my kind of life. Selfish, in fact. But I cannot help but ask. The thought of living another year, let alone dozens . . . hundreds . . . of years alone is just too painful to contemplate.”

Her heart ached for him, for the man he had been when she first met him. Grim, sad, desperately alone with his guilt and rage. Could she condemn him to that fate again?

“I promise to love you and take care of you and your children. I cannot give you children of your own womb, but I will help you with those children of your heart. I will try my best to be a good husband and father.”

Tears welled in her eyes at his heartfelt promises. “Will Michael allow us to be together?”

“I think so. He is not happy with me, but, yes, he will agree.”

“What if he changes his mind, for whatever reason, next month or next year? I don’t think I could bear to go through this kind of separation again. And the children, too. They are just now getting used to your not being around.”

“I asked them for your hand in marriage, and they agreed.”

She gazed up at him with mock indignation, “Don’t you think you should have asked me first?”

“I did, but you said no.”

She shook her head at his hopelessness. “Ask again.”

“Will you marry me?”

She nodded and when he smiled—Mordr had a wonderful smile—she told him, “You had me with the heart bump.”

“The what?”

“Heart bump.” She showed him by pounding a fist over her heart once and extending the open palm toward him. A graceful gesture done best in slow motion.

“I do that?”

“You do.”

They both glanced upward then. Michael.