Hunter's Prey: Bloodhounds, Book 2 (7 page)

She tipped the serving tray as she shifted on his lap, trying to angle her hips over his. When the head of his cock prodded against her, she drew in a breath and bit his ear. “Yes?”

He responded with a hand at her hip, dragging her down, and Ophelia bit him harder as he drove deep inside her. It was nothing less than possession, and she dropped her face to his shoulder as she shivered through those first breathtaking moments.

“You take me.” He mumbled the words against the top of her head as his fingers moved restlessly up and down her back, touching and stroking, soothing even as they sought to excite. “So willing. Perfect.”

“Because you feel so good.” Her voice sounded dreamy to her own ears, vague and drunk with pleasure.

Hunter spread his fingers wide just beneath her shoulder blades and made an approving noise. “Lean back. I have you.”

Of course he did. Ophelia fell against his hand, let him lean her back. “You have me.”

The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed as he held her suspended, her back arched. Even a strong man would have grown tired quickly, but he was a bloodhound with endless energy to burn, and he rocked into her just like that.

Ecstasy shivered up her spine with every easy thrust, and she struggled to keep her eyes open and locked on his.

“You’ll let me do anything.” He lowered her to the mattress finally, settled her gently before stroking his fingers over her shoulders to tease her breasts, as if he had all the time in the world.

It was then that she remembered they had only three days. Half that time had already slipped through her hands like water, and she closed her eyes as panic gripped her.

He hadn’t wanted this. When sense returned, would he want to pretend it hadn’t happened at all, at least until the hunger of the new moon reasserted itself?

His hands crashed to the mattress on either side of her, fisting on the sheets and catching stray strands of her hair. “Are you hurt?”

If she didn’t answer… Ophelia opened her eyes and wrapped her hands around his arms. “I’m fine, honey.”

His eyes went wild as he snarled, “
You’re not fine.
”

He needed the truth, even if she regretted it later, but a whisper was all she could manage. “I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to watch you walk away.”

A frown. His gaze roamed her face, clearly searching for hints of a lie, then settled on her mouth. “I’m not walking away.” He licked her lower lip, nipped at it. “Mine.”

Here, and for now. The near-madness of the new moon allowed for no complexities—there was
mine
and there was
not
, with nothing in between, no places to exist as a man and a woman who barely knew each other but just might have a chance for someday.

Her own world hadn’t been boiled down to bare instinct, and she remembered his words all too well.
No, ma’am. I don’t figure that’s a good idea.
He’d denied her before, denied
himself
, and he would do it again.

If she let him.

She pulled him closer and mimicked the caress, gliding her tongue over his mouth. “Mine.”

He bit the tip of her tongue, then grinned slowly and bumped his hips against hers. “Hold on to the headboard.”

She lifted her arms automatically and smacked them on the padded wood. A testament to how sex-addled she truly was, that she hadn’t realized where on the bed she’d wound up. “Why?”

A strong thrust answered her, then another, each accompanied by a hoarse growl. Hard, claiming movements, but his eyes never left hers. In them she saw his silent plea, his need for her to meet him, to take him even as he took her.

To possess him.

Ophelia gripped the headboard and lifted her body to meet his next thrust, shuddering when the hard plunge set off a cascade of pleasure that curled her toes.

He growled his approval and rode the edge of her pleasure. He pushed her higher, harder and farther, until she tumbled into orgasm with a shriek. This time he followed her, burying his face against her throat as her name twisted free of him, wrapped in gratitude and possession.

Floating.
Hunter folded his body around hers. He whispered to her, almost growled soft words she couldn’t make out as she struggled to stay awake through the exhaustion and languor that tugged at her.

No, ma’am. I don’t figure that’s a good idea.

I’m not walking away.

No, ma’am—

Ophelia shut out the echoes and clung to him.

Time twisted in on itself. Night and day and night and flesh and skin and
her
.

Her body was marked. Her throat and shoulders, her breasts and hips. Delicate bite marks, darker spots where he’d sucked in the taste of her. The scrape of his beard, the grip of his hands.

A kiss to every spot, pausing when she stirred sleepily only to resume when she settled. Her even breaths gentled the fire inside him. She was sated, glutted on pleasure, and while she rested he thought of a thousand things he could do.

Lick her cunt until she begged for mercy. Slide into her from behind, roll them to their sides, touch her as she came apart. He could fuck her for hours and days and
forever
—

“Mmm.” She lifted her hand, touched his face. “Awake?”

“For a little bit.” He nuzzled her palm, enjoying the brush of her fingers over his cheek. “You should sleep.”

Her laugh was husky, low. “Not if you’re going to be kissing me all over.”

Smoothing his hand down her body, he slipped it between her legs and cupped her gently. “Everywhere but here,” he murmured, stroking his fingertips over her cunt. “That’s for after you’ve rested.”

She rolled and stretched like a lazy cat, arching her hips against his hand. “Or you could climb in the bath with me. I could use a hot soak.”

Water, yes. Water was good. It trickled over her skin, beaded and twinkled in the firefly lights of the bathroom. There were mirrors there too, mirrors that would reflect her into dizzying infinity.

Endless Ophelia. Man and beast approved. “Bath, then.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck. “Carry me?”

“Of course.” He would have anyway, and she must have known it. But he still gathered her up against his chest before kicking free of the tangled covers. She belonged there, against his chest.

Their chest.

His chest—him. Not monster or Matthew, but something in between. Hunter. “Do you need to eat first?”

“I did—earlier. You were out cold,” she murmured. “Did you sleep well?”

He paused in the middle of the room, toes digging into the plush carpet. He barely recognized the room, though he’d spent nearly two days in it. Everything felt foggy, blurry, everything except the woman in his arms. “I slept?”

“For a while.” She traced lazy circles on his shoulder. “Not long enough.”

Odd. So odd, to feel almost human but utterly disconnected. “I don’t remember it.”

“You will, honey. Don’t worry.”

He eased toward the bathroom, setting Ophelia down to perch on the edge of the wide sunken bathtub before frowning at the confusing array of switches and dials next to the door. “This is more complicated than the mansion.”

“Here, let me.” She started to rise, then sank back to the polished porcelain. “Or not.”

Concern twisted through him, but the darker parts, the beastly parts, scoffed. The bloodhound knew his mate, knew her to be wobbly-kneed from a thorough loving, not injured or overtaxed.

Satisfied pride replaced worry, and he fiddled with the panel of levers and knobs until he’d lowered the bright overhead light and replaced it with the glow from dozens of smaller bits of glass that twinkled like miniature stars and reflected a hundred times over in the mirrors.

He could make love to her beneath those shining stars.

“That’s beautiful, Hunter.” The water began to run, and he turned to find Ophelia twisting up her hair.

Not as beautiful as she was. He didn’t realize he’d said the words out loud until she tilted her head, smiled at him and held out her arms.

He went to her. He’d always go to her. Always take her.

Always.

Chapter Six

He was sleeping—
really
sleeping—when the sun rose on the third day.

Ophelia lay in bed, her head pillowed on Hunter’s stomach, and watched the light filter in through the sheer drapes. Weak at first, gray and desperate, slowly growing stronger.

When she finally had to turn her face from the morning glare, she crawled up his body and kissed him. “Hunter?”

He answered with a muffled grunt, but one arm snaked around her, dragging her tight to his chest. “Sleep,” he muttered.

So tempting, but they’d left Nate alone for three days, and the others could be on their way home already. “If you’re able, we need to get back to the estate.”

A frown creased the spot between his eyebrows. “Where are we?”

It would take him a little while to orient himself. “Sylvie’s place. We’ve been here for three days.”

His eyes drifted open. Blue, so blue, but sane today. Wary, even as they focused on her face. He studied her in silence, confusion in every line of his expression.

Then his gaze dropped to her throat, and he bit off a curse and scrambled back from her so fast he almost spilled from the bed. “You need a doctor.”

“No, I don’t,” she countered firmly. “I need a few days for the nips and bites to heal, perhaps, and a few days to be able to sit a horse again, but I’m fine. I feel—” Sated. Loved. Worried about what came next. “I’m fine.”

His breathing sped up. If anything, he looked
more
worried. “I did all of that to you?”

She had to tell him the truth—now. “You wouldn’t take Sylvie. You wanted me.”

Hunter lifted one hand, but it hovered between them, as if he didn’t dare touch her. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Ophelia caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I wanted you.”

He cupped her face for a moment, heartbreakingly gentle, then touched her chin and throat. Traced a fingertip around her ear and down, across her collarbone. The sensitive spots he’d marked with his teeth made him wince, and the bruises around her wrists made his jaw clench. “This is not…” He swallowed hard. “This is not how I wanted to be with you.”

It strayed too close to what she’d feared, and she closed her eyes. “Can we talk about it later? We need to get back.”

“Ophelia…” He touched her face again. “Thank you for coming to me.”

She couldn’t take it anymore, him acting as though she’d endangered herself to do him a thankless favor, so she turned away. “Stop. I came here as much for myself as for you.”

Behind her, his footsteps traced his path as he began to gather up his scattered clothing. “Did I hurt your friend?” he asked finally. “I don’t remember… I don’t remember seeing her at all.”

“Sylvie’s fine.” A strange numbness descended, wrapping around Ophelia like a blanket. She’d worried about this, but she hadn’t truly believed Hunter could be so divided within himself.

Cloth rustled as he dressed. “Tell me what I can do. Tell me what you need.”

There was only one question that mattered, dragged free by his pleading tone as she turned to face him again. “Do you wish you hadn’t touched me?”

“No.” He clenched his fists and stared at the floor. “If you didn’t suffer for it, I don’t regret it.”

“Then look at me.”

After a tense moment, he did.

She studied his face, his eyes. She’d seen such need burning there. It still lingered, only now that desire was tempered by a desperate need to flee.

What was there to say?

Ophelia rose on shaking legs. “I don’t regret it, either. If nothing else, Hunter, please believe that.”

He started forward, then checked his stride and stayed just out of arm’s reach. “Will you let me help you back to the manor?”

It hurt that he had to ask. “I would appreciate it.”

Wilder Harding didn’t look like a man who belonged behind a desk, but somehow the solid slab of mahogany with its lovingly polished telegraph receiver only added to the senior bloodhound’s forbidding demeanor.

Hunter didn’t bother with pleasantries. The last few times Wilder had summoned him to report, he’d responded with care and precision, clutching at the scraps of Matthew Underwood as if civilized behavior were a jacket he could shrug back into, if he just wiggled enough.

Any illusions had been well and truly stripped away. Hunter slumped into the chair on the opposite side of Wilder’s desk and crossed his arms over his chest, unconcerned with the defensiveness of the gesture. He
was
defensive, exhausted and unsettled and decidedly unhappy now that Archer was back in residence.

Wilder yawned as Archer finished his loving and probably embellished account of how he’d spent the last three days. “Fine, fine. Go see if Caroline needs you to do something in the kitchen. Otherwise, keep close.”

Archer saluted, his good mood more than apparent. “Yes, sir. I’ll get on it.”

When he’d gone, Wilder turned his scrutiny to Hunter. “What about you?”

Hunter sank lower in his chair. “I made a fucking mess.”

Wilder raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, what the hell does that mean?”

Perversely, he was looking forward to being yelled at. Punishment would be preferable to Ophelia’s quiet acceptance that couldn’t conceal her hurt and sadness. “Hell if I know. I lost my mind and woke up in the madam’s bed with Ophelia under me. She swears I didn’t hurt her, but she looks—” Hell, she’d looked like he’d unleashed a month’s worth of desire on her in three scant days. And not the polite kind of desires, either.

“You spent the new moon with
Ophelia
?”

“Not on purpose!”

“All right!” Wilder held up both hands before rubbing his temples. “You don’t know how she ended up with you instead of Sylvie?”

Hunter barely checked his growl. “I…remember her. I remember her, and that’s all I remember, until yesterday afternoon. Even that’s fuzzy.”

“Well, hell.” The other bloodhound scrubbed a hand over his face. “She says she’s fine?”

“She doesn’t
look
fine,” Hunter all but snarled. Maybe aggression would bring the anger he so desperately needed. The censure. “I was beyond control or reason, and she has the bruises to show for it.”