Her body went soft and pliant, melting into his. Her temperature soared, her core on fire, burning her from the inside out. All tension drained out of her, her lashes drifting closed as his lips continued down her neck to her shoulder. She felt adrift in a river of pure sensation, floating toward him with her entire being. Her heart and maybe even her soul reached for him.
His teeth scraped back and forth over that throbbing spot and her body reacted, raising her temperature another notch. Her breasts ached, nipples pushing against the thin lace of her bra. On some level she knew she was giving herself up to him, that if she succumbed to him she would never be the same, but he’d woven a sensual web and she was trapped in it—willingly.
He sank his teeth deep, the pain crashing through her, shocking her.
7
Zacarias lost himself in the scorching flames rushing through his veins, and the fireball roaring in his belly. Fire poured into his groin until he burned, heavy and full—for her. For Marguarita. The sensation was overwhelming, complete, shocking even. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the siege on his senses, for the primitive need and the raw hunger raging not only in his mind, but in his body.
This woman had changed him for all time, changed his world, and where there was no feeling for as long as he could remember, now his entire focus, his entire being was centered on Marguarita’s soft body, the blood pulsing through her veins and the feminine scent of her calling to the male in him.
He found he couldn’t resist the temptation of tasting her, she smelled so good, a lure he couldn’t resist. Her body went pliant, molding to his. Immediately his senses became acute, lost, drowning even, in the biochemical signals of a female calling for a mate. He shifted her closer to him, smoothing her hair away from her neck. He bent his head and licked over that strawberry mark that told the world she belonged to him.
His body shuddered in anticipation. Actually shuddered. He felt as if the world stood still, as if he held his breath, waiting a heartbeat, savoring the feel of her, the scent and the incandescent beauty of her color, because—oh stars and moon above—he saw her color. Beautiful, unbelievable color.
Overcome with unfamiliar need, Zacarias sank his teeth deep into her flesh, connecting them together. The pure essence that was Marguarita flowed into his mouth like the sweetest nectar. She tasted exotic, exquisite . . . she tasted. Nothing had ever tasted. He fed because he needed life and life was blood. In that single moment, life was Marguarita.
His entire body hummed, his veins sang with joy. She was a musical instrument, playing a song written expressly for him. He knew he was the only man to hear her beautiful notes. He knew he couldn’t keep her. He was caught in a half-life and he couldn’t condemn her to such a thing. But he’d never truly known life, so right then, in that time and place, it was enough, it was everything to him.
Marguarita was a drug in his system, as fluid as fire, rushing through his veins and filling him with a kind of primordial burst of radiance. The world around him was dull and lifeless, a stark contrast to her jewel-bright glittering eyes and shining blue-black hair. She was color and life, the reason every warrior fought against the plague that was vampire. She was his reason. He saw that in an instant. Tasted the truth in his mouth. Felt it vibrate through his body.
He would always know exactly where she was at all times now, what part of the house, and what she was doing—even what she was thinking. He would know how many times she frowned, or raised her chin in stubbornness, bit her delicious lower lip or smiled. He was very aware of her as a woman, with her feminine fragrance, and he would always be aware of the exact moment when she turned her head and looked at him—and when she thought of someone else—because he would never again be out of her mind completely when he was near her—not until he ended his existence.
Lost as he was in overwhelming real emotion for the first time in his existence, he didn’t catch the exact moment everything changed for her. One moment she was with him, burning in the erotic fire, and the next, she was fighting. Daring to fight him. Rejecting him completely. She triggered every hunting instinct he had—and his were honed well over a thousand years. Hunting was bred into his very bones, into his soul. He heard the warning growl rumbling in his throat and felt himself take an unbreakable lock on her now tense body.
She made no sound, but he sensed she was terrified. She struggled wildly and he locked her to him roughly, his body aggressive. It had been well over a thousand years since anyone or anything had ever defied him. In truth, he couldn’t remember a time, and she aroused his every need to conquer and control.
His reaction was again more animal than man, but it was all male. He had absorbed her rich fragrance, felt her soft pliant body melting into his, and his world had changed. He didn’t want that feeling to ever end, yet it already had and very abruptly. Her scent enveloped him—and this time there was no feminine allure. She was terrified of him. He loathed the scent immediately.
Do not fight me. He was too much the predator and there was no way to ignore the strong instincts demanding he subdue his prey.
Her rich blood flowed into his system, an electrical charge, sizzling through veins and pumping more hot blood into his groin until he was full and hard and even painful. He was experiencing the most pleasure he’d ever felt while Marguarita was utterly and completely terrified. Her body had gone stiff, tense, her mind screaming a protest. Her lungs burned for air. He could tell she was almost shutting down completely with her fear—of him.
Help me, Marguarita. You have to stop fighting or I will not be able to regain control.
His arms were iron bars, locking her to him. Her soundless scream filled his mind. He reached again. Embε karmasz—please.
He could not remember a time he had ever pleaded with anyone for anything, but it was imperative she stop fighting him, and even more imperative that she once again feel the things he was feeling. He could override the barriers placed in her mind at birth, barriers obviously strengthened with each generation. But he only used his powers to calm his prey, and she wasn’t prey. It felt wrong to take over her mind and plant feelings and memories that weren’t real.
It must have been the inflection in his voice, that soft pleading in his own language that penetrated her terror, because he felt her sudden resolve, the way she drew a ragged breath into her lungs and forced her body into stillness. Immediately he was able to lift his head, draw his tongue over the punctures in her neck to close the wounds. He held her tight to him, hearing the beat of her heart, feeling the rapid pounding against his chest. He buried his face in her thick silken hair and just held her, breathing for both of them.
He whispered to her in his own language, barely knowing what he was saying to her, feeling the words from deep inside in a place he’d never touched, never been and didn’t even know existed. She tapped into some reservoir of tenderness unknown to him—so unknown he had no real idea what to do with it. He was an ancient Carpathian, one of the oldest, one of the most knowledgeable—and he was completely out of his depth.
“Te avio päläfertiilam—You are my lifemate, a woman above all others. You hold what is left of my soul in the palms of your hands. I would kill another for you. I intend to die to protect and keep you safe. Do not fear me, Marguarita. I wish only to enjoy a few nights with you. Do not be afraid anymore.”