Free The Warlord Wants Forever by Kresley Cole Page B

her in? Arrogant! When he turned for the shower, she tried not to stare at his back and how it tapered to his narrow hips and his muscled ass with the hard holows on the sides. She’d been right, it did beg to be clutched.

    Damn her claws for curling—

    “I believe you like everything about me,” he rumbled from inside the bathroom.

    She gazed at the ceiling, embarrassed as she couldn’t remember ever being before. Of course he’d known she was staring, probably by the holes she was burning into his skin. As she dressed, she thought that he was right—she was tantalized, and she did like everything about him physicaly. The way he’d made her feel last night left no doubt in her mind that he could not only get her to ask for him inside her, but beg.

    She needed to escape before then, before he “claimed” her. He hadn’t drunk from her and they hadn’t had sex. As long as those two things stayed sacred she could get past this patch in her life.

    When he returned to the room, dressed like a male dream, she felt like shuffling her feet for her ridiculous getup, draped in his shirt that fel to her knees. She had never felt insecure before. But she didn’t have long to ponder it, because he put his hands on her waist. “Are you ready?” he asked, staring down at her. Ready? To kiss him, hug him, go to her knees? What?

    He puled her to his body, wrapping his arms around her. “Close your eyes,” he commanded. She did. “Open them.”

    Suddenly, they were in a garage. This was the first time she’d traced and been able to think about the process. She’d dropped an intoxispel or two in her day and found tracing on par with that. She was unsteady at first, but the air smeled like bayou at high tide, which she liked, and was heavy with humidity. New Orleans, but where? “What is this place?” she asked, breaking away from him to look around.

    “An old restored mil north of the city,” Wroth answered. “Where I stayed while scouring the streets for you for as long as I could manage every night. Before colapsing in agony and weakness.”

    She looked away quickly, fighting a flare of guilt—and spotted his cars. She tried to be cool, but of course, Wroth caught her eyeing them—especialy the Maserati Spyder—and she knew he’d seen her flicker of appreciation. The Valkyrie prized fine things. They were acquisitive to a fault—it simply couldn’t be helped. Her own mother had told her that Myst’s first word was, roughly translated, gimme.

    He opened her door to the Spyder, and once she was inside, she curled up on the soft leather, loving it. Joining her, he cast her an inscrutable expression. “We are fortunate, Myst. You’l want for nothing as my wife.”

    She’d already been fortunate. She already wanted for nothing. The coven divvied their colective earnings from investments, and the take was always incredibly generous.
    She had enough money to buy any clothing that struck her fancy, to purchase two thousand dolar hand-painted lingerie sets to placate her obsession. In a deadened tone, she mumbled, “Oh joy. I’m rich.”

    He commanded her to direct him to her home, not in itself an unforgivable crime. They didn’t hide their address like the Bat Cave, yet they didn’t often have trespassers at Val Hal. When his breath hissed in at the sight of the manor, she was reminded why.

    “This is where you live?” he bit out, forearms resting on the steering wheel, his tone incredulous.

    She tried to see it from his eyes. Fog shrouded the property, and bolts of light iluminated it in a staccato rhythm. There were lightning rods everywhere, but sometimes they didn’t catch al the lightning, as evidenced by the massive oaks in the yard stil lazily giving up smoke. And the wood nymphs—those little hookers—were way behind on repairing the trees. If Myst heard them whine, “But Mysty baby, there was this orgy,” as an excuse one more time—

    “Helish,” Wroth said.

    She tilted her