Wings of Fire (30 page)

Oh. Dear. God.

She could almost forget entirely about her empty, growling stomach at the sight of so much exotic masculine beauty. He looked up at her with the sauté pan still at an angle and the last bit of pasta tumbling onto the plate and he smiled, that smile of his loaded with teeth and confidence. His eyes glittered in the candlelight.

“See something you like?”

Yes. God. Yes.

***

Medichi nearly dropped the sauté pan at the wave of tangerine that suddenly hit him. He did take a step back to steady himself. Yeah,
his woman
liked what she saw.

He settled the pan and large spoon in the oversized sink, picked up both bowls of pasta, and moved around the island. She came forward at the same time and took the seat on the right.

She didn’t meet his gaze but leaned over her plate. Holding her damp hair back, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Heaven,” she whispered.

He looked at her, at the delicate fingers on her hair, at the profile that seemed carved from ivory, at that which had become most precious in these few short months. His heart swelled when it shouldn’t have.

She was here.

She was safe.

She was right. This was heaven.

Spearing a slice of sausage, she sank in her teeth and moaned.

Okay,
that
reminded him of a different kind of meal. He faced forward, grabbed his own fork and spoon, and began spearing and twirling. The moment he did, his hunger roared at him. One thing battling required was a solid, heavy intake of calories.

He avoided speaking to her because he knew what would happen. He’d get lost in her voice, or the color of her eyes, or her scent, and he’d start nuzzling her neck. Besides, the way she had launched into her pasta told him she was just as starved.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being rude. I’m slaughtering this meal and not saying one word to you.”

He glanced at her, smiled, then gestured with his fork to her bowl. “Eat. We both need it.”

She nodded, smiled in return, and reapplied her efforts. When the contents of her bowl were about half demolished, she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about how to locate the women.”

He put his hand on her arm and said, “You don’t have to do this right now. We just got back from a tough situation. You can take a break, breathe. It’s important.”

She huffed a sigh and twirled her pasta slowly around her spoon. “How about just a couple of points and then I’ll let it drop, okay?”

“Okay, but just a couple.”

“Good. Okay.” She nodded. “First, have you already contacted Carla?”

“Yes, before I started cooking. She’s opened up the grid in France even though Rith could have taken the slaves anywhere. But she had to start somewhere.”

“Good. That’s point one. The grid is already in place and searching. I was concerned about that.” She shifted slightly and met his gaze. “You know how the earth rotates on its axis?”

He laughed. “Yep, twenty-four hours a day.”

“Yeah. If I voyeur Fiona and can find a window near her, we can help pinpoint her location by a sunrise or sunset. Yes?”

He stared at her. “You realize, Parisa, that you’ve just cut the hunt time down by anywhere from one hour to twelve.”

Parisa smiled. “That’s what I thought. I think we have work to do.”

“What about the headaches?”

“Guess I’m going to have to suck it up, but I also thought if I can just swing in, take a snapshot, and get out, maybe the headaches won’t be so bad. In fact, I want to give it a try right now.”

“Why don’t you wait until you’re done eating?”

But she’d already set her fork down. She’d already opened the window.

She blinked. “Well, that was easy. And no headache.”

“Good. What did you see?”

“She’s asleep on a cot in a long room with several other cots. There was a bank of windows, and it’s full light outside.”

“No window coverings?”

“None. Just a lot of deep blue sky.” She smiled. “I could open my window every half hour and check the sky. That would be a good start, right?”

Medichi whipped his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and thumbed.

“Carla here, how can I serve?”

“We’ve had a little brainstorm.” He explained their new plan.

“Wow. I should have thought of that. Tell Parisa we just cut the search area by
a lot.
”

Medichi laughed. “I will.”

He thumbed his phone and relayed Carla’s part of the conversation. Once more, he gestured with his fork to Parisa’s bowl. “Now eat. And no more discussion.”

She grinned at him over a lump of sausage. When she’d taken another sip of wine, she said, “You’re a wonderful cook and this is just heaven. Fresh basil?”

He nodded. “I grow it in the herb garden.” He gestured to the west wall. “I have a garden back there.”

She held her wineglass by the stem and swirled. “You’re a renaissance man.”

He shrugged. “I like to cook. We had good food on our farm in Italy all those years ago. We had a vineyard and an olive grove as well, like I do here. I’m thinking about having a wood-fire oven put in.”

She glanced around the space. “Where?”

He waved a hand to his left. “I’d like to take out this entire bank of cupboards and counter and start over. I want to push this wall out, add French doors that will open onto the garden. I made the mistake of planting the garden out there, where the only access is going through the foyer doors to the back terrace. It’s not that far but it’s not convenient either. Besides, I’d like to have a view of the White Tanks from this room.”

She nodded and sighed. “Sounds like a good plan.” Her shoulders looked a little slumped. Well, a good meal, red wine, and trauma would do that to a body.

He shifted his gaze away from her. She needed to get some rest, he could see that. He felt uneasy because he was torn down the middle. The
breh-hedden
wasn’t just a sexual entity but demanded that he think of his woman in all respects, one of them being that she needed her rest. But the other half of him was a long drive of need that he’d been keeping a lid on, oh, hell, from the last time she’d left his bed.

Dammit.

He pushed his empty bowl away and planted his elbows on the soapstone. “You probably could use some rest right now,” he suggested, still not looking at her. He cleared his throat. “If you want to sleep in the guest room, I really would understand.”

He waited, but she didn’t say anything.

***

Parisa tried to interpret this suggestion, but her mind had switched from alertness to one big mud slide of lethargy. The meal, as wonderful as it was, had acted on her like a sedative.

She released a heavy sigh and put her wineglass back on the soapstone. “I can’t believe how tired I am.”

He glanced at her, his gaze open, speculative, wary.

She frowned a little. “Are you mad at me?”

His eyebrows shot up. “No. Never.”

She smiled at that. “Never? You’ll never be mad at me, ever?”

“Well, not right now.” He smiled as well.

“Do you want me to sleep in the guest room?”

“Honest?”

“Yeah. Honest.”

“Hell, no.”

At that she laughed. “Why did you suggest it then?”

He looked away almost like he was embarrassed. But by what?

She put her hand on his forearm—and the moment she touched him a soft buzzing sensation, a delicate vibration, ran through her hand. She stared at her hand and his skin, at the fine black hair. Her fingers drifted over his arm, savoring the muscle beneath and the texture of the hairs above.

He was so masculine, every bit of him, every line of him, and the hardened feel of his warrior muscles started waking her up but this time in an entirely different way.

She lifted her gaze to his and caught the roll of his scent, sage and all his wonderful maleness. She started sliding off the stool without even realizing she was moving, until she stood with her hips against the side of his. With her hand she started low at his waist and climbed, beneath his long hair, feeling both the gentle dips and swells of the scar tissue on his back as well as the larger, harder mounds of muscle.

He flinched and she pressed the tips of her fingers into the scars. “This is part of you,” she whispered. She pushed his long hair away from his back. He had tensed up, maybe uncertain, maybe ashamed. She leaned over his back and began to kiss and lick the stripes he bore.

He shuddered and leaned forward.

She slid her hand off his forearm then moved to stand behind him. She split his long black hair into two parts and pushed each part over the closest shoulder. She looked at his back in the soft candlelight. His wing-locks were visible as well as his scars. She drew close then took a deep breath.

Your skin smells of sage and something very male,
she sent.
It makes me … hungry.

He groaned and aloud, said, “Tangerine.”

She drew back. “Do you have any?”

“Any what?”

“Tangerines.”

At that, he shifted toward her, turning so that he could meet her gaze. His lips were swollen with need, his eyes dark. He nodded. He started to rise but she pushed him down with her hand. “Tell me where they are. I’ll get them.”

“I put the last batch in the fridge, the drawer on the bottom.”

She rounded the island, opened the refrigerator door, and found them. The cool air flowed over her skin, tightening her nipples. As she drew one of the tangerines out, she blushed at the very wicked idea that had taken hold of her.

She closed the door then turned toward Antony. He stared at her unblinking, his chin low. His palms were now flat on the soapstone. He looked ready to spring at her, land on her, take her to the floor.

She set the tangerines on the island. She pulled off her shirt but kept her bra on. With a knife she split one of the tangerines in half then pierced the fruit with the sharp tip again and again, grinding the blade into the wedges, tearing up all the connecting fibers, until the half tangerine was a wet, pulpy mess.

She set the tangerine on the counter, put her knife in the sink, and rinsed and dried her fingers. Very slowly, while watching Antony’s face darken, she lifted each of her breasts out of her bra so that she was supported by the underwires. She didn’t want to think of exactly how this looked—but she knew Antony. He was loving this.

She lifted the tangerine and held it low to the tip of her breast and slowly brought the juicy center to float over her peaked nipple. Tangerine juice dribbled down her abdomen.

She watched him, his gaze flooding with heat and something like pain. His arms fell wide. His chest rose and fell. Damn, he would hyperventilate if she didn’t do something.

“You stay right there,” she said.

He nodded, one deep low nod. She moved around the island, the tangerine still rotating, his gaze fixed to the sight. When he breathed, he now made a sound like a train engine.

As she drew around the second corner, he shifted on his stool. “I have to stand up. You understand.”

She glanced at his jeans. He was at a bad angle. She nodded.

His hips flexed.

“Lose the jeans,” she commanded.

His gaze flickered over her chest from one extended breast to the next. He folded off his pants.

Yes, he’d gone commando.

And he was a rigid line of pleasure waiting to happen. He wept from the tip. His breathing was still harsh, chugging along.

As she drew close, she lifted the tangerine from her breast and put it against his mouth. He groaned loud and long, leaning toward her but sucking hard at the fruit. The sight brought a strange rush of tears to her eyes. She reached low and touched his cock, stroking him very lightly just at the smooth round head.

Antony,
she sent softly into his mind,
did I tell you how much it meant to see you each night, to watch you pleasure yourself? To take tangerines into your mouth? It helped me to know you were real and you were there, that I wasn’t alone. You kept me sane.

He drew the tangerine from his lips. His breathing eased. His hips flexed and he pushed his cock farther through the grip of her hand. “This is better.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

He caught a tear as it rolled down her cheek, then sucked the drop from his finger. He moved into her, his cock folding up to fit against her abdomen. He slid his arms around her back trapping her arms low, then he kissed her, a tangerine-flavored kiss that knocked her senses flat.

He pushed his tongue into her mouth and made her pulse throb with each thrust. Her arms drifted around his waist. She clung to his skin, pulling and kneading, even the ribbed scar tissue.

He left her mouth and kissed down her neck. When he licked over her vein pleasure shot through the well of her body, anticipating a hard strike of fangs. But he didn’t linger there. He moved lower, bending over and angling his head so that he could reach what she had offered by the refrigerator.

His tongue licked down her chest and moved to the tangerine nipple. He groaned all over again as he drew the tip into his mouth and began to suckle.

Her body tightened very low and began to pull inward with each suck of his mouth and lips. Her breathing transformed into soft pants, one after the other, until she was dizzy. She settled her hands on the top of his soft hair.

Her hips bucked at the sensation between her fingers, the pull of his mouth on her breast, and the responsive tugs between her legs.

“Antony,” she cried out. Frustration had her now. She needed more from him.

He drew back. His lips were red and swollen from suckling her, his eyes wild.

“Help me, Antony.” She slung an arm around his neck and kissed him.

He picked her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest. She pressed her face into his neck. She felt her fangs emerge and began to lick his throat. He moved her into the hallway that led in the direction of the pool and the guesthouse, but not very far. She thought maybe he meant to have her in the pool.

Instead he turned up the narrow spiraled staircase, holding her at a careful angle so that she didn’t scrape anything. He was almost too big for the space himself, but he managed it.