To Crave a Blood Moon (7 page)

Why should she feel such fear?

He was starving. That must be it. She'd never felt
starvation before. Apparently it felt this dark. This… deadly.

Something else simmered inside him, too. Something more. She prodded carefully at the feeling.
Lust.
It matched that dark craving in its intensity. Frightening, but not as frightening as the dark, clawing hunger. She would do anything to escape that.

Anything
.

The lust and the black hunger warred, struggling for dominance. The hunger nosed ahead, deepened, grew. She gasped, struggling for breath, staving off her complete descent into terror.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Your name.” If he just gave her his name, she would feel connected to him, not so terrified. Maybe she could beat down the hunger. Maybe she could reach
him
.

She turned her face into him, seeking. “Please.” Lips on his cold skin, she whispered against his scratchy cheek, ignoring the slight softening inside her at the utter maleness swirling around her.

“You're hurting me.” She tried to lift her arms to shove at the impenetrable wall of him, but his hands pinned them down on either side of her head.

“God, help me,” he groaned, pressing his hardness against her belly in a deep grind. Again,
lust.

“Oh!” Fresh panic flared to life inside her. And a spark of response. His pain, the agony of his hunger
threatened to consume her… but this emotion, his desire made her purr and arch against him in shameful response.

He nudged her higher on the floor and forced apart her legs, fitting his hardness directly at the juncture of her thighs. He released one of her arms. Instead of shoving at him with her hand, beating him, scratching him, fighting him, she curled her fingers into a naked shoulder, hissing at the contact, at the sensation of smooth, male flesh… instantly infused with all his lust, all his need, all his dark
wanting
. For her.

Her breasts grew achy, tightening at the tips. He rubbed the head of himself against her in feverish strokes, her slacks the only barrier between them.

Her mouth opened wide against his bristly cheek. A sharp cry ripped from her throat at the friction, at the pressure between her thighs that wasn't enough, wasn't deep enough, hard enough, fast enough. She needed her pants off.

The lust was enough. Enough to block out all the ugly emotions that had swirled around her moments ago.

God help her, as his desire rose, the blackness receded, faded to nothing.

The lust rose, stronger. Hotter.

“Sebastian,” he spat out, his cheek rippling against her lips as he spoke.

“What?” She felt drunk, addled in the head.

“My name… is Sebastian.”

There. The personal connection she craved, needed, to not feel so afraid. She let the tip of her tongue taste him, lick his bristly jaw, desperate to chase the whiff of menacing emotions even farther away. Instinct drove her. Told her she needed to do this. Sliding her hand between them, she found his hard length. With a shuddering sigh, she wrapped her fingers around him. He seemed to grow even larger in her hand.

“You're playing with fire,” he growled, his other hand sliding slowly down her arm, dragging over her bare flesh, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her.

“I know,” she gasped, flexing her fingers over him and giving him a gentle squeeze. The gnawing ache in him receded, replaced with stark, unadulterated lust.

And she did know.

Deep down, at a basic level, she understood how she could let him touch her, how she could touch him like this—a man whose face she would not even recognize on the street.

Stoking his desires obliterated all those dark, soulsucking emotions. Her survival led her to this.

Above all, Ruby had always been a survivor.

She couldn't stop from responding. Couldn't stop
him as his hand undid the drawstring at her waist and unzipped her pants. His pulsing need hit her like a sledgehammer, leaving her breathless… willing, an accomplice in an act her rational self opposed.

The back of his fingers brushed her belly. The touch spiked heat straight between her legs.
Pleasure. Need
. She hissed at the sensation, loving what he was doing. What he felt. What she felt. There was no distinction.

Desire like this—
for her
—had never rolled off any man before. If it had, she would not have been able to resist.

Just as she couldn't resist now.

“I'm sorry,” he gasped as he leaned down and pulled off her pants in a single move. “I know you don't understand… but I can't stop. I have to have you. So beautiful, so clean.” They hit the floor nearby. Cool air caressed her legs. Goosebumps puckered her flesh. She shook her head, beyond words.

Remorse mingled with his passion as his weight came over her again, the feel of his hard muscled legs a shock sliding against her own. Hot need drove him and spilled over into her, leaving her writhing and aching with need.

He swiped a thumb over her cheek. His dark voice rumbled through her, hitting every aroused nerve as he spoke. “This may be the only thing that saves you.”

Strange words, but she knew them to be true,
felt
his conviction.

“Yes.”

He ripped her panties off then, leaving her exposed. Vulnerable.

He wedged himself deep between her legs, hard hands falling on her hips, holding her still.

She widened her thighs for him, offering herself up, welcoming him inside her body as if she did this sort of thing all the time. As if the large hard press of him was normal, familiar.

She throbbed, the core of her wet with desire. For him. For this.

Love with a stranger. A man she didn't even know.
It's not supposed to happen like this
…

He slid strong arms beneath her back, lifting her closer, off the unforgiving ground as if he cared for her comfort. Her head came off the floor.

Then he was there, hard, large, shoving his way inside her, stretching her with his fullness. No gentleness—just swift, hot need in one driving thrust.
Relief. Ecstasy. Gratification
.

She was wet, eager, taking him into her body as a more experienced woman would. Only she was not experienced. Sharp pain shot through her as the fullness of him sank deeply, a throbbing burn buried between her thighs.

She shoved at his chest and arched against him even as she felt his exultation, his deep pleasure sinking inside her warmth. Those ripples of bliss washed over her, making it the strangest moment of her life… this pain mingling with intense pleasure.

“Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” he muttered as he slid out of her and plunged back inside. If possible, she felt him even deeper. He groaned, the sound reverberating into her.

He dove a hand into her hair, holding her for him. His other hand rose to clutch her breast through her tank. “I can't stop… it has to be…”

She nodded, murmuring incoherently. His lips found hers, his mouth hot, devouring. Her inner muscles stretched, accommodating the size of him, accepting the pleasure-pain.

It has to be. Yes, yes, yes…

He moved again then, faster, each pump harder, more savage than the one before. He was a beast over her and it didn't scare her. It thrilled her. The hard sound of their bodies meeting as he thrust in and out inflamed her. She lifted her hands to his flexing biceps, nails digging as she hung on, clung. Soft gasps tore from her lips, whimpers that grew louder with each plunge of him inside her until she screamed her need.

He lowered his head, biting down on her breast through her tank, taking the tip inside his mouth. She arched, offering herself closer for his hungry mouth.

Her hips lifted in an instinctive move, heels digging into the ground, allowing him deeper penetration. On and on, he moved. Hard, grinding thrusts that drove her into the floor.

It should have horrified her. For twenty-six years she could never get close to a man and now she let this
happen. Her hands slid down his taut, bare back, feeling every undulating muscle. He no longer felt cold. Warm muscle and sinew rippled beneath her palms.

His pleasure burned raw, deep, primitive, and she experienced every bit of it. She could not even decipher his pleasure from hers anymore. In this, they were one, joined. Maybe it was all his and she just borrowed it, claimed it for her own. She didn't give a damn.

Her body tensed, tightening like a wire stretched taut. She exploded deep within, quivering beneath him, but she had no time to soak up the sensation before another was on her. In fast succession, she came again. And then again.

Her own climaxes had not subsided before she was swept away on his own ride.

He groaned, the sound strange, more animal than man.

He moved faster then, ruthless as he pounded into her, his hands digging into her hips, raising her from the ground. She looked up into his face, his eyes. They changed for a second, brightened at the centers. Glowed like the moon itself outside their cell. Then his eyes closed. He shouted. The sound reverberated through his body and into hers.

She took his climax deep inside her, crying out
at the intensity, the savagery… ten times what her own climax had felt like. This was wild, brutal, unearthly… like soaring into the sky and leaving her body behind.

He fell over her, his hard length still buried inside her… filling her, pulsing, a reminder, evidence that couldn't be escaped.

She pressed at the muscled shoulders stretched above her, the skin slick against her palms. She sensed his utter, deep gratification. His sudden drowsiness. Safer than the dark killing hunger. Safer than the rampant lust that just swept her away.

“Please. Get off me,” she murmured in a voice so soft and quiet she wasn't sure she had spoken aloud.

He rolled off her and she sat up, snatching her ruined panties. She used them to try and clean herself, refusing to look at him, too mortified.

Oh, God. Her hand shook as she worked. Not only had she let some stranger take her virginity on the floor of a basement cell—a prison—she had not even used protection. She had lost herself entirely. Tears burned her eyes. How could she have let another's emotions so rule her that she blocked out her own?

Because his emotions were stronger, overwhelming. Too tempting.

She nodded, dragging her khakis on. Everything about him was more intense. More powerful than anyone she had ever met—
felt
. She'd gone on dates where the guy entertained sexual feelings… it never made her jump into bed with him. Quite the opposite. Those feelings had always made her feel too self-conscious.

Adele was right. She wasn't ready for the world.

Maybe she never would be.

“Hey.” His shadowed form sat up. “I'm sorry—”

“Leave me alone.”

“You were a virgin—”

“Shut up,” she bit out, hating the reminder of what she lost. All that she surrendered to him. Not that she ever could forget it. Still, she didn't need him saying it aloud. Scurrying to the far side of the room, away from him, she tucked her knees to her chest and tried not to notice the dull soreness between her legs. She still felt him there… the aching throb.

“Why didn't you say something before we—”

She laughed, the sound hollow and brittle. “There wasn't much time for talking, was there? And would it have stopped you?”

He moved, stood, a towering shadow. “No. I had to do it.” His words were flat, without apology. “There was no other way.”

She shook her head. “What's that supposed to mean?”

None of it made sense. Not this, not what they had done. Not him, not her. Not the damned werewolves who locked them in here. Nor the fact that, deep down, she wasn't sorry it happened either.

She breathed in, filling her lungs with stale air. At least the terror was gone. For now.

She opened her mouth, ready to ask him about that… about why she felt the same black tide of hunger from him as she did from those lycans, but she bit her lip, stopping herself, reluctant to remind him of the emotions that ruled him… that convinced her it was okay, necessary even, to stoke his lust. To enjoy it as her own.

He wasn't one of them. That was enough. She was alive. Only a deep sense of satiation hung on the air. For whatever reason, he no longer emitted the terrible gnawing ache and she wouldn't question why. She was just glad for it.

“You did want it to happen, right?” His question cracked the air. He prowled the space, his hands flexing at his sides, tension singing through his every pore.
Regret
. The sour taste of it coated her mouth.

She wanted to deny it, wound him. Wanted to insist that she hadn't wanted it, hadn't reveled at the
sweet fullness of him inside her. She wanted to call him a bastard.

“It was… fine,” was all she could manage to get out.

“Why did you let me—”

“I won't let you do it again,” she broke in, her voice hard with defiance, unwilling to answer his question . . . that his own want and desire had swept her away. The last thing she would do was confess her ability to feel his emotions even better than her own. Everyone who ever knew what she was thought she was a freak, looked at her like she was some sort of witch. Besides, telling him she was an empath wouldn't change anything, anyway.

His voice reached her, deep and low as thunder in the distance. “I can't promise you that.”

Her eyes flared wide at the words. Alarm knotted her shoulders. And a secret thrill. “You will. You will leave me alone. I'm telling you now I don't want to do…” she couldn't even say it. She settled for: “I don't want to do
that
again with you. Understand?” Desperation made her voice shrill. She wouldn't let herself get swept away by him again. “You'll promise me that right now.”

“If I made that promise, I would only be lying.” His deep voice rolled over. Like some kind of ancient aphrodisiac, she felt herself responding to the sound
of it. Her nipples hardened against the cotton of her bra. She palmed one breast and felt the wetness from his mouth still there, soaking the cotton fabric, caressing the beaded peak.