Alessandro stared at me for a shocked moment. I cupped his face between my hands and kissed him again. My wings beat around us. If they’d had substance, I would have pulled him off his feet into the air.
His hand gripped my butt, his fingers scalding hot on my skin. He grabbed my panties and tore them off. I spun off him onto the bed. He barely had a chance to pull his pants off, and then I pulled him down, onto his back, and perched on top of him. His shaft was rock-hard under me. I yanked my shirt off.
He reached for me. I pinned his arms down and thrust myself against him. He slid inside me in a shocking burst of pleasure. It reverberated through me and erupted into a shout. The sound that left my lips was half song, half wretched cry, and the magic it summoned spun around us, conjuring distant echoes of salt spray and rough rock. He was the sailor I had stolen from the world and no force on Earth could compel me to give him back.
I leaned back and rode him, faster and faster, my black wings spread above us. His hands caressed my breasts and gripped my hips, pulling me harder onto him with every thrust. His magic whipped around us, a convulsing serpent of orange sparks. He arched his hips, matching my rhythm, his stomach flat and hard, the muscles on his chest tight with tension. There was so much power in him, in that strong body, in his eyes, in his magic. And in this moment, it was all mine.
Tension built in me, a storm on the verge of breaking. I wanted more, I wanted it harder. It whipped me into a frenzied rush.
He growled, his voice raw with need.
The storm inside my body shattered into ecstasy. Its waves crashed into me, so potent they almost pulled me under. I leaned forward and gripped his shoulders. His eyes were open, and I stared into them, mesmerized. He was so beautiful, and he was locked on me.
I would never let anyone hurt him again.
We hurtled into our own private typhoon. There was nothing hesitant or tender about it. It was a mad hymn, a violent coupling, and every moment of it would be seared into me forever.
Another orgasm gripped me, reverberating through me in an intoxicating rush. I arched my back, melting into it. My wings snapped wide as if catching a storm gust, and I sang out, a long wordless note that was less sound and more magic.
He strained beneath me, his body hard as a rock, his hands grasping me, and came. I licked the blood off my lips, feeling him shudder once under me, and collapsed next to him, spent.
Chapter 15
I brushed my teeth and spat into the sink. It was morning. I had expected an attack in the middle of the night, but it never came. I got a blissful eight hours of sleep and now I was starving.
He should’ve attacked us. Why hadn’t he?
“This is screwed up,” I told Alessandro as we both pulled on clothes in the closet.
“What is?”
“I’m stressed out because he didn’t try to kill us last night.”
“He’ll come at us in the next twenty-four hours,” Alessandro said. “And he’ll throw everything he has into it.”
Keeping track of who Arkan had left was making my head hurt.
Our phones rang simultaneously. Argh. I stumbled back into the bathroom, grabbed my cell off the sink, and answered it, putting it on speaker. “Yes?”
“Christina Almeida is here,” Patricia reported.
“Perfect. Just what we need.”
“She’s waiting for you. Leon is with her.”
“You let her into the Compound? Why?”
“Because she brought a hostage,” Patricia said.
“Who?” he asked.
“Countess Sagredo.”
Cou—who?
“Where?” Alessandro squeezed through his teeth.
“I put them on the patio by the main house,” Patricia said. “Mrs. Baylor has a clear shot of Christina’s head, in case any issues arise. Please hurry.”
Countess Sagredo sat on a stone bench under a Mexican plum tree, an untouched glass of iced tea in front of her on a little table. This patio was the place we held family gatherings when the weather was good, and the heat was down. It was a beautiful, comfortable space, and Alessandro’s mother sat as if the floor was lava, and her bench would sink into it at any moment. Two men flanked her. Both had the look of seasoned veterans, the kind who do bad things with professional efficiency and are not squeamish about it.
Christina stood to the left of the countess and her honor guard. She was glaring at Leon who sat on the stone bench at the other end of the patio entrance, his eyes closed, his face turned to catch the morning sun.
The countess saw me. Her face paled. From the background checks, I knew she was taller than me, but she seemed smaller, thinner, and she wore her fragility like a cloak, as if afraid she would take up too much space. She was beautiful, but her face was pale, her makeup failing to add any color or life to her features. Her dark hair, likely dyed because it showed no traces of grey, framed her face in a kind of loose updo that made her seem slightly frazzled. Her expression only reinforced that feeling of being out of place. She looked like a woman who wasn’t sure exactly where she was or why she was there.