Running with Wolves. Cynthia CookeЧитать онлайн книгу.
her skin. Moving up her body, and with each sure stroke, the pain and the tension began to ease. Warmth seeped into her clenched and strained muscles, appeasing the tension, until she began to relax and a new tension lit her nerve endings.
She felt each gentle touch so deeply it was almost as if she could feel the ridges of his fingerprints being imprinted on her skin. Nerve endings fired and tingled, leaving longing in their wake. His bare feet cupped hers, the backs of her legs pressed tight against the front of his, her backside nestled deeply in his center, his warmth melding with her as his hand moved up and around her hips.
His lips moved across the sensitive lobes and the outer shell of her ear as he murmured to her that everything would be all right. The pain wouldn’t last. And he was right, it was finally ebbing. But a new kind of pain was starting, an exquisite burn of longing and need, and she pushed herself even closer to him as his fingers moved down her arms to her middle, caressing, loving. She moved her hand up behind her to his neck, drawing her fingers across his skin to cup his head and draw his lips down to hers.
And then she was pressing her mouth to his, her stomach tightening, her breasts drawing in, her nipples hardening. Her lips moved over his as his tongue filled her mouth. She took his hand and placed it over her breasts and he rubbed and tweaked and massaged until she thought she would burst with need. She shifted, turning until she was facing him, her hands cupping his face as his kiss sent her soaring.
He moved his hand behind her back, holding her close, and then finished the kiss. He pulled away from her and a small moan of protest left her lips. She tried to pull him back, but he moved farther and farther away, until he was off the bed and pulling the sheets up over her, covering her nakedness. “What is happening? Where are you going?” she asked.
“You are changing. But don’t worry, the worst of it is over.”
If it was over, then what was he doing over there and not back in the bed with her? “I am not a demon,” she insisted.
“I know,” he said, his words breaking over her, the deep timbre of his voice skittering across already frayed nerves.
“Nor will I ever be,” she clarified, in case that was the reason he was pulling away from her. Because there had to be a reason. Didn’t there?
“I know,” he repeated.
“But you said—” she cried out as another twinge grasped hold and twisted, ripping and pulling her insides. Not again!
“The demon dimension was where we came from originally, but that’s not why the Gauliacho are after us and that’s not what we are now.”
He gave her another piece of jerky. She ate that, too, and then another until at last she felt the wrenching pain subside. She pushed herself up against the headboard. “But what does that mean? And why don’t you come back to bed?” she asked when at last she caught her breath. Her body temperature dropped and her breathing returned to normal.
“It means you are changing, leaving your humanity behind and becoming like us.”
“Like you? What are you?” She looked up at him with blurred vision. “What am I changing into?” She had to know, all this pain, this suffering—if she wasn’t dying, then it had to be for something.
He brushed the hair back from her face, and for a second she wondered if he would climb back into bed with her. His pale eyes locked onto hers. Eyes that looked so familiar, that almost looked like...
“A wolf.”
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