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Slowly her lips curled into a devilish grin. “Who said I was going to try and hurt you?”
Before Lysander could blink, she closed the distance between them and pressed against him, arms winding around his neck and tugging his head down. Their lips met and her tongue thrust into his mouth. Automatically, he stiffened. He had seen humans kiss more times than he could count, but he’d never longed to try the act for himself.
Like sex, it seemed messy—in every way imaginable—and unnecessary. But as her tongue rolled against his, as her hands caressed a path down his spine, his body warmed—far more than it had when he’d simply thought of being here with her—and the tingle he’d noticed earlier bloomed once more. Only this time, that tingle grew and spread. Like the shaft between his legs. Rising…thickening…
He’d wanted to taste her and now he was. She was delicious, like the apple she’d just eaten, only sweeter, headier, like his favorite wine. He should make her stop. This was too much. But the wetness of her mouth wasn’t messy in the least. It was electrifying.
More, a little voice said in his head.
“Yes,” she rasped, as if he’d spoken aloud.
When she rubbed her lower body against his, every sensation intensified. His hands fisted at his sides. He couldn’t touch her. Shouldn’t touch her. Should stop this as she’d stopped him, as he’d already tried to convince himself.
A moan escaped her. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His scalp, an area he’d never considered sensitive before, ached, soaking up every bit of attention. And when she rubbed against him again, he almost moaned.
Her hands fell to his chest and a fingertip brushed one of his nipples. He did moan; he did grab her. His fingers gripped her hips, holding her still even though he wanted to force her to rub against him some more. The lack of motion didn’t slow her kiss. She continued to dance their tongues together, leisurely, as if she could drink from him forever. And wanted to.
He should stop this, he told himself yet again.
Yes. Yes, he would. He tried to push her tongue out of his mouth. The pressure created another sensation, this one new and stronger than any other. His entire body felt aflame. He started pushing at her tongue for an entirely different reason, twining them together, tasting her again, licking her, sucking her.
“Mmm, yeah. That’s the way,” she praised.
Her voice was a drug, luring him in deeper, making him crave more. More, more, more. The temptation was too much, and he had to—
Temptation.
The word echoed through his mind, a sword sharp enough to cut bone. She was a temptation. She was his temptation. And he was allowing her to lead him astray.
He wrenched away from her, and his arms fell to his sides, heavy as boulders. He was panting, sweating, things he had not done even in the midst of battle. Angry as he was—at her, at himself—his gaze drank in the sight of her. Her skin was flushed, glowing more than ever. Her lips were red and swollen. And he had caused that reaction. Sparks of pride took him by surprise.
“You should not have done that,” he growled.
Slowly she grinned. “Well, you should have stopped me. ”
“I wanted to stop you. ”
“But you didn’t,” she said, that grin growing.
His teeth ground together. “Do not do it again. ”
One of her brows arched in smug challenge. “Keep me here against my will, and I’ll do that and more. Much, much more. In fact…” She ripped her shirt over her head and tossed it aside, revealing breasts covered by pink lace.
Breathing became impossible.
“Want to touch them?” she asked huskily, cupping them with her hands. “I’ll let you. I won’t even make you beg. ”
Holy…Lord. They were lovely. Plump and mouthwatering. Lickable. And if he did lick them, would they taste as her mouth had? Like that heady wine? Blood…heating…again…
He didn’t care what kind of coward his next action made him. It was either jump from the cloud or replace her hands with his own.
He jumped.
CHAPTER FOUR
LYSANDER LEFT BIANKA alone for another week—bastard!—but she didn’t mind. Not this time. She had plenty to keep her occupied. Like her plan to drive him utterly insane with lust. So insane he’d regret bringing her here. Regret keeping her here. Regret even being alive.
That, or fall so in love with her that he yearned to grant her every desire. If that was the case—and it was a total possibility since she was insanely hot—she would convince him to take her home, and then she would finally get to stab him in the heart. Perfect. Easy. With her breasts, it was almost too easy, really.
To set the stage for his downfall, she decorated his home like a bordello. Red velvet lounges now waited next to every door—just in case he was too overcome with desire for her to make it to one of the beds now perched in every corner. Naked portraits—of her—hung on the misty walls. A decorating style she’d picked up from her friend Anya, who just happened to be the goddess of Anarchy.
As Lysander had promised, Bianka had only to speak what she wanted—within reason—to receive it. Apparently furniture and pretty pictures were within reason. She chuckled. She could hardly wait to see him again. To finally begin.
He wouldn’t stand a chance. Not just because of her (magnificent) breasts and hotness—hey, no reason to act as if she didn’t know—but because he had no experience. She had been his first kiss; she knew it beyond any doubt. He’d been stiff at first, unsure. Hesitant. At no point had he known what to do with his hands.
That hadn’t stopped her from enjoying herself, however. His taste…decadent. Sinful. Like crisp, clean skies mixed with turbulent night storms. And his body, oh, his body. Utter perfection with hard muscles she’d wanted to squeeze. And lick. She wasn’t picky.
His hair was so silky she could have run her fingers through it forever. His cock had been so long and thick she could have rubbed herself to orgasm. His skin was so warm and smooth she could have pressed against him and slept, just as she’d dreamed about doing before she’d met him. Even though sleeping with a man was a dangerous crime her race never committed.
Stupid girl! The angel wasn’t to be trusted, especially since he clearly had nefarious plans for her—though he still refused to tell her exactly what those plans were. Teaching her to act like him had to be a misdirection of the truth. It was just too silly to contemplate. But his plans didn’t matter, she supposed, since he would soon be at her mercy. Not that she had any.
Bianka strode to the closet she’d created and flipped through the lingerie hanging there. Blue, red, black. Lace, leather, satin. Several costumes: naughty nurse, corrupt policewoman, devil, angel. Which should she choose today?
He already thought her evil. Perhaps she should wear the see-through white lace. Like a horny virgin bride. Oh, yes. That was the one. She laughed as she dressed.
“Mirror, please,” she said, and a full-length mirror appeared in front of her. The gown fell to her ankles, but there was a slit between her legs. A slit that stopped at the apex of her thighs. Too bad she wasn’t wearing any panties.
Spaghetti straps held the material in place on her shoulders and dipped into a deep vee between her breasts. Her nipples, pink and hard, played peek-a-boo with the swooping make-me-a-woman pattern.
She left her hair loose, flowing like black velvet down her back. Her gold eyes sparkled, flecks of gray finally evident, like in Kaia’s. Her cheeks were flushed like a rose, her skin devoid of the makeup she usually wore to dull its shimmer.
Bianka traced her fingertips along her collarbone and chuckled again. She’d summoned a shower and washed off every trace of that makeup. If Lysander had found himself attracted to her before—and he had, the size of his hard-on was proof of that—he would be unable to resist her now. She was nothing short of radiant.
A Harpy’s skin was like a weapon. A s
ensual weapon. Its jewel-like sheen drew men in, made them slobbering, drooling fools. Touching it became all they could think about, all they lived for.
That got old after a while, though, which was why she’d begun wearing full body makeup. For Lysander, though, she would make an exception. He deserved what he got. After all, he wasn’t just making Bianka suffer. He was making her sisters suffer. Maybe.
Was Kaia still looking for her? Still worried or perhaps thinking this was a game as Bianka had first supposed? Had Kaia called their other sisters and were the girls now searching the world over for a sign of her, as they’d done when Gwennie went missing? Probably not, she thought with a sigh. They knew her, knew her strength and her determination. If they suspected she’d been taken, they would have confidence in her ability to free herself. Still.
Lysander was an ass.
And most likely a virgin. Eager, excited, she rubbed her hands together. Most men kissed the women they bedded. And if she had been his first kiss, well, it stood to reason he’d never bedded anyone. Her eagerness faded a bit. But that begged the question, why hadn’t he bedded anyone?
Was he a young immortal? Had he not found anyone he desired? Did angels not often experience sexual need? She didn’t know much about them. Fine, she didn’t know anything about them. Did they consider sex wrong? Maybe. That would explain why he hadn’t wanted to touch her, too.
Okay, so it made more sense that he simply hadn’t experienced sexual need before.
He’d definitely experienced it during their kiss, though. She went back to rubbing her hands together.
“What are you wearing? Or better yet, not wearing?”
Heart skidding to a stop, Bianka whipped around. As if her thoughts had summoned him, Lysander stood in the room’s doorway. Mist enveloped him and for a moment she feared he was nothing more than a fantasy.
“Well?” he demanded.
In her fantasies, he would not be angry. He would be overcome with desire. So…he was here, and he was real. And he was peering at her breasts in open-mouthed astonishment.
Astonishment was better than anger. She almost grinned.