Overlord: The Fringe, Book 2 (12 page)

She growled. “I never should have said that.” She lowered her voice. “Not out loud, anyway.”

“Let’s reverse roles.”

She dropped into a defensive posture, her feet gripping the white floor mats as she centered her bodyline.

He made three light taps with his feet and hands to her body. Her blocks were a shade shy, her countermoves way off.

Frustrated, she thrust out her arms, palms open and up. “I give!”

He considered taking advantage of her surrender, but only for a moment. “Let me show you what you’re doing wrong.”

Her gaze narrowed. “You want to teach me to fight better?”

“If you want to learn.” By teaching her, he could get close and smell that compelling mix of scents she gave off. Anger and frustration smoked her floral scent.

“I’ll use everything you teach me against you.” A deep-seated compulsion caused her to challenge him at every opportunity.

“Granted.”

“Deal.”

When she stuck out her hand, he shook and released before he could give in to his urge to pull her into his embrace.

After telling her never to let anger move her, he walked her through several countermoves and blocks. They sparred again. This time, she landed a blow. Unfortunately, underestimating her, distracted by the rich scent of her, he stepped forward to block her arm and her foot blasted into his hip. He crashed into the padded wall.

“I didn’t mean to kick you that hard—at all!”

Mary rushed forward, her eyes wide, mortified. She may have missed some of the finer points of karate, but she held to principle. Kumite was a game, not a situation to hurt. Her reaction made it clear that she’d tried to land a close blow, a tap. She’d never intended to actually kick him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” He rubbed his hip and realized he’d gained another bruise. One that would match her blows to his chest and chin. He couldn’t remember how many years it had been since he’d had fight marks on his carefully maintained body.

“Does it hurt?” She slipped her hand in the side vent of his drawstring pants, touching his naked hip.

“Yes.” He stopped her from removing her hand. “Your touch soothes the hurt.”

Her gaze met his.

A sudden shift and the floral citrus scent of her desire flooded him. Her hand gripped his hip. No doubt she could feel the fabric pulling as his erection pushed against the thin front of his pants. For the life of him, he wanted to take her hand and wrap her fist around—

“I think we should stop.” She pulled her hand away.

He captured her wrists and pressed her back against the padded wall, pinning her hands above her head. Panting, he dipped his head to hers but held off kissing her by the slimmest margin.

Mary froze.

Awash in the smell of her, he held her captive with the bulk of his body and nestled his erection against her soft belly.

She gasped.

Fear tainted her longing with dark, turned earth.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary.”

She shuddered against his low voice, her gentle movements making him harder.

“Am I?”

“Fear and desire.” He rocked up. Hard, throbbing, he rubbed himself against the plush promise of her captured body.

She struggled for a moment, but the padded wall absorbed her movements. He pressed his lips against the left side of her neck, kissing his way to her ear.

“Fear.” He nipped her earlobe, then lowered his head to her right side, did the same. “Desire.”

She gasped but didn’t struggle further.

Chuckling, he bit her neck. “Transparent Mary. Fear and desire. I smell them on you as a dark mark of perfume.”

After a drawing sigh, she jutted her hips out and nudged him with a slow roll of her entire body. “I’m not the only one.”

Surprised, pleased, he moaned against her lips. “The difference is there is no fear in me.” His fists to her wrists clarified that he held her with full advantage.

“No?” she asked.

Her quivering voice compelled him to rock against her belly with blatant promise.

“No,” he confirmed, placing his mouth so close to hers he could taste her breath.

“Then why do you do that?”

“What?” He couldn’t think straight, not with her lips ripe and inviting just beneath his. Not with her body held captive to the aggression of his. He’d never wanted a woman with such burning intensity. He craved Mary to the point he worried he would take her against her will. Take her against the padded wall of his dojo, drowning out any protest with the possession of his mouth.

“You come so close to kissing me, but you never do.”

He looked right into her eyes. “The choice is yours, Mary.”

For a moment, he watched as her eyes grew wide and her breath stopped, as if time stood still between them. In the end, she lifted her head and pressed her lips against his.

The tentative touch of her mouth burned through him, finer than any rage or joy. Such pure, raw emotions catapulted him into a frenzy of desire. He pressed against her yielding flesh and kissed her hard. Forcing her lips open, he let go of her wrists to grasp her slender hips through their thin covering of white cotton.

He lifted her against the wall, slid her up and then forced her legs apart, moving between them to press even closer, as if to become a part of her. Rocking her against the padded wall, he felt her legs wrap around his hips as her thighs tightened with greedy encouragement.

His reaction swift, possessive and passionate, he ground himself against her, moaning out her name. As he pressed, friction rode between them, making him harder, her wetter. Thin cotton fabric in black and white the only barrier. He wanted to rip the fragile layers away. Fill her. Possess her. Ravage her while the heady perfume of her wanton encouragement saturated his senses.

His mouth filled with the rich, ruby-fruited blood orange of her hunger. She twined her small body around him in urgent rhythm and desperate need, cooing her lust in his ear with her panting breath.

The wet heat of her soaked through the thin fabric of her white gi pants. So wet, as they worked against each other, she soaked the fabric of his. A tug on the drawstring of her pants, one on his, and he’d be able to bury himself deep within her sweet, wet heat.

Groaning, he lowered his head to force aside the V-neck of her white gi. Moving lower, he found her coffee-colored nipple and pulled. His teeth nibbled as his tongue took her compelling scent to his mouth and nose. She smelled and tasted so damn willing and eager, like ripe fruit begging to be picked. She wanted and needed as much as he.

Mary arched her back and cupped his seeking head to her breast.

Surrender.

A fusion of flowers, oranges, spices and rich, verdant earth covered with fresh spring grass emanated from her as if all of her were open to him.

He found her mouth again, thrusting his tongue to hers, penetrating her mouth as he longed to do the same to her core.

Fear and desire, contrasting, conflicting, the scents overwhelming and intoxicating, filled his mind and his mouth with a delicious mélange. Mary tasted fresh and raw and—

“Stop.”

Breathless, her voice shaking, Mary barely managed to whisper the one word. He wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard her, wanted to keep grinding himself against her, wanted to rip off her pants, then his, and bury himself with one hard thrust.

“Please.”

He looked down into her velvet-brown eyes and found them filled with terrified bewilderment.

“You said you wouldn’t steal from me.” Her voice shook, echoing the trembling panic in her body.

Her terror dashed cold across his hot flesh. Growling a string of expletives, he set her down. Rumbling with strong need, tempered by a reluctance to force, he longed for her to succumb. He wanted her capitulation more than he’d wanted anything in the whole of his life. He refused to settle for anything less than her willing submission.

He understood why she felt overwhelmed. She’d kissed him, and he’d pounced on her. One kiss and he thought he could do whatever he wanted to do. He shook his head. Mary wasn’t that simple, and he could never hate himself enough if he forced her to do something she didn’t enthusiastically embrace.

As soon as he released her, she ran from the dojo without looking back. Not a coward, but a woman who knew full well what would happen if she lingered.

He cursed himself a thousand nasty names as he stood fully primed like an animal that allowed his targeted mate to escape.

One kiss, one sweet trembling kiss from her lips compelled him to slam her into the wall and practically rape her. Still, his erection throbbed, and the base part of him wanted to chase her down and take her on the damn floor if he had to.

If he caught up to her and pushed with the right word, the right touch, he knew she’d let him have his way. Or at least he could overwhelm her such that she’d make, at best, a feeble, breathless protest.

Stop.

Please.

Skilled hands would override her objections and she would part her legs with panting eagerness. He could taste that her lovers had been woefully unskilled. Probably lovesick young bucks who took their pleasure without a fleeting thought to hers.

First, he would bring her to the brink repeatedly with swirling fingers, scraping teeth, and a deft tongue, and then, and only then, would he take his own pleasure. He would thrust himself to her body and taste her passion as he answered her need with his own. He would revel in her surrender as he filled her body with the delicious scent of orgasm. Mary’s pleasure would be ambrosia.

Traces of moisture lingered on the front of his black gi pants, evaporating in the dry air. It didn’t do a damn thing to cool the heat of his erection. He could smell her all around him. Her scent fused to his brain like an addictive drug that latched to wide receptors. The base primal part of him knew that wet female scent of desire, mixed with a flavor unique to Mary.

“Prime Bastard knows exactly how to bring that delicious smell to the peak of potency.”

Higher conscience knew that to steal from her would not bring him pleasure. Her enthusiastic participation would bring him pleasure. Mary had to want in the same measure as he, and she did, but she couldn’t give herself over because of the secrets between them.

Groaning, he went to the locker-room shower. Cool water rushed down his body. Still hard, he tried to ignore his straining erection as he washed with brisk efficiency. His thrusting flesh refused to be ignored.

“Damn.”

He thought of a million other things, but Mary danced in his mind until he satisfied the painful drive with his own hand.

It didn’t take long.

Three tight strokes.

Fist to his straining flesh, he came so hard he had to steady himself against the blue-tiled wall. Ragged and blasting, his breath eventually slowed. The passion that consumed him receded to a bearable hum.

“Great.” He pushed off the wall. “A hundred gallons of cold water, a one-handed exercise, and I’m still unable to think of something besides Mary.” As soon as he said her name, the scent of her filled him again.

“Damn!”

He yanked the wall spigot all the way to cold and stifled a scream as icy water hit him. Despite the frigid flow, he got hard.

Chapter Eleven

Mary ran to the only place she thought she would have privacy—her bathroom. Slamming the door, she pressed against the painted wood as she breathed in frightened gasps. Her nipples rubbed against the gaping cotton gi, and she pulled the edges closed as she retied the wide, white belt.

In the forbidden art of karate, the darker the belt, the higher the rank, black topping all. Commander considered himself so high up he didn’t even bother to wear a belt, just thin black gi pants that gave him total freedom of movement.

And move he did. He made it damn clear that to fight him physically would be a total waste of her time. Compared to him, she deserved to wear a white belt. He’d provoked her anger and used it against her. He told her so, then he told her to concentrate. When she did, she kicked him, because he was distracted by, well, she wasn’t sure.

He’d been sniffing again. Sometimes fast like a musk-squirrel, other times with a slow fullness like a curious wolf. He’d taken a long lazy sniff of her and not only let down his guard, but he turned into the direction of her kick. Her heart stopped when she thought she’d injured him. Had her foot landed down and over a few inches, she would have blasted him square in his cluster. She giggled. One blow that hard to his crotch would have dropped Commander for hours, if not days, if not permanently.

Without thinking, she plunged her hand into the side vent of his pants. His skin like taut velvet atop hardened muscles compelled her to explore. After he had taken a deep sniff, his erection pulled the gi pants against the back of her hand, and she’d tried to retreat.

Somehow, shortly after that, she’d ended up against the wall, and gave in to the temptation to kiss him. Her first kiss. Then all of a sudden, he’d been right where she wanted him, between her legs, rocking into the welcoming warmth of her. His blatant hardness rising against her wetness compelled her panic since he was in the
last
position she should let him get into. Wanting him, fearing him, crazed for him and blinded by the intensity of him, she hung on to him as he lived up to his name. Commander took command with thrilling aggression.

His powerful, primal body felt good—great, actually. No, more like fantastic. Every lusty fantasy of Overlord from her youth sprang to life all at once. She couldn’t help but picture her shadowy hero having his rugged, sharp, and wickedly arrogant face and body, along with his cock-sure attitude. She couldn’t help but make Commander the star of her Overlord fantasies, but to have him act out her dark-of-night dreams terrified her.

When he touched her, she forgot everything but the screaming needs in her body. His lemon zest, the coffee-and-sugar of his mouth, the feel of his questing lips on her pleasure-swelled breasts made her forget her own name, and care not one whit for his. Commander made surrender easy. She wanted to give in and follow his lead—big carrot indeed.