Parallel Seduction Excerpt
THE WOMAN WRAPPED IN HIS arms was a stranger, just another human he'd sniffed out at a local bar; together they'd ridden in silence to this small motel. The room key was scuffed, with a numbered tag attached, and as he inserted it into the flimsy lock, his hand shook.
She leaned into him, laughing huskily. "Give it to me."
"Got it," he mumbled under his breath as she made an unsuccessful play for the key clutched within his hand. She was tipsier than he was; after all, he'd spent too many nights prowling for women and drinking not to hold his liquor well. More than that, the woman could barely see. She wore eyeglasses with lenses thicker than the ice coating on his car windshield, and she'd stumbled several times on unseen slick patches in the parking lot. She was so loose in her steps, actually, that he'd had to steady her, an excellent excuse for pushing up behind her much smaller and extremely feminine body. A maneuver he planned to repeat again once inside the privacy of their room.
Together they burst through the door, fumbling and grabbing at each other's bodies wordlessly. She was just a wisp of a thing, so small that it was easy to drive her up against the papered wall and pin her there. She wrapped both her surprisingly strong legs about his waist in a V shape, locking him within the warmth of her muscular thighs.
Damn those tight jeans of hers, he cursed, struggling to unzip them as he kept her suspended between his body and the motel room wall. To the right of her, his gaze landed on a framed photograph of a cowboy out on some lonesome stretch of road, just another slice of this Wild West life. In his own strange way, the universe had plunked him here in Jackson, Wyoming, as one of the very last of the true cowboys—a nomad, a wanderer without a real home anymore. That he wasn't American, much less human … hell, that hardly mattered in these parts.
With his mouth he took her, not bothering with gentleness. From the first moment he'd spotted this one across the bar he'd been unable to control his lust for her. And now that they were alone, he was a true goner. His basest urges, the wildest ones that compelled him to mate with human women, came gasping their way to the fore, as he palmed first one breast, then the other through her cashmere turtleneck.
She thrust her tongue inside his mouth, tasting of bourbon and salty peanuts. So sweet. So perfect. He deepened their kiss, flicking his tongue against hers, warring for domination in a battle he was doomed to lose. She had him completely already—more than any of the other human women he'd brought to this same dingy, drafty motel so many times before.
Breaking apart from her kiss, he slid both hands beneath her bottom, cupping her and pushing her back against the wall even harder. She weighed so little, it was easy to wedge her there; her thighs tightened their locking hold about his hips as she settled into the ride. Her hands closed about his lower back, grasping hard, pulling his shirt free from his jeans until her sweaty palms met his even sweatier skin.
"What's your name?" he whispered against her cheek, licking her face with the tip of his tongue. She smelled of fresh snow and some perfume he couldn't name. She tasted of his future, his past, everything he'd ever wanted in a human mate.
"Hope," she answered, unwrapping one leg, but he stopped her, catching it.
"Don't!" he cried, louder than he intended, and she lolled her head against the wall, staring at him. Though not really—her eyes didn't seem to fully focus on him, and she'd already ditched the glasses.
"Okay," she said, much more softly, "I won't," and hitched the leg back about him in another locking embrace.
He gasped, pressing his forehead against hers as he drew in a steadying breath. "I want to do wicked things with you, Hope," he admitted in a thick voice. His heart hammered so rapidly he was certain she could feel it.
She surprised him by laughing, a soft, husky sound that caused his groin to tighten like a hard fist. "Good," she said after that laughter faded. "Because I want to do wicked things with you, too. Really wicked things."
It was the only invitation he needed, and he rushed ahead, releasing her momentarily. He separated her from her jeans easily, shoving them low about her hips, then peeled down her silk panties until all that remained between their two hungry bodies was his own damned jeans. He wrangled to free himself from the pants while keeping a firm grasp on her, but struggled unsuccessfully.
"Here." She stilled his trembling hand beneath her own, planting a salty kiss against his lips. Then in one fluid gesture she'd unfastened his pants for him. They sank about his knees until he stood bare and on display for her. "Wow, Commando," she teased, almost as if it were a pet name for him, not an observation about his absent underwear.
It was how all his people dressed, but naturally he didn't volunteer that fact. Or that he was a different species than she, for that matter. No, she didn't need to know about his sordid genetic history, his hybrid DNA or any of that. Talk about a cold shower on their edgy, driving lust. She just needed to get how bad he wanted her, nothing else.
He slid his arms about her, swinging her away from the wall, and with just two steps they collapsed into a heap on the bed, she spread flat beneath his much larger body.
The bedsprings jostled and bounced as he settled atop her, both their feet dangling off the end. She was small, almost too small to lie beneath his bulky frame, so he struggled to be gentle. But it was tough to go slow, and when she gave a nod of silent assent, he knew not to hold anything back. With a satin-smooth gesture, he sheathed himself inside her warmth and wetness. She gasped, her gray eyes watering, then said nothing more. She held on to his shoulders as if her life depended on it, and he got a pretty good idea that she wasn't in the habit of this kind of thing.
The jostling of the bed became a rocking, forceful gyration as the two of them thrust and ground their way deeper and deeper. She rolled with him, landing awkwardly atop him, their hips still locked together. He was deep inside of her still. So deep, and he ached to go deeper. With a careful gesture she moved into a straddling position, her gaze never leaving his, though he wondered how much she really saw, her eyes seemed so dazed and unfocused.
"Hope." He moaned, arching his back beneath her movement. She had hold of him in the most intimate way, so slick and grasping, unrelenting. "Oh, someone … help me."
"Am I not doing enough?" She slowed her pace momentarily, but he forced her hips back into high gear.
"Just … like … that. No stopping." His body needed her pummeling friction, demanded the heat and intensity of the raw pace she'd set. She bent low, trailing sloppy kisses across his jaw. "Your name, Commando." She panted in his ear as he drove into her again and again. "Tell … me your name."
For a moment he couldn't speak; he was that blind with need for the human. Her petite body fit perfectly astride his, as if they'd been sculpted as one. Control. Domination. They were his usual sexual trademarks. But this woman? Gods, he would give her his very soul for her to just keep riding him, and oh-this-very hard.
"Name, cowboy?" she prompted again, much more breathless now. By the glassy-eyed expression on her face, she was close to orgasm, and he wasn't about to point out that she was the one riding a bucking bronco at the moment.
"Scott." He gasped, his body teasing so very close to the edge. So close, so close. Gods! Gods, too … much! Gods, she's the one! Gods! Call me S'Skautsa, sweet love. Call me husband, mate.…
"Call me Scott," he nearly shouted.
Then his eyes flew wide open and he was suddenly quite awake.