Kinked (Elder Races, #6)

“My interest in you is purely pornographic.” He reached out to trace her mouth with a finger. “Your tongue is very talented when you stop using it to talk.”


Laughter threatened to shake through her. She stifled it. She didn’t want him to think she found him amusing, and he sure as hell wasn’t charming. “Remind me to tell you that you say the nicest things—when you start saying them. Maybe that’s what I can use my half hour for, to compel you to compliment me.”

His teeth flashed in a shadowed gleam of a smile. “You think I couldn’t compliment you without being compelled?”

“I don’t care about the compliments,” she told him. “I just want to watch you struggle.”

He slipped his forefinger between her lips and penetrated deeply into her mouth. Not only did she allow it, she sucked him. His breathing deepened.

“You’ll have to find some other way to do that, then,” he whispered. “I’ve hated you, and you’ve pissed me off more than anybody else I’ve ever met. You’re also one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. I watched you every time you were in the Arena during the Games. And I was too mad to admit it at the time, but what you did back in Prague, when you pinned me against the metal door, was crazy awesome. And of course then there’s your mouth. Your wet, warm, extremely dexterous, tight mouth.” He pulled his finger out slowly until just the tip rested between her lips. Then he pushed it back in, fucking her in an almost leisurely way. “See how much better things are when you shut up?”

She had known hate sex with him would be hella good. It was even better in this … place they had come to, this not-quite-hate-but-something-else place. If you find an hourglass, I’ll consider it. But next time I go first.

“What if I don’t want you to go first?” he murmured, sliding his finger along her tongue in a slow, intimate stroke. “What if I want to bargain for something else?”

Behind the silhouette of his head, something moved on the bridge.

It was a quick black streak of—something.

She rolled to her feet and drew her sword in the same motion. In one lightning-fast, fluid motion, Quentin sprang upright and whipped out his sword too. He spun to put his back to hers, and only then asked telepathically, What is it?

Whatever else she might think or feel about him, his instincts as a fighting partner were dead-on accurate. She approved. She said, I saw something move on the bridge.

What?

She could feel him at her back through the thin material of her T-shirt. His body heat radiated against her skin, and the back of his shoulders brushed hers. She said, I don’t know.

They watched and listened. Nothing moved except for leaves in the wind. The only noises she heard were normal night sounds. She scented the air and smelled nothing out of the ordinary, and, because she was who she was, she looked up. There was nothing in the sky that didn’t belong there.

All the while, Quentin stayed at her back, hot as a burning ember and steady as the earth underneath her feet. She had the time and the space to think, all of that coiled danger at my back, and for once it’s on my side.

It felt strange, good and even exhilarating.

He didn’t relax, but after a few moments, he asked, You’re sure.

Yes, I’m sure I saw something, she told him. No, I don’t know what it was. It was a streak of something black. It didn’t look like it was connected to anything, and it moved independently of everything else. It was almost like—

She looked up at the night sky again. The entire scene radiated normality. She didn’t trust it. She stared at the bridge, and studied both ends where it disappeared into the darkness under the trees. It was empty.

Quentin spoke out loud. “It was almost like what?”

“It was almost like a shadow, except there wasn’t anything physical attached to it,” she said. “Or it wasn’t attached to anything else.”

She grabbed her pack by a strap and strode for the bridge. Leaving behind any belongings was a rookie’s mistake. Quentin followed and they leaped onto the bridge. Throwing their things together, they moved to opposite ends of the bridge.

Aryal stopped just before stepping off of the bridge and going under the tree line. She still held her sword. She bent and sniffed at the stone, running her fingers lightly over it. It was dry and still held a lingering warmth from the heat of the day. There was no scent of any creature that passed by recently, just the faint odor of dirt, recent rain and mildew.

She straightened and retreated to the packs without putting her back to the dark, shadowed forest, and she didn’t stop until she came to Quentin.

Full moonlight fell on them. It was almost as clear and bright as daylight. It emphasized the strong slash of cheekbones on his face, and that lean, stubborn jaw. He sheathed his sword and stood with his hands on his hips. “No magical residue,” he said, still speaking quietly.