rated as bone-melting. Maybe beyond bone-melting, though she wasn’t sure
what came after that. And then he had to go and ruin it by being some crazed
psycho with a penchant for cursing virgins. Life sucked and the situation
demanded a good, loud scream.
She looked straight into his eyes, took a deep breath,
opened her mouth—and found it filled with his tongue. His mouth covered hers,
adamantly demanding her response as the kiss continued, hard and hot. The deep
thrusting of his tongue brought back his other, most recent thrusting moves
with a liquefying rush. The fire began just under her skin again as his body
moved on top of hers in perfect rhythm to his kiss. If his purpose had been to
kiss every thought out of her head, he was accomplishing it in spades. He
rocked his thigh insistently against her pussy and she moaned.
He stilled, pulled back and glared at her.
“What?” she asked, arching up to maintain the heated,
glorious contact of skin on skin.
“I’m never going to get through an entire explanation.”
“Totally your fault. I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to. That was a ‘fuck-me-now’ moan if I’ve
ever heard one.”
“Again. Totally your fault.” Damn the man. Didn’t he know
she hadn’t had sex in at least twenty minutes? And had remained a very
frustrated, unwilling virgin for the twenty-five years before that? At the
moment, she didn’t want explanations. She wanted sex.
He didn’t move, just looked down into her eyes like he was
trying to decide something. Her body was burning, and he was laying there like
there might be something else he should do besides fuck her blind. She squirmed
underneath him, desire held in frustrating limbo. A low growl escaped her
throat, and she considered biting him again.
With a smile, he transferred both her wrists to one hand.
Then he slid the open palm of his free hand down the length of her inner arm to
her breast where he traced around her areola in ever-shrinking circles as her
nipple puckered tightly.
Bethany closed her eyes and let out another fuck-me-now
moan. Maybe he would get the hint.
His hand settled possessively on her breast. He let out a
breath that sounded frustrated and resigned. She opened her eyes to find his
face set in harsh lines of determination. His midnight-blue eyes locked onto
hers.
“Short version. Years ago the ruling houses of Ilyria
decided that instead of ruling their kingdoms, it would be better to go to war
with each other. They nearly destroyed everything before the gods intervened
and cursed them, fracturing and locking their powers inside a line of Mystics.
The curse can only be broken if, at the seventeenth generation, the eldest
living heir from each of the five houses binds himself to the other four in a
vow never to bring war between their houses again.
“Before you and your sisters, your mother was the only
survivor of one of the last undiluted Mystic lines.”
Questions whirled around her mind. Too many to pick a single
one out of the morass to ask. Though she was far from believing any of it, she
couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his belief in what he was saying.
But swimming in the middle of a sexual haze was not the best
time to try and figure out why he had decided to explain his presence with such
an outlandish story. Maybe the guy was into metaphors. Perhaps he was a
Philosophy major and saw life as one big fable of cosmic proportions. Maybe he
had played those imaginary world-building games just a little too often as a
kid.
He squeezed her breast and suddenly she didn’t care.
Wyc’s gaze dropped to her mouth. He closed his eyes and drew
in a long breath before continuing at a clipped rate.
“When the Mystics began dying out, a law was passed that a
female child of that line be matched on her first birthday to ensure she would
not become mated to someone outside one of the royal families.”
“What’s wrong with marrying outside a royal family?”
He opened his eyes and
what came after that. And then he had to go and ruin it by being some crazed
psycho with a penchant for cursing virgins. Life sucked and the situation
demanded a good, loud scream.
She looked straight into his eyes, took a deep breath,
opened her mouth—and found it filled with his tongue. His mouth covered hers,
adamantly demanding her response as the kiss continued, hard and hot. The deep
thrusting of his tongue brought back his other, most recent thrusting moves
with a liquefying rush. The fire began just under her skin again as his body
moved on top of hers in perfect rhythm to his kiss. If his purpose had been to
kiss every thought out of her head, he was accomplishing it in spades. He
rocked his thigh insistently against her pussy and she moaned.
He stilled, pulled back and glared at her.
“What?” she asked, arching up to maintain the heated,
glorious contact of skin on skin.
“I’m never going to get through an entire explanation.”
“Totally your fault. I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to. That was a ‘fuck-me-now’ moan if I’ve
ever heard one.”
“Again. Totally your fault.” Damn the man. Didn’t he know
she hadn’t had sex in at least twenty minutes? And had remained a very
frustrated, unwilling virgin for the twenty-five years before that? At the
moment, she didn’t want explanations. She wanted sex.
He didn’t move, just looked down into her eyes like he was
trying to decide something. Her body was burning, and he was laying there like
there might be something else he should do besides fuck her blind. She squirmed
underneath him, desire held in frustrating limbo. A low growl escaped her
throat, and she considered biting him again.
With a smile, he transferred both her wrists to one hand.
Then he slid the open palm of his free hand down the length of her inner arm to
her breast where he traced around her areola in ever-shrinking circles as her
nipple puckered tightly.
Bethany closed her eyes and let out another fuck-me-now
moan. Maybe he would get the hint.
His hand settled possessively on her breast. He let out a
breath that sounded frustrated and resigned. She opened her eyes to find his
face set in harsh lines of determination. His midnight-blue eyes locked onto
hers.
“Short version. Years ago the ruling houses of Ilyria
decided that instead of ruling their kingdoms, it would be better to go to war
with each other. They nearly destroyed everything before the gods intervened
and cursed them, fracturing and locking their powers inside a line of Mystics.
The curse can only be broken if, at the seventeenth generation, the eldest
living heir from each of the five houses binds himself to the other four in a
vow never to bring war between their houses again.
“Before you and your sisters, your mother was the only
survivor of one of the last undiluted Mystic lines.”
Questions whirled around her mind. Too many to pick a single
one out of the morass to ask. Though she was far from believing any of it, she
couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his belief in what he was saying.
But swimming in the middle of a sexual haze was not the best
time to try and figure out why he had decided to explain his presence with such
an outlandish story. Maybe the guy was into metaphors. Perhaps he was a
Philosophy major and saw life as one big fable of cosmic proportions. Maybe he
had played those imaginary world-building games just a little too often as a
kid.
He squeezed her breast and suddenly she didn’t care.
Wyc’s gaze dropped to her mouth. He closed his eyes and drew
in a long breath before continuing at a clipped rate.
“When the Mystics began dying out, a law was passed that a
female child of that line be matched on her first birthday to ensure she would
not become mated to someone outside one of the royal families.”
“What’s wrong with marrying outside a royal family?”
He opened his eyes and
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