Wings of Fire (Guardians of Ascension #3)

Wings of Fire (Guardians of Ascension #3) Page 66

And there he was, holding a steaming brown ceramic mug in his hand.

She felt dizzy suddenly, such a strange reaction. Well, he was terribly handsome, and he seemed to always be looking at her, focused on her, which added to her dizziness.

Where had he found such a nice mug in the hospital?

“I went home,” he said as though having read her thoughts. He went home. That translated into a quick dematerialization, but it also meant he’d made an effort. “It took no time at all. There is also a very nice coffeehouse in Sedona. They were very obliging. I hope the cream and sugar is to your taste.”

She drew in a deep breath. Havily’s hand slid away from Fiona’s and Jean-Pierre took her place beside the bed. Fiona’s gaze fell as it so often did to the shape of his lips, the two soft peaks, the full lower lip. Her breathing pattern changed, and she forced her heart to please slow down.

He handed her the mug, handle first, supporting it from the bottom. “Careful. It is quite hot.”

She nodded but then she caught the scent of the coffee in the mug—and then the smell of him. It was so very wonderful, very male, and was that just a hint of coffee coming from him?

She now held the mug in her right hand. He was about to pull away when she caught his hand and drew it to her nose. She took an unladylike sniff then buried her nose in his skin. “It’s you,” she cried. “You smell like coffee. Did you spill some on yourself?” She looked up at him. His lips parted and the scent of him began to roll in heavy waves so that she was surrounded by his scent. The smell of fresh-roasted coffee beans flooded the space.

She released his hand with a gasp.

“I must go,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I wish you wouldn’t.” She felt suddenly desperate to keep him near.

“Actually, Jean-Pierre,” Parisa said. “We were hoping that you would stay with Fiona for a little while. I need to speak with Antony, and Havily needs to get back to the admin offices.”

“Bien sûr,” Jean-Pierre said. He sounded strange, like he was in shock.

Fiona didn’t know what prompted her but she lowered her shields and at the same moment shut out the mental exclamations emanating from both Parisa and Havily as they left the room. She focused on Jean-Pierre’s thoughts.

Elle sais. Maintenant, elle sais. She knows. She knows. I can see it in her eyes. I ache for her. I must leave but I cannot make my feet move. I want my mouth on her, on her lips, her breasts, between her legs, sucking …

She drew back and realized her mug-holding wrist was growing lax. She righted the mug before she tipped the steaming contents on her lap. She drew the brown ceramic to her lips. She shored up the shields of her mind. Had she even said good-bye to Havily and Parisa? No. Had she really taken the warrior’s hand and pressed it to her face to smell him? Yes.

She shook her head then sipped her coffee. She didn’t understand what was happening. After a moment, she asked, “Jean-Pierre, what’s going on? I … I’ll confess I just read your thoughts.”

“You did? But how? I did not feel you in my head.”

She glanced at him over the rim. She sipped the coffee, careful not to burn her tongue. Oh, how to explain? She met his gaze and thought she would drown in the sight of him. He was so beautiful and his eyes were the color of the ocean and his smell an aphrodisiac.

Desire flowed over her now as though some floodgate had been released in her, something she had not felt for a man in decades. The blood tonic she had been forced to drink following each drain had always resulted in a powerful orgasm, but this was different.

From the time she could remember, even as a child, the eldest of eight siblings, she had been a woman of decision. When she saw what she wanted or what needed to be done, she took action. That she had been enslaved for over a hundred years was a circumstance she viewed as a terrible inconvenient breach in her life.

She understood that she would need some form of healing and therapy; that was a given. And as soon as the doctors released her from the hospital, she would get all that set up—not just for herself but for the other slaves as well.

But this was a new world and a new life. She desired this thoughtful warrior who had given her back a precious locket and asked, Can I bring you something?

Yes, she would begin her new life now, and she would begin by taking something she wanted.

She set the mug on the table beside her. She knew what she had to do. “You should shut the blinds,” she said. “And close the door.” She watched his face. His sensual lips were now set in a grim, determined line, even the points flattened … a little.

“I should not,” he said, lowering his head, his gazing falling to her lips. Had he read her mind?

“Please,” she whispered.

She heard the blinds close from across the room. The warrior had not even moved. So much power in this dimension. When the door closed as well, she leaned back on the pillows. “Will you kiss me now, Warrior? Will you let me thank you for carrying me out of that terrible place?” Her breaths were high in her chest. She had not felt the touch of a man in decades, not in over a century, not in this way since the night of her eleventh anniversary.

“I should not kiss you,” he said. “But I think I cannot help myself.” His voice was hoarse and his gaze was fixed to her lips, but he moved very slowly, a kind of lingering fall as he lowered himself to her, planting his hands on the raised bed to either side of her pillow, his hips suspended just above the side of the bed.

She saw only his mouth but coffee swirled around her in decadent enticement, until she was dizzy and so warm and wet between her legs that she was ready for sex without even having touched him. How strange was this? How mysterious? How extraordinary?

As she closed her eyes, his lips met hers, and his breath was all coffee and sweetness with an undertaste of maleness that clenched her deep within and made her gasp. She hadn’t made love in so long yet here she was, remembering the how of it, as though it had been yesterday.

But there was something more, something she didn’t understand while he kissed her. She felt a pressure on her mind and knew it was Jean-Pierre’s touch. Yet it was more than simple telepathy, because no words formed; he was just there and very present. It was so strange, yet wholly erotic. So erotic that she felt very close with just his lips pressed in a gentle kiss. Her breasts ached and her lips felt swollen and needy. Internally, very deep, she felt movement within, her body trying to pull at something that wasn’t there yet, getting ready, so very ready.

Then she realized that she was a touch away from the pinnacle of pleasure. And all he’d done was press those sensual lips against her mouth.

The moment his tongue touched her lips she grabbed his arms above her, opened her eyes, met his and held on. She cried out, stunned because of what was happening to her. The orgasm was a quick ride over her tender flesh, and a pulsing inside that went on and on. She panted against his mouth.

He drew back, just a few inches. His eyes flared, “Are you—?”

She nodded.

“Mon dieu,” he whispered.

When the spasms ceased she lay back against the bed, staring up at him. Her hands still gripped his arms. She couldn’t seem to let go of him. She didn’t want to let go. “How did you do that?”

He shook his head and smiled that beautiful smile of his. “Well, I am French—”

Jean-Pierre savored the hands still gripping his arms, the swollen lips, the flush on Fiona’s cheeks, the startled surprise in her eyes. So his woman, who was not his woman, had just fallen into le petit mort, the little death, a beautiful climax. Mon dieu.

She was lovely, a great beauty with hair like dark rich wood, deep brown with glints of auburn. It hung almost to her elbows in elegant waves. But her eyes, a silver-blue like fine silk, now glittered with passion. Her nose was straight, very pretty, her cheeks round, high, and lovely. Her jaw was a smooth line.

Her complexion was very light, almost porcelain, but then she had been badly used, her blood taken from her, her life nearly stolen from her just a few days ago. There would be more color soon, although the blush on her cheeks just now was exquisite.

He smiled down at her. He wanted to kiss her again, but it seemed redundant.

She smiled in return, her row of even teeth returning. His heart swelled in his chest. Finally, she released his arms and he drew back. But he didn’t move very far away.

Her gaze shifted to the window suddenly and she frowned.

“What is it?” He turned to look outside as well.

“I thought I saw something, a shimmering out there on the lawn.”

A shape materialized. At first, Jean-Pierre couldn’t make it out but after a moment, he realized he was looking at the back of Medichi, in kilted battle gear. Yes, Medichi, although what was he doing out on the lawn? He’d just been in the hallway talking to Colonel Seriffe, but hadn’t he been wearing jeans?

The hairs on his neck lifted and he rose upright.

“What is it?” Fiona asked. “You seem tense all of a sudden. Is something wrong?”

He could not keep his gaze from the sight of Medichi on the lawn. Oui, something was wrong.

He glanced at Fiona. “Please excuse me. I need to speak to one of my warrior brothers. This is not right.”

“Of course,” she whispered.

He did not want to leave her. The urge to remain beside her, to have his sword in his hand as he watched over her, was profound. But he had to go.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to move.

Once in the hall, the hairs rose again: Medichi was still in the hall talking to Seriffe, and yes, he wore his jeans. So what was that on the lawn? Jean-Pierre called sharply, “Medichi, where is your woman?”

He frowned. “What? Parisa? I’m not sure. He looked around. I think she was headed toward the lobby with Havily.”

“Find her at once. Something is wrong. I saw you just now on the front lawn.”

“You what—?”

He shook his head. “I do not know what I was looking at, because here you are.”