Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness Read online

  The discomfort of unwilling arousal and the damp­ness between her legs grew, and she twisted beneath him, fighting to free herself before she gave him what he wanted.

  Everything.

  He pressed his cheek on her collarbone and chuck­led. "Wrap your legs around my hips and you'll be more comfortable."

  And open herself to him even more? She was already uncomfortable with this level of intimacy—and uncomfortable was an understatement. "How dumb do you think I am?"

  He lifted his head from her chest The rain blis­tered down. His hair dripped, and water beaded on his face. Behind him, lightning zigzagged so brightly, a negative photographic image of him seared her reti­nas. He smiled, but that smile told her all too clearly that this was another battle he intended to win. "I have never thought you were dumb. But I do think— know—that before this is over, you'll do as I com­mand. Ann . . ."

  Even the way he said her name had changed. In the office, he used it as a helpful piece of furniture, like "File cabinet" or "Copy machine." Now his warm tones lingered over the single vowel, the dou­ble consonant, transforming a name she'd always considered the ultimate in dull into something exotic and tempting.

  He used his voice to possess her.

  He kissed each one of her eyelids closed, then put his mouth to hers.

  Her eyes sprang open.

  Jasha and Ann were naked, as close as a man and woman could be, yet they'd never kissed. How often she dreamed of a single kiss, intense, deep, immediate. ...

  How wrong she'd been! For he savored her lips as gently as he'd savored her breast. He stroked his tongue along the seam of her lips, and when she refused to open, he stroked again in a rhythm that echoed the rumble of the thunder and the heartbeat of the earth ... or was that her heartbeat she heard?

  She found her eyelids drooping. She tried to focus on his unbearably large forehead—large from this angle, at least—but she couldn't focus her interest on his face. Not when his tongue slipped so neatly be­tween her lips and caressed the inside of her mouth, or when his fingers caressed her earlobes—when had he released her hands?—or when he whispered, "Ann, come out and play."

  Come out and play? What did that mean?

  But he answered the question immediately when the tip of his tongue swirled around hers, and when she followed, he drew her into his mouth and let her . . . explore.

  She clutched his wrists, her fingers barely circling the bones, sinews, and muscles. A sensible woman would realize that a man as large as this would dom­inate her in the act of love.

  But he wasn't dominating; he was seducing, and he was good at it. When she opened her eyes again, his mouth had wandered back to her breasts.

  And she'd wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He'd won.

  But she hadn't lost. With his every movement, she won, too.

  She didn't intend to give him her blessing or her permission, yet irresistibly her hands crept up his shoulders, relishing the stretch of smooth skin over warm muscle. When her fingers tangled with the silky curl at his neckline, he froze, and for a moment all she could feel was his warm breath against her damp breast.

  "Touch me some more." His voice wasn't loud, yet she heard it above the thunder. Pulling her nipple into his mouth, he suckled hard, assaulting her senses with his lips and tongue until she forgot to be timid and released the faintest moan.

  A betraying moan.

  Then he sank his teeth lightly into her flesh, scraping across the fragile nerve endings.

  Her fingers clutched at his hair, tugging hard. And when she grew used to his mouth on her breast, he somehow knew . . . and moved on, kissing his way down her rib cage, across her belly, taut with antici­pation, and between her legs. He licked her, a wolf claiming his mate with pleasure. He thrust his tongue into her body, imitating intercourse. Tenderly he sucked on her clit, and when she battled against the rage of passion, he held her still and forced her to accept his attentions.

  She wasn't unconscious; she knew what she was doing, but he conjured an orgasm beyond anything she'd ever imagined. One glorious spasm followed another. Her fragile control crumbled completely. All the moans she'd restrained could no longer be suppressed. She strained, struggled, panted, conscious of her body, tile earth, the storm, the crash of thunder in her ears, and of Jasha.

  "Jasha . . ."

  "What?" He slid up her body, grasped her shoul­ders, massaged them in his large hands. "What? Arm, tell me what I should do.”

  He made it sound as if he would do what she wanted, when in fact he had not only chased her down and held her captive to his body; he'd also forced her to relinquish her will.

  "Jasha, please.”

  "What?" He used his thigh to keep the rush of her climax tumbling through her veins. He kissed her ear, and his voice was tender, gentle, encouraging. "Tell me, Ann. What do you want?"

  She lifted her lids, the effort almost more than she could manage.

  He sounded gentle.

  He looked fierce, his yellow eyes narrowed, intent, unrelenting. He looked like a man, and he moved like an animal, all sleek, oiled muscles moving be­neath glorious damp skin.

  Rain slid down his cheek, and moved by some previously undiscovered instinct, she licked the droplet. It tasted salty.

  He stilled. Slid into position, his legs between hers, his arms beneath her shoulders, his hand cupping her skull, holding her so he could look into her eyes.

  The storm, the earth, the skies, stilled as he made his plea; his voice was hoarse, gravelly, desperate. "Ann, for shit's sake, ask me.”

  "Jasha, please, please"—she skimmed his hair with her ringers—"make love to me."

  The triumphant smile he flashed showed far too much of his white teeth, reminding her of the predator.

  But it was too late for panic. He thrust into her, a hard, steady push.

  And the storm raged again.

  It was too much. He was too big. He hurt her. The world narrowed to the two of them, and as he possessed her with his body, he dominated her with his gaze. His body moved on hers, pulling back, com­ing in, farther and farther each time, touching new places inside her, his teeth and eyes gleaming with triumph. He was slow, savoring each motion, giving her time to adjust yet proceeding relentlessly.

  And she resisted the pain, fighting him, cries breaking from her, and at the same time she strug­gled toward something—satisfaction, or joy, or maybe the joining of two bodies and two souls.

  Finally he was all the way inside. His chest heaved with effort, and the way he watched her ... as if she were now a part of him.

  She shuddered. Never in her life had she been part of anything. Somehow she had thought that sex would be the same, that she would retain her identity, be the outsider looking in. Instead they were joined so closely she didn't know where she ended and he began. He moved, slowly at first, then faster, each movement long and deep, provoking sensations too raw for her to comprehend. She wanted to run again, to escape the onslaught of passion, but he held her close. His chest rubbed against hers. He seduced her with desire and dark, sexual words muttered in her ear. The rain fell on her face, and mixed with her tears of pleasure and exaltation, and it seemed the earth moved, not from the roar of thunder, but from the cataclysm of her joining with Jasha.

  This was sex. This was possession. This was wild and feral, nothing like she'd imagined—and so much better.

  The storm reached its height, a cacophony of light­ning and thunder, of purple clouds fleeing across a sky black with turmoil.

  At the same time, his body moved on hers, drag­ging her through anguish to climax.

  He groaned, deep in his chest, as he thrust and thrust again, and shuddered as he came.

  Lightning struck nearby; she heard the blast, smelled smoke and fire. As she came, the whole world changed.

  She changed.

  The lightning surrounded her. It was in her. It heated her, fused her ... to Jasha.

  Red flared in his eyes, and sh
e saw his face, trans­formed by passion.

  He had changed, too.

  They were one.

  Then, little by little, her body calmed. Jasha's breathing slowed. They came to rest.

  Slowly he pulled away from her; she couldn't be­lieve how hollow she felt. But good . . .

  Right now he looked totally human. If you didn't count being outside and doing it on the ground in the storm, they'd made love normally, without any weird doggy-style positions or any animal-eyed metamorphosis. If she wanted to, she could pretend she'd never seen him transform. Pretend everything was normal.

  Then he did something she didn't believe; he placed his palm between her legs. He showed her his hand, red with her lost virginity. Carefully he placed it on the boulder beside them, leaving a smear of blood. "An offering to the earth," he said. And he was serious.

  Normal?

  Nothing would ever be normal again.

  Chapter 7

  Moving with a care for the ache between her legs, Ann sat up and without taking her gaze off Jasha, she scooted away from him.

  He knelt where he was and watched her, his gaze knowing.

  He saw too much, heard too much. . . . According to him, his sense of smell was acute.

  How was she supposed to keep her secrets?

  As with their passion, the violence of the storm had abated, leaving a steady drizzle that wet the sun­set and made her wonder with melancholy if she'd imagined everything.

  Jasha ... a wolf? Her boss ... a ruthless seducer?

  Yet here she was, sitting in the trackless wilderness as the sun dipped toward the horizon, a virgin no longer.

  And she was afraid of the man who'd taken her.

  Not because he'd hurt her, although he had, but because she hadn't hallucinated. He had been a wolf. In what universe did that make sense?

  He looked as if he wanted to speak.

  She avoided his gaze. Tried to wrap her dress around her. Realized it was ruined—the black silk skirt see-through and muddy, the white bodice torn.

  "Stay here." He rose.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'll be back," he said.

  She noted that he didn't answer her question. Didn't even make a token attempt.

  "Promise me you'll stay here," he insisted.

  If he didn't have to respond to her, she didn't have to promise him. "What else am I going to do? Run away? You've already proved that doesn't work."

  "Promise," he repeated. Without the words, he didn't trust her. Yes, he did know too much.

  "What makes you think I will keep a promise?"

  He chuckled and leaned down to look into her eyes. "You've worked for me as my assistant for how many years, Ann?"

  "Three."

  "Do you think I don't know you at all?"

  All her defiance collapsed. "I promise."

  "Don't sulk." He kissed her lightly, then vanished into the woods, and not even a branch wiggled to show where he'd gone.

  No matter how much her legs trembled with the desire to rise and flee, she wouldn't do it. She didn't want to incite him again. Last time he'd just chased her down and screwed her. Next time, he might. . . kill her.

  She couldn't believe that thought even crossed her mind, much less that she was giving it due consider­ation. But a girl had to be sensible, especially when she was sleeping with a wolf.

  She had the marks to prove it. Her feet hurt; some­where on the run through the woods, she'd stubbed every one of her toes. Her legs ached; vaguely she remembered scratching her thigh on an outstretched branch. Her hand ... she stared down at the pale, whorled skin. The painted tile had sliced her fingers and her palm.

  She'd hit Jasha with the tile. It had flown out of her hand.

  All too dearly Ann remembered the Madonna's dark, serene eyes, the golden halo, the cherry red robes.

  Where had the painting gone?

  She studied the little cove, and hidden between two boulders, deep within a crevice, she spotted a glint of white in a crispy-brown pile of last autumn's leaves. She cleared the debris away, freeing the lady from her hiding place. Carefully she lifted the tile, turned the picture toward the failing light, and stud­ied it.

  It was a historic rendering of the Virgin Mary. In the little vignette, the Madonna had surrounded her­self with family, and that . . . that spoke to Ann's innermost desires. Turning it over, she saw faint burn marks along the edges of the unfinished clay.

  Where had it come from? How old was it?

  How had it come here, now, to her?

  "Ann," Jasha called from the boulder across the way, a warning he'd returned.

  Ann tucked the painting into the leaves beside her, and watched him leap into their little clearing.

  He was respectably dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes.

  Indignation boiled up in her.

  After what had happened between them, she wouldn't have thought she could be embarrassed about anything.

  But she was, and she winced when she thought how bizarre she looked—mud in her hair, on her face, bruises and scabs everywhere. And this for her first experience at lovemaking! If what had happened between them could be called lovemaking. The term seemed trite for something so cosmic. God knew it had shaken her world.

  "Where did you get those clothes?" she demanded.

  "In case of emergency, I have stashes hidden around in the woods." He shook out a man's long-sleeved button-up shirt.

  "Emergency? Like when you chase women through the woods to ravish them?" What a dumb thing to say. She needed to remember—he was a wolf.

  The trouble was, he looked so very Jasha. "I've only ever chased one woman through the woods to ravish her." He wrapped the shirt around her shoulders. "It was wrong of me, but I—"

  "You what?" He couldn't stop now.

  Jasha stuffed her arms into the shirt, then held the two lapels apart and gazed at her. At her breasts, her belly, the junction of her thighs. "Someday, I'll tell you."

  His expression made her tweak the shirt out of his hands and, in brisk movements, button it herself. That was better than responding to his hunger with a renewed hunger of her own, and reaching for him— wasn't it?

  Of course it was. He'd admitted it himself. He'd ravished her and any self-respecting modern maiden would get herself to a police station and file charges.

  But she was glad to be rid of her virginity. Had come here for this exact purpose. She just wanted him to be what she had thought he was before—the perfect man. And a completely human man, too.

  She stole a glance at him.

  He squatted on his heels, his hands dangling on his knees, and watched her with amusement. "You should have let me button that for you."

  "Why?"

  "Because you buttoned it crooked."

  In exasperation, she started again.

  "You're feeling better."

  "I'm a little less—" She hesitated.

  "In pain?"

  "Petrified."

  But was that good? That she was accepting the impossible?

  "It's all right. Next time we make love, I promise I won't hurt you." His golden eyes warmed to a siz­zle. "In fact, I promise I will make you a very happy woman."

  "That is not why I—" He knew that, she realized. He wanted to avoid that conversation.

  She looked around at the dripping wet woods. The branches rustled as animals moved through the brush. She remembered the howling of the pack and realized—he might have a point.

  He folded her collar down. "I'm always naked when I turn, and if the FedEx man shows up and needs a signature, he's less likely to think I'm crazy if I'm wearing something."

  Jasha talked about it so casually. Turning. As if he were a leaf. Or a door handle. And he looked directly at her, challenging her to accept him without question.

  She shook back the long sleeves that drooped over her hands, took one of the cuffs, and folded it back. Anything was better than meeting his eyes.

  "Of course, this i
s Washington. There are nudists all over the place, so the FedEx man probably would simply lecture me on the dangers of sunburn." Jasha took the task away from her, unrolling the slapdash job she'd done and neatly refolding the cuff.

  "I can do it." Because she didn't know how to let him work while she did nothing.

  But he brushed her hands aside. "I think you've never had anyone help you do anything."

  "What do you mean?" She was feeling a little hostile.

  "When you were a kid, was there ever a time when someone helped you dress yourself?"

  "No. Why?" She didn't understand his point.

  "You do everything with a frightening efficiency, and I always wonder—were you ever a child?"

  She suffered an odd combination of hurt—for he seemed to be criticizing her—and surprise—for she never thought he noticed her. "My efficiency is the reason I'm your administrative assistant."

  "One of the reasons. So"—he finished with the cuffs and adjusted her collar—"were you ever a child?"

  "I thought you were asking a rhetorical question."

  "And I'm fascinated that you don't want to answer it. Who taught you to be so self-sufficient, Ann Smith?"

  Was he sorry for what he'd done? Was he trying to make conversation, to make amends before telling her the whole experience had been equal parts rage and foolishness? "The nuns-'

  "You went to a Catholic school?"

  "Yes." That was true—as far as it went.

  "Hm." His eyes were skeptical.

  She shivered. She remembered how often she'd seen him look at an employee or a business rival and know the person was withholding information. She'd always been pleased and impressed, thinking he showed an almost supernatural insight into human behavior.

  Well . . . yeah.

  "Let me see your feet." He lifted first one, then the other, and fsfced. "We need to get you back and put some antiseptic on these cuts. Are they painful?"

  "They're too cold to be painful."

  He chafed her toes. "They're ice cubes."

  "They always are."

  'Til have to carry you." He slipped his arms be­hind her back and under her knees. He pulled her against him and stood. "You can put them on my back in bed."