The Stone Warriors: Damian (11 page)

Damian had to work hard to stifle a gleeful chortle. She was claiming him, clearly marking her territory not only with the physical gesture, but by drinking from his glass. It was a profoundly intimate act. He didn’t know why she was doing it, but he was vain enough to be delighted.

Sabrina, on the other hand, was not. She’d sucked in a surprised breath when Cassandra showed up, and was now giving him a narrow look that was both embarrassed and irritated. As if he’d owed her honesty when she’d been anything but.

“Well,” she said with brittle cheer. “It looks like my friends aren’t going to show. Thanks for the drink, Damian,” she said—another lie, since he hadn’t bought a drink for her. But this one was aimed at Cassandra, which annoyed him for some reason. And it more than annoyed him when she took it a step further, saying to Cassandra, “Lovely to meet you . . . Sandra was it?”

But Cassandra only smiled, and he could feel her body shaking with suppressed laughter. She waited until Sabrina was out of earshot, lost in the crowd, before putting her mouth close to his ear and whispering, “She’s married.”

Damian pulled back and winked at her. “I know.”

Her mouth tightened in aggravation. “And you were hustling her anyway?”

He laughed. “Sabrina was the one doing the hustling, darling. She was quite clear about what she wanted from me. And what she didn’t.”

“Humph. Bitch.” She wrinkled her nose as she slid onto the seat Sabrina had vacated and rested her elbows on the bar. It had the immediate effect of making her full breasts look even more tempting, and he forced himself to look away before she caught him staring. “What’s that you’re drinking anyway?” she asked. “It’s awful.”

“That is twelve-year-old Macallan Single Malt, and it is most assuredly not awful,” he informed her.

Her nose wrinkled again. “Scotch. I’ve heard it’s an acquired taste, one I’ve never appreciated. How do you know about it anyway? I’m pretty sure they didn’t have scotch way back when.”

“They did not, but many a visitor to my rooftop carried a bottle with him, or at least waxed poetic about the flavor. I decided to try it, and the very helpful bartender over there—his name is George—suggested this one. He assures me it’s the best they have.”

“The most expensive anyway,” she said dryly. “Did you put it on the room?”

He frowned for a moment.
On the room?

She saw his confusion. “Did you charge it to our hotel room bill?” she clarified.

“Ah, that. Yes. George was very helpful there, as well.”

Cassandra shrugged. “It’s on Nick’s tab, so go for it. I doubt he’ll mind.”

Damian sighed at the reminder of his absent brother. All of the pleasure of the evening drained away. He reached for his drink, wanting to recapture the mood, the normalcy of being just another visitor having a drink in a bar, surrounded by happy people and good music. The music seemed to shift in response to his need, as a happy, upbeat tune came on. Out on the dance floor, couples formed up and began bouncing around to the music. Calling what they were doing dancing would have been too kind, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Or maybe it was anticipation for what the rest of the night would bring. He wondered briefly how many of them had known each other before tonight. Something speculative must have shown in his face, because Cassandra suddenly laughed and nudged her good shoulder against his.

“I’d say nine out of ten,” she murmured. “At least.”

He gave her a questioning glance, and she lifted her chin in the direction of the dance floor.

“How many of them are just hooking up for tonight. Ninety percent or better.”

“Hooking up?” he asked. He had a pretty good idea of what she meant, but he wanted to see the rise of color on her cheeks when she explained it to him.

“Sex,” she said bluntly enough, but not without a telltale blush. “Like your girl Sabrina wanted with you.”

“She wasn’t mine in any sense of the word,” he said with a touch of aggravation. Cassandra gave him a curious look, but before she could push for more, he slipped a hand over her arm and stood, taking her with him. “I want to dance,” he said and started for the dance floor.

She didn’t fight him, probably because she didn’t want to attract attention. But she did lean in to deliver a hissed objection. “I don’t dance.”

“You mean you can’t?”

“Of course not. I
can
dance. I just don’t.”

The music shifted again, this time becoming soft and romantic. The illicit couples all around them clutched each other almost frantically beneath the lowered lights.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Damian, this isn’t a good idea.”

“One dance,” he insisted. “It will calm you. You need to relax.” He pulled her carefully into his arms. She started to slip her arms around his neck, but winced at the pain it caused and settled for hugging his waist instead. It reminded him of her wound and made him feel guilty. He hadn’t even asked how she was feeling.

“How’s your arm?” he asked.

“Better,” she said unconvincingly.

He didn’t push. He understood. They had a mission, and everything else would have to wait. He caught the scent of her clean hair, felt the press of her soft breasts against his chest. Well, perhaps not everything.

He nuzzled her hair with his chin and tightened his hold just a little bit. She felt good in his arms. Natural. Tall enough that all of the important body parts lined up nicely, and would do so even better in bed.

She sighed and looked up at him. Her big, brown eyes were soft, her plump lips glistening from whatever she’d slicked them with. It made him think of another pair of lips, much farther down her body. Those would be slick and glistening, too. His cock stirred at the imagery, and he shifted that tiny fraction of an inch, so she wouldn’t feel his arousal.

“We probably shouldn’t do this,” she murmured, so softly that he had to lower his head to hear her.

“Do what?” he asked, his mouth almost touching hers when she lifted her face to his.

“Sex,” she whispered, and it was everything he could do not to sweep her up and carry her upstairs to their very elegant room and its big beds.

“Why not?” he asked instead, smoothing his lips over hers.

Her body yearned upward. “Mixing business and pleasure,” she said, her eyes closing when he slipped his tongue between her teeth and explored gently.

“I’ve never heard of that,” he murmured, sliding his fingers through her hair to cup the back of her head as he deepened the kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue stroking, inviting. Her body was soft against him, her fingers flexing in the muscles of his back. This was a different side of Cassandra, the woman instead of the warrior.

The music changed, the romantic song fading into something faster. Cassandra grabbed his wrist.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, and tugged him insistently toward the door.

Damian followed, bemused, wondering at her sudden urgency. He could have stopped her and asked. As strong as she was, he was still immeasurably stronger. But since she was presumably taking him back to their room, he was more than willing to be dragged along. He laughed when she pushed the button for the hated elevator and hauled him inside, when she backed him against the wall and kissed him, swallowing his laughter and then his groan when she pressed her palm against his stiff cock, stroking him through the heavy denim fabric.

“By the gods, Cassandra,” he muttered, cupping her round ass and lifting until her legs wrapped around his waist and his cock was nestled between her thighs. Her arms came around his neck then, their height difference unimportant when he was holding her the way he was. She kissed him again, a violent, biting sort of kiss that spoke of hunger, pure and simple. Cassandra wanted to fuck. She wanted to fuck badly enough that she’d climbed into an elevator with him to get to the room faster.

The elevator slowed and stopped. The doors opened with a chiming sound. Cassandra looked around at the carpeted hallway, and then grinned at him. “Can you walk?”

He grinned back. “Am I not a god?” He tightened his grip and carried her down the hall to their room, turning just enough that she could slide the card into the reader. The door popped open, and he turned, slamming his back against the door instead of hers, mindful that her back was injured, even with her pussy so hot that he could feel it against his denim-clad cock.

“Clothes,” she muttered, tearing at his shirt before he’d even gotten the door shut.

He let her pull his shirt over his head, then released his grip on her ass, sliding her slowly down the front of his body, rubbing every long, lean inch of her against his cock. Her fingers played over the muscles of his arms and chest, squeezing and stroking, while her tongue licked and teased.

“Fuck, woman,” he growled. He grabbed the two sides of her sweater and ripped it open, scattering small buttons.

She gave a laughing sort of gasp as he slid the sweater over her shoulders and off.

“I liked that sweater,” she said, slapping a hand against his chest, a slap that quickly turned into an admiring stroke. “Christ, you have a great chest.” She looked up at him with big eyes. “Do you work out?”

He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped an arm around her waist and palmed her ass, pulling her into another vicious kiss. Her short nails scraped over the skin of his back when he bit her full lower lip, then soothed the sting with a swipe of his tongue, before licking his way over her jaw and down the elegant line of her neck, sucking gently, while his fingers were busy opening the clasp on her bra. He stepped back then, wanting to see the moment her breasts were revealed to him. Her eyes met his, her tongue wetting her lips in a nervous gesture.

He smiled. “You’re beautiful, Cassandra.”

And she blushed. The wildcat who’d dragged him from the dance floor, who’d attacked him in the elevator, blushed at the simple compliment. Something twisted in his chest, an ache as if a dead and unused organ was waking to life. He’d felt something like this before, but it was long ago, and only for his brothers-in-arms. Never for a woman.

“Clothes,” he said hoarsely, reaching out to cup her breasts as he repeated her earlier demand.

He strummed her pretty nipples with his thumbs, and she reached for his belt buckle with a groan. “You first, big guy.” She slid the zipper down and slipped clever fingers inside to wrap around his cock with a hum of pleasure. “And I do mean
big
,” she murmured appreciatively, squeezing until he had to pull away. It was either that or humiliate himself by coming in his pants before he’d even touched her.

“Have pity,” he muttered. “It’s been a while.”

“Oh,” she crooned, moving in until her breasts were pressed against him, her nipples swollen and hard, scraping the skin of his chest. “Poor baby.”

He laughed, but his laughter had an edge of danger to it. “You’ll pay for that.” Ripping open his pants, he shoved them down his legs, then did the same with hers, shoving jeans and panties down together, baring the smooth cleft of her pussy. His eyes widened at the sight, and he licked his lips hungrily. He raised his eyes to meet hers, then slid a hand over her belly and between her legs, holding her gaze as his roughened palm scraped over her clit while his fingers teased her slick cunt, dipping into her tight opening just enough for her to want more before sliding out again. He gave her one finger, then two, as her hips flexed against his hand, demanding.

“What do you want?” he murmured against the hot skin of her jaw, as he nipped his way to her mouth, then kissed her until she couldn’t breathe.

“Damian,” she gasped, sucking in a breath, while her hips thrust against his hand and her fingernails dug into his arms. “Damn it, don’t tease.”

“Poor baby,” he whispered and saw the flash of frustrated awareness in her brown eyes. He slid two fingers deep into her pussy, feeling the tight walls close around him. His shaft swelled to a painful stiffness as he imagined how tight she would be around his cock, how hot and slick. He pulled his fingers out and shoved them into her again, while his thumb pressed against her clit.

She cried out. “Okay,” she moaned. “You win. Now fuck me.”

Damian withdrew his fingers completely, and spun her around, lifting her up and dropping her onto the bed, then gripping her hips and lifting her ass into the air. He held her there, one hand on her hip, while he removed her pants and panties completely, sliding them around her ankles, and tossing them aside before turning back to spread her legs wide.

“Ass in the air, Cassandra,” he ordered. She obeyed, bending her knees and arching her back, even as she buried her face in her arms with a moan. It made him smile, these hints of embarrassment from his lover. But all embarrassment seemed to flee when he moved up behind her and stroked his cock through the wetness between her thighs.

She sucked in a harsh breath and arched her back, spreading her legs wider in invitation. “Now, Damian,” she begged.

But he was in heaven. Gripping his cock, he grazed it through her slick heat again, closing his eyes against the delicious sensation. She made a soft noise of protest, and his eyes flashed open, sensation overcome by sheer lust at the sight before him. Her round ass in the air, firm thighs spread to bare every inch of her pussy, wet and pink and glistening.

His hand tightened around his cock as he positioned himself behind her, and then his patience snapped. He thrust into her without warning, one hand gripping her hip to hold her in place, the other guiding his cock into the hot and tight lushness of her body. She gave a muffled scream as her sheath stretched to accommodate him, as he slammed in, balls-deep, and felt the firm tip of her cervix. Damian paused, bent over her back, breathing hard, his cock buried in the fierce embrace of her cunt as he fought for control. Centuries. He’d waited centuries for this.

Her inner walls shivered over his length, and she moaned softly, wiggling, wanting him to move. Damian cupped his hand over the cheek of her ass and squeezed, before sliding that same hand around and burying it in her pussy. Her clit pulsed against his thumb as he began stroking her, circling around and then scraping the pad of his thumb across the sensitive nub, over and over, until she was panting hungrily, every breath a soft, needy cry as she writhed against his hand.