Windburn (Nightwing# 2) (7 page)

“One,” he rumbled, inching closer, “my wings
are
impressive. You ought to let me take you for a ride. I think you’d like it. Two, I’m an expert in many skills that require deft fingers, picking locks is only one of them. Three, one of these days, you’re going to beg me to grab you from behind…in the dark.” His broad chest now pressed to mine. “But none of these are the reasons I came here.”

“Why…” I licked my lips, now bone-dry from his throaty and naughty and lovely innuendos. “Why did you come here?”

He nuzzled into my hair, nose and lips brushing my neck. “You want me. I can smell it.” My breasts heaved, pressing against his chest.

“It’s a figment of your imagination.” Even I could hear the trembling in my saucy words.

He chuckled and bit my neck, then licked. He had a thing for biting. Not surprising. Even more unsurprising was it turned me on till I burned like mad for him. “I love how you deny me, even as your blood is humming faster…for me.” His mouth found its way back up my throat to my ear. “I want to bury myself inside you and drown in your scent.”

I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted the salty tang of blood. I would not whimper or moan or give the bastard any inclination that he was slowly melting me into a pliant, submissive, willing woman.

“We’ve had this discussion,” I managed to say as my heart rate climbed higher. “That offer is no longer on the table.”

“Yes, it is.” Fingertips trailed the outside of my thighs, teasing under the hem of my dress. “But I’m still not taking the offer.” Two long fingers probed in between my legs, rubbing over the thin silk layer of my panties. Damn the man. I parted my legs more for him. I could practically hear the smile in his voice. “Not until I hear you say what I want.”

His fingers pushed aside the barrier and stroked skin on skin. I snatched a hand from the wall and curled my fist into his shirt at the shoulder, needing to hang on before my legs gave out. “And what’s that?”

“I don’t want another man’s hands on you.”

I laughed. “You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?”

He thrust both fingers inside me, hard and deep. I sucked in a breath, squeezing my eyes shut. My other hand came off the wall, grasping for a hold on his shirt.

“Only me,” he demanded, the dragon riding his vocal cords, eyes flashing with a preternatural glow. “You’re mine already, so you might as well give in.” All the while, his fingers lulled me into a hazy, drunken state.

Even so, defiance held me in its grip, forever clinging to the part of me that refused to let go, to open up, to allow anyone inside. He was right about one thing. I guarded myself well behind an iron wall. I’d been doing so since I was twelve, when the man who was supposed to love me unconditionally tossed me and my mother aside as if we meant nothing. I’d been bricking and reinforcing my wall against men and their false promises till it was solid and strong, giving only my body, never my heart. And now Lorian wanted more. Yielding felt like breaking. I didn’t want to be broken. I didn’t want to fall so far I could never pick myself up again. The only way to prevent it was to keep that wall in place, forbidding entrance to all men. Even one who spoke directly to my heart, as if he knew me better than I knew myself.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, rolling back and forth against the wall.

“Oh, Sorcha,” he rasped close to my ear. “When you finally fall, it’s going to be such a beautiful thing.”

Even while I denied him, I wanted him more. “Kiss me.” My demand was breathy and hoarse and ridiculously stupid. He wouldn’t relent until I did.

By now, I had adjusted to the dim light. One corner of his mouth ticked up. Pure wicked lined his shadowed features.

“Oh. I intend to.” He dropped to his knees and lifted my dress. The fabric of my panties ripped, then he opened his mouth on my—.

“Lorian!”

I gripped the arches of both his wings at eye-level, needing them for balance, shocked and shuddering from the intimate movements of his mouth. I stroked my hands up and down the sloping ridges that lead to the arches, the same, easy tempo of his tongue. He groaned as if I gave him as much pleasure as he gave me. Impossible.

My fingers curled over the dense bone at the base where his wings merged into his shoulder blades, squeezing tight. Under his full command, my body burned, melting under his touch. I tried to hold on, not to climb too far, too fast, but Lorian was licking me into oblivion. A violent shudder racked my entire body. I sucked in a rasping breath.

My legs finally gave out along with my sensory-drunk brain. As I fell into unconsciousness, strong arms caught me, buoying me to safety, keeping me from hurting myself in the fall.

I awoke some time later, groggy, with Lorian lying in his boxers next to me, silent and with a heavy hand wrapped possessively around my waist. At first, I burrowed into my pillow, trying not to think how good it felt to have him so close. But now, I was shocked to find him still here the next morning. He lay on his front, facing the other direction, his left wing draped over me.

Pale morning light filtered across my bedroom, the sun catching something shimmery on his shoulder blade. I frowned and peered closer. A strange marking started from the tip of his shoulder crossing to the point where his skin met the leathery protrusion of his wing. Not just a marking—a scar. Jessen had one of her own, a swirling, iridescent pattern where she’d been shot by a Volt gun when she had thrown herself in front of Lucius to protect him. She couldn’t give me the details of how the burn was transformed into something of sparkling beauty on her skin since she was sworn to secrecy by her husband—one of those Morgon secrets—but she had confessed it was the result of a special healing.

I leaned closer to Lorian and examined the jagged trail about one-inch wide. Shimmering black skin, patterned like scales, ran nearly a foot from shoulder to wing. I sat up on one elbow, his wing sliding off my body. Other scaly marks, all in shining black, nicked up his back and shoulders. One cut a line on his inner thigh, entirely too close to an important male appendage. Thank God, that guy missed the mark.

Feeling a possessive tug, my mood shifted from anxiety to anger at the person who inflicted these scars on Lorian. I reached out to slide a finger along the one slanting close to his wing, but drew back before I brushed skin. Something about him made me want to touch too much, to feel too much.

I panned up his shoulders. The forked edge of a tattoo was dead center on the back of his neck. In black ink, jagged script scrawled the letters
MG
inside a flourish of whispy swirls and sharp-edged lines. MG? Who the fuck was MG?

Frowning and a little miffed, I slipped from the bed and tip-toed into the bathroom, turning on the hot water in the shower. Glancing at my reflection, my fair skin revealed quite a few marks of its own. At the base of my neck to one side was a dark, purple bruise from teeth and suction. I brushed my fingers where his mouth had been, peering closer in the mirror. “Now, how the hell am I supposed to hide this, Nightwing?”

I snorted a laugh at my disheveled self. I wouldn’t be able to hide them. Definitely his intention. Damn, dominant Morgon. Trying to stake his claim, even though he hadn’t taken me entirely the way I’d wanted. Why? Because I still refused to succumb. He hadn’t bullied me or pushed me or grown angry the way another man might. Rather, he laughed and gave me something else instead. Something that had spun my body into such a frenzy and turned my brain into such mush that I collapsed from the climax and passed out. Holy hell, I’d never heard of such a thing. For a brief moment, I wondered what it would be like if I’d said yes, if I’d agreed to be only his. I shook it off and stepped into the shower. Under the hot stream of water, my mind ran in circles, asking a million questions.

How did he have so many scars? From whom? For what reason? Was Nightwing Security training this hazardous? Surely not. Was he involved in some kind of Morgon gang warfare or something? Didn’t seem likely.

Jessen mentioned Lorian had a dark past, but seriously, his scars came from either lots of fights with sharp weapons or from one horrific encounter.

And why were my emotions so off-kilter? I’d attracted amazing men before—human and Morgon. Gorgeous. Hot. Devastatingly talented, though not quite as talented as Lorian. So why was
he
twisting my emotions into a tight knot? And making my stomach want to retch at the thought of the woman who owned the initials MG?

I turned off the faucet, wrung the water from my dripping hair, stepped out, and grabbed a towel. Dabbing my body and hair dry, I stood straight and jumped right out of my skin. “Don’t
do
that!”

Lorian leaned in the doorway with crossed arms, dark jeans slung low on his hips, shirtless, and a devil-may-care smirk plastered on his face. I lifted and tucked my towel higher, which only rose the bottom, exposing more thigh. His uneven gaze of blue and gold examined me from bottom to top as if I was there purely for his enjoyment.

“Do you mind?” Now my mood was snippy and irritated, anxiety and anger taking a backseat.

“I don’t mind at all.”

Damn if his morning voice wasn’t sexy as hell. He took my lavender robe from a hook on the wall and held it open for me.

Yeah. Like I could trust him to help me into my robe and keep his hands off. Did I even want him to? He cracked a smile, melting my insides to butter. I
hated
that he could do that.

“What’s wrong, Linden? Don’t trust me?” He arched one brow.

A challenge. He knew I’d never turn one down. Ever.

I stepped forward, dropped the towel, and gave him my back, holding one arm out. He helped me slide it on. I quickly tied the robe, his heat unmoving, persistent. Pivoting, my eye caught two more silver-black scars, iridescent and shining under the light—one skating across his right pectoral, the other slicing his finely muscled abdomen. I wanted to touch. But didn’t.

“What in the hell have you been doing, Nightwing? You’re covered in scars.”

His amused expression faded, but he didn’t budge out of my way, lifting a strand of my wet hair and letting it slide through his fingers. I took a step back out of reach, picking up the towel, and squeezed my hair dry.

He watched my every move, letting silence stretch a moment before finally answering. “It’s nothing.”

I faced the mirror, combing through the damp strands, the curls tightening as my hair air-dried, pretending his presence didn’t bother me. It did. “That’s a whole lot of nothing marking up your back.”

He shrugged. “Remnants of a wild boyhood.”

“Boyhood? You got those when you were a child?”

“Not exactly a child.” He ducked back into the bedroom and sat on the bed to pull his boots on. I followed, comb in hand. I watched in fascination as he slipped on his shirt, the flaps in the back sliding around his wing joints, reached behind, and zipped the flaps all in one swift movement.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story.” He stood and headed for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder. “I should get back to my place before the rest of the world’s awake.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, shuffling after him. But I wanted him to leave. Right?

He unlocked the balcony door and slid it open, turning sharply. I stopped abruptly, his wing fanning my face with a near-miss. “I’ve broken company policy for you. I’d like to break it even more.” He grinned, wrapping one arm around my waist and pulling me flush against his body.

Unprepared for sudden affection, I splayed one hand on his chest, the comb fisted in the other.

His stubble brushed my cheek as he leaned close to my ear. “See you at the office.” He nipped my jaw. “Don’t be late.”

He let me go, took three strides, and leapt over the edge. I gasped when he disappeared. Just as fast, he shot up at a sharp angle high above the skyscrapers, flying so damn fast he was nothing but a tiny, black dot in the distance within seconds. It wasn’t until then that I realized I had been holding my breath, captured by the fierce beauty of him in flight. I stared at the spot where he’d disappeared a moment longer, then walked back into my apartment to find the old Sorcha and slap some sense into her.

* * * *

“But do you think the light will be too dim? Will it make humans nervous?”

I laughed, pushing open the glass doors of Nightwing Industries. “Willow, the lighting doesn’t make a difference to humans. Actually, that’s not true. Humans prefer the dim lighting, as well, because it hides imperfections and allows more opportunity for naughty play.”

Willow blushed, turning her pale face pink.

We’d spent all morning at
Lumiere’s
, selecting the perfect fixtures for the club. She was concerned about Morgon eyesight sensitivity. I was concerned about setting the right mood for nighttime encounters. Fortunately, our goals merged to the same end.

Willow dropped her voice. “To be honest, I think this will be the coolest club out there.”

Belka, ever her shadow, smiled in approval.

I smirked. “Hmph. I know it will.”

“Ladies, just in time.” My heart leapt at his voice. Lorian walked toward us with Fallon in tow. “We were headed to the building site. I’d like you to accompany us to see how the work is progressing.”

Gathering my wits, I nodded with a professional smile. His gaze was anything but.

“Sure. I’ll meet you all there,” I said, trying to muster my smooth professional voice.

Lorian opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, and nodded. We headed back to the elevator, a much larger space than in human buildings to accommodate wings. Even with their wings tucked, we were crammed close together. I made sure to position myself in the far corner with Fallon between Lorian and I.

“How did the morning go?” asked Fallon.

“Fine.” I said, forcing my thoughts away from the gorgeous man a few feet away who’d been half-dressed in my bathroom this morning.

“The fixtures are complete,” reported Willow. “Just a few more details, and we’ll be done. Now Sorcha and I can focus on the PR aspect and the opening night entertainment.”