The Last Warrior (Shifters Unbound #13) - Jennifer Ashley Page 0,59

her as shouts of joy.

Ben glowed. Not literally—he was the same handsome midnight-eyed man who’d towed her to safety and given her warm, tasty food and new experiences. The man who’d made her laugh, dance, and forget the dangers of her life.

Somewhere inside him was the glow of what he truly was. Not the affable Ben who preferred friends to enemies, or the massive goblin who tore apart metal and stone with terrifying strength.

Beyond both of those lay what he hid, a being of incredible potency that gentled itself for everyone and everything around him. If he brought that potential out of him, he could devastate the world.

The thought that so much power lay in her arms increased Rhianne’s excitement. She laughed with it.

Take care of him, Tiger had said. He is the last warrior.

Perhaps she was seeing the warrior in him, the deadly fighter Ben was in truth. She wondered if he even knew the extent of his own power.

Her thoughts dissolved on a wave of pure pleasure. His weight on her, his movement, the rise of his chest with his rapid breath, ripped away the last of her constraint. Rhianne heard the screams coming from her mouth, Ben’s laughter as he caught them on his lips.

“That’s my love.” Ben’s rumbling voice found dark spaces inside her and yanked them open. “Almost there.”

Rhianne reached up with one hand as though trying to grasp the stars. Crazed sensation flooded her, the amazing peak she’d reached this morning when he’d played with her becoming nothing. This peak was all, bursting from her depths, an incredible wildness she’d never before experienced.

She was laughing, screaming, groaning, crying Ben’s name, crushing him to her as though seeking absolute oneness with him. Frenzy.

Ben groaned, fist pounding the ground. His hips moved harder and faster, hot seed spilling into her. “Coming fast. Fuck.”

Rhianne held him as joy crashed through her. Their mouths met in frantic kisses, Ben’s hips pumping, Rhianne rocking up to him.

The deluge of passion began to recede, little by little, becoming ripples of contentment. Ben kissed Rhianne’s hair, her face, his touch tender, eyes warm.

“Damn, that was good,” Ben whispered, and then Rhianne was tumbling into a dark abyss of sleep that snapped over her and ended all sound.

Ben swam to wakefulness from the depths of profound blackness. So much for cuddling Rhianne afterward and whispering sweet nothings into her ear. He hoped he hadn’t drooled on her.

Rhianne slept beneath him, her face slack in complete relaxation. Soft September air kissed her face, rustling the leaves of the live oaks, wind chimes on the veranda tinkling.

The wind chimes had awakened him, Ben realized. Their note increased as he rolled from Rhianne with reluctance, though the wind remained steady.

A warning, Ben understood as he came fully awake.

Without moving, he scanned the house and what he could see of the grounds. Had Rhianne’s father come for her, or sent other beasts to retrieve her?

A voice floated to him. “The architectural style is typical of the late eighteenth century, when plantation owners strove to emulate the English villas of the Georgian era, but with a unique design to reflect the climate as well as the personality of its owner.”

Ben was on his feet, shaking Rhianne. He pressed his fingers to her mouth as she woke with a start.

He quickly helped her up and gathered their underwear. “Tour guide,” he whispered.

“Tour?” Rhianne grabbed the panties from him, sliding them on. “You said there were no tours today.”

“They must have changed the time. Or maybe I just don’t know what day it is.” Ben pulled on his underwear in frantic jerks. “Hide behind those bushes. I’ll try to get the rest of our clothes.”

Rhianne pulled on the camisole, concealing her gorgeous breasts. Ben tiptoed to the veranda steps where shirts, jeans, and shoes lay strewn. He heard Rhianne’s giggle and realized she was beside him.

“No,” Ben whispered fiercely. “Hide.”

“Faster together,” she returned.

No time to argue. Ben’s hand landed on the pile of jeans as the veranda door opened above them, and the chipper tones of the tour guide floated out.

“Many of the roses were planted when the house was built and survive to this day.”

Ben yanked the jeans from the steps and dragged Rhianne down into the dirt, out of sight.

The tour guide, dressed in an antebellum gown with hoop skirts that swayed enough to reveal her sneakers beneath, strode onto the veranda. “From here you can see the path to the slave quarters and the kitchen, which