The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,186

view expansive and spectacular.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her—from very close.

Jumping, she looked over her shoulder. He was looming behind her, his body seemingly poised for something.

For sex.

But no, she told herself. They needed to talk. She had to reveal herself to him; otherwise the passion, on his side, was a disingenuous manipulation of which she was guilty.

“Are you,” he growled softly as he stepped in against her body. “Hungry?”

Beneath her headdress, she licked her lips.

His hips rolled against her robing, what was no doubt a very hard, very thick erection pushing into the fabric that separated their bodies.

There would be time afterward, she told herself. She would tell him afterward.

The guilt was strong. The lust was stronger.

“I am,” she breathed. “But not for food.”

As if he read her mind, the lighting which rained down from the ceiling went out, effectively eclipsing them from any external viewers.

“I’m going to take that off,” he gritted, as if he hated her hood.

Abruptly, she was freer to breathe, see, smell.

The purr that percolated up out of his chest was that of an animal, but his hands were not harsh as he reached for her over-robe. Up and off her head the weight went, and then the lighter sheath beneath disappeared.

And she was naked before him.

His hands worshiped her as he ran them over her shoulders and down to her breasts. Bringing them together and up, he tasted one nipple and then the other, lapping, sucking—and oh, it was too good. Her legs went loose, and as if sensing this, he swung her up off her feet and carried her out of the light and airy room, down a hallway, and into a bedroom with a large raised mattress platform that proved to be as soft as a cloud.

“This is how I wanted it last night,” he said as he laid her out.

There was a light on in some small room, perhaps one with water facilities, and thanks to the dim illumination, she could revel in the obsessional nature of his expression: He regarded her with such rapt focus, she felt beautiful without his having to utter a word to that effect.

His broad palms swept down her legs. “I want to know all of you.”

“I offer my body to you,” she said hoarsely. “Do as you wish with me.”

Rhage was halfway across the Hudson River, heading for the other side of Caldwell in his GTO, when that feeling of being suffocated and light-headed hit him like a ton of bricks.

Swallowing a shot of bile, he cracked his window and turned off the heater. Didn’t help. About a mile later, he nearly pulled off to the side of the road.

“Get it together, ass-wipe.”

Fucking pussy. What the hell was his problem? He was uninjured, looking forward to cracking the case with Assail and his mirror-image cousins, and on the way to see his beloved shellan in his very favorite car. Life was as good as it could get.

He just needed to get a grip.

On that note, he tightened his hold on the steering wheel and started tapping his free shitkicker, the one that was not on the gas.

So close now. He was so close.

Maybe he just needed to hold his Mary for a little bit.

Havers’s clinic had been moved to this new, state-of-the-art location, and Rhage had been to visit only a couple of times: Once when he’d gotten an abdominal wound that wasn’t going to wait to head all the way back to the Brotherhood compound. Another when Mary had needed a pickup after attending to a female and her young son. Maybe a third time. He couldn’t remember.

When he finally got to the turnoff, he cursed at the breathlessness. At the rate he was going? He was going to need treatment.

Maybe he had a virus. Vampires didn’t get human ones, or cancer—thank God—but they could get taken down by colds and flu that affected members of the species.

Yeah, that was probably it.

Had to be.

As the GTO’s headlights finally splashed across a dull, unassuming little concrete-block structure, he felt the whatever-it-was ease off a bit, which was a welcome surprise. At least he wouldn’t have to see his Mary with him lookin’ all wall-eyed weird.

Getting out, he went around to the trunk and sprang the deep purple panel.

The sight of Mary’s duffel bag, which he himself had packed, brought back the symptoms: His head swam and his palms got sweaty—like he wasn’t standing in the cold wind with nothing but leathers and a muscle shirt