Sins of the Soul

With a moan, she caught hold of the fine wool of his suit jacket, crushing the material in her fists, trying to drag him closer. He let her feel only his kiss when she wanted more, wanted his body full against her, skin to skin.

This was crazy. On some level, she knew that. But she stamped that thought beneath her heel and met the thrust of his tongue with her own.

Taking her lower lip between his teeth, he bit her, then sucked on her. The sensations that rushed through her were like nothing she’d ever experienced, nothing she’d ever imagined.

He’d strummed her to a near frenzy with barely a touch and one kiss.

When he pulled back a little, she followed, her mouth seeking his.

He fisted his hands in her hair, tipping her head so he could kiss her deeper, taking what he wanted.

With a gasp, she shoved her hands under his suit jacket and skimmed her palms along his back, feeling the heat of him through his shirt.

He caught her wrists, dragged them up over her head and held them there with one hand, the other stroking slowly down her arm, her shoulder, her waist.

She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t need to breathe. There was only the feel of him, the taste of him. Everything else fell away.

Coming up on her toes, she molded herself against him, wanting to be closer, pressed tighter. She wanted his clothes gone, and hers. She wanted to feel him moving naked against her.

Something inside her clicked. A sense of self-preservation. What the hell was she doing?

Kissing a soul reaper. Inviting him in.

This was not a good plan. This was not any plan. It was basic and raw. And it was far into the danger zone.

With a gasp, she jerked away, turning her face toward her shoulder. She didn’t dare look at him. He was temptation wrapped up in a well-tailored package, and she was way too close to the flame.

Slowly, she dragged her trapped wrists from his grasp, a little surprised that he let her.

His thigh was pressed high between her own. And his taste was on her tongue.

A kiss. Just a kiss. But really, so much more than that. A claiming. A stamp of ownership.

But she couldn’t say with any certainty exactly who had been stamping whom.





CHAPTER ELEVEN



“BACK OFF.” SHE SHOVED hard against his chest.

She was breathing hard and avoiding his gaze. Alastor figured that unless he wanted all-out war, he’d be wise to do exactly as she asked. So he stepped back and let her go, though the primitive thing inside him was writhing against the restraint. He wanted her. She wanted him. Simplicity itself. “You’re making things complicated,” he murmured.

“This isn’t—” She broke off, shook her head.

He wanted to push, to demand capitulation, but he had a feeling that with Naphré, patience would serve him better.

She shot a glance through the archway into the living room, made a show of sniffing the air and wrinkling her nose.

“I smell like puke,” she said, her tone flat. She didn’t, but as far as excuses went, it was innovative. “She got me when she hurled in the car. I need a shower.” She jerked her head toward the woman sleeping on the couch. “You get to stay here and play nursemaid if she wakes up. There’s a bucket under the sink in the kitchen. If she throws up again, it better be into that, or you’ll be the one mopping the floor.”

“According to whom?”

Ducking around him, she headed for the stairs. With her hand on the banister, she paused, head bowed, shoulders tight.

“According to me,” she said without looking back.

And she clearly believed she could enforce her threat. It was a novel experience, having a woman treat him as an equal. Not a coddled son or brother. Not a knight or savior. Not a threat. Exactly as an equal. He couldn’t think of a time in his life where that had ever happened before.

Then she bolted up the stairs, her slippers slapping wood.

Alastor stepped forward and watched her gorgeous, round arse sway, appreciating the view. Then she was gone, and a moment later, the sound of running water carried down to him.

He fought the urge to follow her.

Naphré Kurata was a conundrum. She was a Topworld assassin who double-tapped without blinking, but she caved under a single kiss. Bloody fascinating.

Making his way along the hall, Alastor discovered a powder room beneath the stairs. He assessed his clothing and was pleased to note that it was spatter-free. There were a few scorched holes at the shoulder, as well as a long, narrow rent on the left sleeve where the first bullet had winged him, and a hole in the back to the right of midline. His white shirt was bloodstained. His arm was gouged. His right side striped where the second bullet had taken out a chunk.

Overall, he had fared well.

And the burns he’d sustained when his father incinerated the centipedes were almost gone now. Rapid healing was one of the benefits of being Sutekh’s son. Getting the wounds in the first place was one of the downsides.