Perhaps he should have left her alone just then, but the relief radiating from her acted as an invisible shackle. He couldn't move, didn't want to move. He was jealous that she felt this strongly for another man, no matter that the man was her brother. More than the jealousy, however, he felt possessive. And more than the possessiveness, he felt the need to comfort. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and surround her with his strength, his scent. Wanted her branded by him .
How foolish, he thought darkly.
The love she possessed for her brother was the same he had felt for his sisters. He would have fought to the death to protect them. He would have… His lips curled in a snarl, and he banished that line of thought to a hidden corner of his mind.
Grace pressed her lips together but another sob burst free.
"Stop that, woman," he said more harshly than he'd intended. "I forbid you to cry."
She cried harder. Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks, stopping at her chin, then splashing onto her neck. Red splotches branched from the corners of her eyes and spread to her temples.
Hours passed-surely these long, torturous moments could not be mere minutes-until she at last heeded his order and quieted. Shuddering with each breath, she closed her eyes. Her long, dark lashes cast shadowed spikes over the too-red bloom of her cheeks. He held his silence, allowing her this time to gather her composure. If she began crying again, he didn't know what he'd do.
"Is there… anything I can do to help you?" he asked, the words stilted. How long since he'd offered comfort to anyone? He couldn't recall, and wasn't even sure why he'd offered now.
Her eyelids fluttered open. There was no accusation in the watery depths of her gaze. No fear. Only pitying curiosity. "Have you been forced to hurt many people?" she asked. "To save your home, I mean?"
At first, he didn't answer her. He liked that she wanted to believe the best in him, but his honor demanded he warn her, not lock her in delusions about a man he'd never been. Nor would ever be. "Save your pity, Grace. You fool yourself if you think I have ever been forced to do anything. I make my own choices and act of my own free will. Always."
"That doesn't answer my question," she persisted.
He shrugged.
"There are alternatives. You could talk to people, communicate."
She was trying to save him, he realized with no small amount of shock. She knew nothing about him, not his rationale, not his past, not even his beliefs, yet she was trying to save his soul. How… extraordinary.
Women either feared him or wanted him, daring to take a beast into their beds; they never offered him more than that. He'd never wanted more. With Grace, he found himself desirous of all she had to give. She called to the deepest needs inside him. Needs he hadn't even realized he possessed.
Admitting such profound desire, even to himself, was dangerous. Except, he suddenly didn't care. Everything but this moment, this woman, this need, seemed utterly insignificant. It didn't matter that she had passed through the mist. It didn't matter that he had an oath to fulfill.
It didn't matter.
He dropped his gaze to her lips. They were so exotic, so wonderfully inviting. His own ached for hers, a soft press or a tumultuous crush. He'd never kissed before, hadn't cared to try, but right now the need to consume-and to be consumed-by that heady meeting of lips proved stronger than any force he'd ever encountered.
He gave her one warning. Only one. "Stand up or I will kiss you," he told her roughly.
Her mouth dropped opened. "Get off me so I can stand!"
He rose, and she quickly followed. They stood there, two adversaries caught in a frozen moment. The withdrawal of her body from his hadn't lessened his need, however. "I'm going to kiss you," he said. He meant to prepare her, but the words emerged more of a warning.
"You said you wouldn't if I stood," she gasped.
"I changed my mind," he said.
"You can't. Absolutely not."
"Yes."
Her gaze darted from his mouth to his eyes, and she licked her lips just the way he wanted to lick them. When she dragged her gaze up again, he met her stare, holding her captive in the crackling embers of his own. Her pupils dilated, black nearly overshadowing the brilliant turquoise hue.
He recaptured her in his arms and dragged her back down to the floor. "Will you give me your mouth?" he asked.
A sizzling pause.
I want this , Grace realized dazedly. I want him to kiss me . Whether the fire of his desire had simply burned into her, or the desire was all her own, she wanted to taste him.
Their gazes locked and she sucked in a breath. Such desire. Blistering. Had there ever been a man who had looked at her , Grace Carlyle, like this? With such longing in his eyes, as if she was a great treasure to be savored?
The outside world receded, and she saw only this sexy man. Knew only the need to give him something of herself-and take something of him. He was living, breathing sexual gratification, she mused, and more dangerous than a loaded gun, yet as gentle and tender as a bed of clouds. I truly am a danger junkie , she thought, loving the contradictions of him. Was he a brute or a lamb-and which did she crave more?
"I shouldn't want to kiss you," she breathed.
"But you do."
"Yes."
"Yes," Darius repeated. Needing no more encouragement, he brushed his lips against hers once, twice. She immediately opened, and his tongue swept inside. She moaned. He moaned. Her arms glided up his chest and locked around his neck. He instinctively deepened the kiss, slipping and sliding and nipping at her mouth just the way he'd imagined. Just the way he wanted, uncaring if he were doing it right.
Their tongues thrust and withdrew, slowly at first, then growing in intensity, becoming as uncivilized as a midnight storm. Becoming wild. Becoming the kind of kiss he'd secretly dreamed of, the kind of kiss that caused the strongest of men to lose all sense of self-and be glad for the loss. Her legs relaxed around him, beckoning him closer, and he fitted himself into her every hollow, hard where she was soft.
"Darius," she said on a raspy pant.
Hearing his name on her lips proved to be sheer bliss.
"Darius," she repeated. "Tastes good."
"Good," he whispered brokenly.
Caught in the same storm, she boldly rubbed herself against the hardness of his erection. Rubbed herself against all of him. Surprise mingled with arousal in her expression, as if she couldn't believe what she was doing but was helpless to stop. "This can't be real," she said. "I mean, you feel too good. So good."
"And you taste like-" Darius plunged his tongue deeper inside her mouth. Yes, he tasted her. Truly tasted her. She was sweet and tangy all at once, unfailingly warm. Flavored as delicately as aged wine. Had he ever sampled anything so delicious? "Ambrosia," he said. "You taste like ambrosia."
He buried one hand in her hair, luxuriating in the softness. His other hand traveled down her shoulder, down the slope of her breast, her ribs and over her thigh. She quivered, tightening her legs around his waist. He brought his hand back up and did it all over again. She purred low in her throat.
He wondered what she looked like just then, and wanted to see her eyes as he took his time with her, as he pleasured her in a way he'd never done with another woman. The concept of watching her, seeing her take her pleasure, was as foreign as his desire to taste her, but the need was there. He tore himself away from her mouth, breaking the kiss-surely the most difficult task he'd ever performed-and lifted slightly.
His exhalations came shallow and fast, and as he gazed down at her, his jaw clenched. Her eyes were closed, her swollen lips parted. The fiery red of her tresses was an erotically tousled mass around her face. Her cheeks glowed a rosy-pink, and the freckles on her nose seemed darker, more exotic.