"Sizemore, Susan - Laws of the Blood 3 - Companions" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sizemore Susan)

"A cop would make a dangerous companion." His hand had settled over her breast. Selena was aware that he was aware that her nipple was hard and hot against his palm. "So I think I'll take you for myself."

"Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Selena scrubbed her hands over her tear-streaked face and swore some more.

The worst part about this recurring nightmare wasn't waking up covered in sweat, scared out of her mind and with a racing heart. Selena almost didn't mind the terror. It was the unbearable arousal that drove her up the wall, at least out of her bed to stumble across the dark bedroom into the bathroom.

She washed the sweat off her face, which woke her up further. That really wasn't what she wanted. What she wanted here, alone, in the dead of night, was black oblivion. No dreams, no memories. She sure as hell didn't want to think, and being awake meant thinking. She was trembling, her body aching and alive, and she hated it, wanted to divorce her mind from singed, singing nerve endings and the siren call that was never answered. That she never wanted answered, but still, she couldn't help but radiate -

She stepped into the shower still wearing the T-shirt she slept in and stood in a cascade of cold water that did nothing for her body but get it wet. The burning didn't go away; it never did. Masturbation didn't help, so she didn't bother. She stood with her hands braced against the tiles and tried to get over it.

Instead, as her senses gradually grew sharper, she began to realize that the longing was more than inside her. It was in the air around her, the water washing over her. When she closed her eyes, it was a presence she felt on her skin rather than icy needles of water. The scent she breathed in was the musk of sex rather than the aroma of soap or shampoo. This wasn't all her doing, and it wasn't a dream. Her imagination was not of the vivid sort. She'd found out she had some gifts - curses - she didn't know she had, but Selena Crawford never imagined things.

When she turned off the water, she knew. She wasn't alone. She wasn't the only one consumed with this vivid need.

She jerked back the shower curtain. The bedroom was darker than it should be beyond the open bathroom door. She pulled off the soaked shirt and dropped it on the floor. "Steve?" she said, walking naked through the doorway. "What the hell are you doing here?"


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Chapter 4
She always called him Steve.

She didn't pretend she was happy to see him. That didn't stop her from being all over him the moment he stepped out of the shadows. It didn't stop him pulling her down on the bed. He thought that maybe he could stop himself if he wanted to, but if that was true, he'd have an answer for her question. What the hell he was doing here was all too evident, especially since he wasn't wearing any more clothes than she was. He'd shed them as soon as he'd come in the window, while she was still in the shower, while they were both still in the clutches of a dream that was no dream at all.

There were no words between them as they made love and no thoughts, either. But for the low, urgent sounds of passion, they moved in isolated silence. Neither wanted the act; both needed it.

And the taste of her! Sweet wine that almost made him believe this curse was the gift of a goddess. He was blood drunk the moment he pierced the skin of her breast. In that moment, she found the strength to dig her short nails deep into his shoulders. It was not possible for a mortal to wound him, but Selena wasn't one to pay attention to limitations set by god, man, or monster.

You belong to me.

I've heard it before.

Her answering thought made him laugh. Selena was the only person in the world who could make him laugh. Laughter drove out some of the beast, enough so that he lifted his head reluctantly from the puncture wounds he'd been suckling. He'd taken no more than a few drops, and he'd given back nothing. Not this time, he swore.

The actual swearing came from Selena, even as she made the vow he was bound to eventually break. "Goddamn, it! You want to fuck, or do you want to think?"

He realized he'd risen to kneel between her widespread thighs. For a moment, he looked down on her as if from a mile away. Her skin was white as milk against the dark covers, and there was so very much of it. She was a wide-hipped woman with large breasts and long, long legs. She had hard muscle rather than feminine softness, and the lines of scars from old wounds were beauty marks to him. She looked up at him with blue eyes, electric with hate and passion, and held up a hand. The gesture was more demand than pleading. Any moment now she was going to grab him by the hair and pull him down on top of her.

He was breathing hard, but he managed to draw in enough breath for irony. "I don't suppose you could manage terror or gratitude."

He got a sharp punch in the gut for his trouble. Laughing once more, he sank down on top of her, into her, both her body and her mind, and she opened both to him.

"You need a haircut."

It was a ludicrous thing to say. Worse, it sounded so domestic. They did not have a domestic relationship nor any relationship at all. She should be asking him what he was doing in town, or, more importantly, when he was leaving.

"A man's strength is in his hair."