Master of the Deep by Cleo Peitsche Page A

Anyway, she hadn’t expected him to do it. “Sold.”
    “Then come here.” The light turned off. Even though darkness had nothing to do with sound, it seemed the building had gotten quieter.  
    She took several tentative steps in his direction. “I can’t see,” she said.
    “I can. There’s nothing between us but open space.”
    “You say that, but air is more dangerous than water. I worked it out earlier.”
    Koenraad’s mouth descended on hers. Her surprise turned instantly to a pulsing, aching need for more. She grabbed for him, but her movements were clumsy, and her hands seemed to keep getting in the way.
    He lifted her, and she swung her legs around his waist, crossing her feet at the ankle. She wanted to tell him not to drop her, but one thing she knew—she was safe.
    She was being lowered onto something hard, and Koenraad was kissing her. His hands slid up under her dress, stopping only when his fingers reached the elastic of her bikini.
    “This has to go,” he murmured as he plucked lightly at the fabric. His mouth lowered to her throat. “Now.”
    But she didn’t get a chance to do anything about it because he had already yanked her bikini bottom to her knees. He’d stepped away so quickly that she hadn’t even realized what was happening.
    “Don’t drop them on the floor.” Her hands swept back and forth, but he was out of reach.
    “Ye of little faith,” Koenraad said. He stopped moving, and she wondered what he was doing.
    She pushed herself up to sitting. “Is something wrong?”
    “No,” he said, his voice husky. “Everything is right. You’re perfect.”  
    Because it was dark, she rolled her eyes. She wouldn’t have done it if he could see her.
    “We have a tradition in Tureygua,” Koenraad said. One of his arms was around her shoulders. The other started at her ankle, slid up her calf. He palmed her muscle, squeezed it, then his fingers were on the move, climbing.  
    The higher his hand went, the more difficult she found it to breathe.  
    “When a woman stays in a man’s house, she’s not supposed to wear clothing. It’s considered rude.”
    “Really?” She was having a hard time paying attention. She could feel the heat of his fingers poised just over her wet slit. In the darkness, everything felt a thousand times more intense.
    “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s an insult of the highest order. You’ll have to be naked from now on or risk starting an international incident.”
    “Between the States and Tureygua or between humans and shifters?” she asked.
    “Whichever is more motivational for you. But seriously, Monroe, your body is gorgeous. I haven’t felt this way about a woman since… actually, ever. Touching you is like discovering a new, secret place that no one else knows about. I want to explore you, to mark and claim you.”
    “Mark me?”
    The tip of his finger nudged into her. “Oh, yes,” he said. He stroked in a short, stiff arc, just enough to drive her out of her mind.
    She heard him messing with his clothing, then it was the swollen head of his cock teasing her. He would press the first few inches into her, then pull out. Over and over he teased her, whipping her into a mindless frenzy of desire.
    He was moaning, too… and she took some comfort in knowing that as difficult as this was for her, at least he was suffering, too.
    “Pull down the top of your dress,” he said.
    “Why?” she asked as she pulled the fabric down. “It’s not like you can see.”
    “Just do it.”
    The top was tight enough that Koenraad had to help, and by the time he got the fabric down below her breasts, her upper arms were anchored to her sides.
    She didn’t know he was leaning closer until she smelled his woodsy shampoo and felt his soft hair brushing against her chin. Then he was tugging on her halter top with his teeth, and as soon as her breasts were uncovered, he sucked a nipple into his mouth.
    Her hoarse cry filled the abandoned room as he tugged and