Lightning Game (GhostWalkers #17) -Christine Feehan Page 0,143

Stroked a caress along his cheekbone as the rain fell in a kind of musical symphony outside. Not a wild storm, like the one in her heart, but a sensual, dreamy accompaniment.

She was very aware of his hand on the doorknob and what that meant. They were alone in the house together. She had come with him every step of the way, wanting this journey. Hoping for it. “The first thing I want to see when I wake up in the morning is your face.”

“You’re sure, Jonquille?”

He was giving her a chance to back out. That was so like Rubin. Always the gentleman when she could see, but beneath that sweet exterior, he could be a ruthless predator. The combination could be both exhilarating and terrifying. She supposed others would find her opposing traits the same way.

“I’m absolutely certain of every step I take with you, Rubin.” She was. If he really wanted her—and it was more than obvious his interest went far beyond Whitney’s pairing of them—then she wanted to be with him with all of her heart. He was a good man. For her—the best.

Rubin took his time, bending his head slowly toward hers, giving her every opportunity to pull away. Her stomach dropped. Did somersaults. Those butterflies had a field day. Then his mouth was on hers and sparks flew. It was the Fourth of July. Fireflies danced and zipped around them. Lightning streaked through her bloodstream like white-hot fire, and thunder roared in her ears. She slid her arms around his neck and let him lift her, carry her like some bride across the threshold into their bedroom.

Jonquille was featherlight in Rubin’s arms. He always forgot how tiny she was because she carried herself with so much confidence. He kissed her over and over, fire raging in his body, but it had been ever since he’d first laid eyes on her—since he’d heard her laughter. That low voice that turned him inside out. He took her straight to the bed and sat her right on the edge, reluctantly lifting his head so he could kneel down and remove her boots and then his own.

She kept her gaze on his for the longest time, remaining silent, and then, finally, she looked around the room, and then at the windows framing the view of the river. Rain was falling in earnest now, peppering the water with drops. Rubin had always liked the peace of the rain when it came, and the wild of the storms when they grew into turbulence. Right now, his mind was on the fierceness of the storm building in his own body, and in hers. He could already see the little white-hot dots of energy sparking like fireflies, lighting his woman up just for him. He stood and drew her to the center of their bed. He liked that. Their bed.

Rubin framed Jonquille’s face with both hands, looking into those unique eyes. So different. So strange. “So mine,” he murmured, astonished that she had given herself to him. That her choice was really him. The silver ringed the blue, and he let himself fall into that circle of fiery heat. His little lightning bug. A force to be reckoned with. A delicate pixie dancing in the grass, lighting up the sunset, flashing fire, a warrior when needed. She was all of that.

Jonquille reached up to touch his face. She did that a lot and the feel of her fingertips on his skin was a paintbrush stroke of pure sensuality, taking his breath. She didn’t have a clue how truly sexy he found her. He leaned down, taking his time, looking into her eyes, watching those long, silvery-blue lashes flutter and close as he took possession of her generous, perfect mouth. He loved her mouth. Her soft lips. The way they curved into her heart-stopping smile. The way they melted under his.

She stilled, like a little wild thing in the woods she spent so much time in. He transferred one hand to her thick hair at the back of her skull, anchoring himself in all that silvery silk, holding it so she wouldn’t escape. Her lips trembled under his while he slid his tongue along that soft seam, coaxing compliance. She opened her mouth to him and he took possession without hesitation.

At once, pure lightning charged through his bloodstream—through hers. Bright streaks of supercharged electricity, crackling and snapping, sparks everywhere, raining down on his skin, inside him, through his veins and arteries, straight to his