Dark Carousel (Dark #30) - Christine Feehan Page 0,31

his eyes, that deep, dark blue, portrayed emotion. She could feel a heavy heat vibrating through the air.

“Why do you ask after Siv?” Again his voice was clipped, terse, intense and scary.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue again, stalling for time, turning everything over and over in her head but not coming up with an answer why her question would upset him. And he was upset.

“I asked out of politeness. He rescued my niece and I wanted to thank him.”

The tension drained out of him instantly. “Siv isn’t . . . civilized. He spends most of his time alone, and he doesn’t talk much to anyone, not even those of us who are his friends. He made certain Lourdes was safe and asleep and then he slipped out.” He shrugged. “That is his way and we all respect it.”

She wasn’t about to complain. Being around Tariq was enough. She had noted that all his friends were good-looking in spite of the fact that a couple of them carried some rather vicious-looking scars. She had eyes only for Tariq. She found she inhaled him into her lungs. As much as she tried not to look at him, she couldn’t help herself. She was looking now, and she couldn’t help but note the satisfaction on his face. In his eyes. He didn’t look smug, but he definitely was more than pleased that she’d entered his home.

She stopped abruptly because that wrenching inside her body didn’t go away. It increased, and she realized it had become a compulsion to touch him. To be close to him. He was only a step behind her and she was acutely aware of him. Of his every breath. Of his masculine scent. The way his muscles rippled beneath that thin silk shirt. She had the odd desire to take the single step that separated them and run her hand under his shirt to feel those muscles on her palm. Strangely, she could hear his heartbeat. Hers matched the rhythm of his exactly. That had happened before, but now she was more aware of it than ever.

Tariq took the step, coming right up behind her, and pressed his chest to her back. She should have moved, put more space between them, but she couldn’t. Her feet refused to cooperate with her brain. She melted inside. Melted into him. A part of her screamed that she wasn’t in the least acting professional, and he had women throwing themselves at him all the time. She was one among hundreds—maybe thousands.

His hands came down on her shoulders. Big hands. Strong. She felt his palms and fingers like a brand pressed into her bones. He bent his head so his mouth was against her ear. Close. So close that when he spoke his lips brushed her skin.

“You haven’t taken a breath in over a minute. Why is that, sielamet? Why do I have to remind you that you still need air?”

Oh God. She was in such trouble. Terrible trouble. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning back into him. From turning her head, giving him access to her neck. Electrical impulses sang along her skin while every cell in her body craved him. Like a drug. The need was so strong she found herself trembling. Her pulse pounded in her neck, and seemed even stronger in her clit. She felt her blood thicken. Turn molten.

He murmured something in her ear and she closed her eyes. The language was ancient. He’d said so. It sounded so different. A single phrase. Joŋesz éntölem, fél ku kuuluaak sívam belsö. She knew French, but his language was so completely different she had no idea what he said to her. She only knew that when he uttered that phrase with his accent and his low, sensual voice, she wanted more. Her world narrowed until there was only him. Only Tariq Asenguard. Genevieve had gone to bed, and there was no one to save her from herself and her reckless impulses.

His hand swept her hair over her left shoulder, leaving the right side bare. She felt his breath as his arms closed around her waist and he moved her deeper into the shadows. She could barely think with her need. His body was hot. Strong. All masculine, making her aware of the differences in them and just how fragile she was in comparison. That should have frightened her, but instead, a thrill shot through her.

He whispered again, this time in a mixture of his language