THE DARKEST ANGEL by Gena Showalter Page A

closer to him—so close their chests rubbed each time they breathed. Her nipples were hard, deliciously abrading.
    “Out of the oil,” she murmured. “Clean.”
    He was still in the loincloth, but his skin was suddenly free of the oil, his feet on soft yet firm mist. The cloud might belong to him once more, but she could still make reasonable demands.
    Bianka tilted her head and took his possession deeper. Their tongues dueled and rolled and their teeth scraped. Her hands were all over him, no part of him forbidden to her.
    Goodbye, she had said.
    This was it, then. His last chance to touch her skin. To finally know. Yes, he planned to see her again, to watch her from afar, to wait for his chance to rid himself of her permanently, but never again would he allow himself to get this close to her. And he had to know.
    So he did it.
    He glided his hands forward, tracing from her lower back to her stomach. There, he flattened his palms, and her muscles quivered. She was softer than he’d realized. Softer than anything else he’d ever touched.
    He moaned. Have to touch more. Up he lifted, remaining under her shirt. Warm, smooth, as he’d already known. Still soft, so sweetly soft. Her breasts overflowed, and his mouth watered for a taste of them. Soon, he told himself. Then shook his head. This was it; the last time they would be together. Goodbye, pretty breasts. He kneaded them.
    More soft perfection.
    Trembling now, he reached her collarbone. Her shoulders. She shivered. Still so wonderfully soft. More, more, more, he had to have more. Had to touch all of her.
    “Lysander,” she gasped out. She dropped to her knees, working at the loincloth before he realized what she was doing.
    His shaft sprang free, and his hands settled atop her shoulders to push her away. But once he touched that soft skin, he was once again lost to the sensation. Perfection, this was perfection.
    “Going to kiss you now. A different kind of kiss.” Warm wet heat settled over the hard length of him. Another moan escaped him. Up, down that wicked mouth rode him. The pleasure...it was too much, not enough, everything and nothing. In that moment, it was necessary to his survival. His every breath hinged on what she would do next. There would be no pushing her away.
    She twirled her tongue over the plump head; her fingers played with his testicles. Soon he was arching his hips, thrusting deep into her mouth. He couldn’t stop moaning, groaning, the gasping breaths leaving him in a constant stream.
    “Bianka,” he growled. “Bianka.”
    “That’s the way, baby. Give Bianka everything.”
    “Yes, yes.” Everything. He would give her everything.
    The sensation was building, his skin tightening, his muscles locking down on his bones. And then something exploded inside him. Something hot and wanton. His entire body jerked. Seed jetted from him, and she swallowed every drop.
    Finally she pulled away from him, but his body wouldn’t stop shaking. His knees were weak, his limbs nearly uncontrollable. That was pleasure, he realized, dazed. That was passion. That was what human men were willing to die to possess. That was what turned normally sane men into slaves. Like I am now. He was Bianka’s slave.
    Fool! You knew this would happen. Fight. It was only as she stood and smiled at him tenderly—and he wanted to tug her into his arms and hold on forever—that a measure of sanity stole back into his mind. Yes. Fight. How could he have allowed her to do that?
    How could he still want her?
    How could he want to do that to her in return?
    How could he ever let her go?
    “Bianka,” he said. He needed a moment to catch his breath. No. He needed to think about what had happened and how they should proceed. No. He tangled a hand in his hair. What should he do?
    “Don’t say anything.” Her smile disappeared as if it had never been. “The cloud is yours.” Her voice trembled with...fear? Couldn’t be. She hadn’t showed a moment of fear since he’d