The Darkest Kiss lotu-3 Read online

  "Yes." Her nipples tightened, throbbing for his touch. "More, more, more."

  "So good."

  "Amazing."

  "Touch me," he growled.

  "Am."

  "No. Me."

  Understanding dawned, and with it an intensification of her desire. Maybe he did want her. After all, he yearned to have her hands on his skin, which meant he longed for more than just a kiss.

  "My pleasure." With one hand, she gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted. With the other, she caressed the ropes of his stomach. Scars. She felt scars and shivered, the jagged tissue wonderfully hot.

  His muscles clenched against each stroke, and he bit her bottom lip. "Yes, like that."

  She almost came, his reaction like fuel to an already blazing fire. She did moan.

  Her fingers traced the circle of his nipples before dabbling at the tips. Each time she grazed them, her clitoris throbbed as if she were touching herself. "I love the feel of you."

  Lucien licked his way down the column of her throat, his tongue leaving a trail of sensual lightning. Her eyelids cracked open, and she nearly gasped when she realized they were indeed outside, leaning against the club's exterior in a shadowed corner. He must have flashed them there, the naughty boy.

  He was the only Lord capable of transporting himself from one location to another with only a thought. A skill she possessed, as well. She only wished he'd flashed them to a bedroom.

  No, she forced herself to add, fighting a wave of despair. Bedroom bad. Bad, bad, bad. Bad Anya for thinking otherwise, even for a second. Other women could enjoy the electric press of skin against skin and naked bodies straining for release, but not Anya. Never Anya.

  "I want you," he bit out roughly.

  "About time," she whispered.

  He raised his darkly haloed head, blue and brown irises intense, before pinning her with another scorching kiss. On and on it continued, until she was willingly, blissfully drowning in him. Branded to her very soul, where she was no longer Anya but Lucien's woman. Lucien's slave. She might never get enough of him, would have allowed him to penetrate her then and there if she'd been able. Gods, reality was so much better than fantasy.

  "I need to feel more of you. I need your hands on me." She dropped her legs from him, standing, and was just reaching for his fly, wanting to free his cock and wrap her fingers around its swollen thickness, when she heard a nearby echo of footsteps.

  Lucien must have heard them, too. He stiffened and jerked away from her.

  He was panting. So was she. Her knees almost buckled as their gazes locked together, time momentarily suspended. Passion-lightning still sparked between them; never would she have guessed a kiss could be that combustible.

  "Right your clothing," he commanded.

  "But…but…" She wasn't ready to stop, audience or not. If he'd just give her a moment, she could flash them someplace else.

  "Do it. Now."

  No, there would be no flashing, she realized with disappointment. His hard expression proclaimed he was done. With the kiss, with her.

  Tearing her gaze from him, she looked down at herself. Her top had been anchored underneath her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra, so the hardened pink tips of her nipples were visible, two little beacons in the night. Her skirt was around her waist, showing off the front of that barely-there thong.

  She smoothed her outfit, blushing for the first time in hundreds of years. Why now? Does it matter? Her hands were shaking, an embarrassing weakness. She tried to will them to stop, but the only command her body wanted to hear was to jump back into Lucien's arms.

  Several of the Lords rounded the corner, each glaring and sullen.

  "I love it when you disappear like that," the one called Gideon said, his irritated tone making it clear he didn't love it at all. He was possessed by the spirit of Lies, Anya knew, so he wasn't capable of uttering a single truth.

  "Shut up," Reyes snapped. Poor, tortured Reyes, keeper of Pain. He liked to cut himself. Once, she'd even seen him jump from the top of the warriors' fortress and luxuriate in the feel of his broken bones. "She might appear innocent, Lucien, but you failed to check her for weapons before you swallowed her tongue."

  "I'm practically naked," she pointed out, exasperated. Not that anyone paid her any heed. "What weapon could I possibly be hiding?" Okay, so she was hiding a few. Big deal. A girl had to protect herself.

  "I had everything under control," Lucien said in that unaffected voice of his. "I think I can handle one lone female, armed or not."

  Anya had always been fascinated by his calmness. Until now. Where was his lingering passion? Wasn't fair that he'd recovered so quickly while she still struggled for breath. Her limbs hadn't even stopped trembling. Worse, her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest.

  "So who is she?" Reyes asked.

  "She might not be Bait, but she's something," Paris said. "You flashed her, but she isn't screaming."

  That's when all of their narrowed gazes finally shifted to Anya. She'd never felt more raw, more vulnerable, in all the centuries of her life. Kissing Lucien had been worth the risk of capture, but that didn't mean she had to endure an interrogation. "All of you can just shut it. I'm not telling you a damn thing."

  "I didn't invite you, and Reyes told me no one here claims you as a friend," Paris said. "Why did you attempt to seduce Lucien?"

  Because no one would freely consort with the scarred warrior, his tone proclaimed. That irritated her, even though she knew he hadn't meant it to be rude or hurtful, was probably just stating what all of them considered fact.

  "What's up with the third degree?" One by one, she glared at them. Everyone but Lucien. Him, she avoided. She might crumble if his features were still cold and emotionless. "I saw him, he appealed to me, so I went after him. Big deal. End of story."

  Each of the Lords crossed their arms over their chests, a yeah-right action. They'd formed a semicircle around her, she realized then, though she'd never seen them move. She barely managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

  "You don't really want him," Reyes said. "We all know that. So tell us what you do want before we force you to tell us."

  Force her? Please. She, too, crossed her arms. A short while ago, they'd cheered for Lucien to kiss her. Hadn't they? Maybe she had cheered for herself. But now they wanted a play-by-play of her thought process? Now they acted as if Lucien could not tempt a blind woman? "I wanted his cock inside me. You get it now, asshole?"

  There was a shocked pause.

  Lucien stepped in front of her, blocking her from the men. Was he…protecting her? How utterly sweet. Unnecessary, but sweet. Some of her anger evaporated. She wanted to hug him.

  "Leave her alone," Lucien said. "She doesn't matter. She's unimportant."

  Anya's happy buzz evaporated, too. Doesn't matter? Unimportant? He'd just held her breast in his hand and rubbed his erection between her legs. How dare he say something like that?

  A red haze winked over her vision. This must be how my mother always felt. Nearly all the men Dysnomia had taken to bed had hurled insults at the woman when their pleasure had been sated. Easy, they'd said. Not good for anything else.

  Anya knew her mother well, knew Dysnomia had been slave to her lawless nature, as well as simply looking for love. Mated gods, single gods, it hadn't mattered. If they had desired her, she had given herself to them. Probably because for those few hours in her lovers' arms, she had been accepted, cherished, her darker urges sated.

  Which made the betrayal afterward all the more painful, Anya thought, eyeing Lucien. Of all the things she'd expected and yearned for him to say, unimportant hadn't been close. She's mine, maybe. I need her, perhaps. Don't touch my property, definitely.

  She hadn't wanted the same life as her mother, much as she loved her, and had vowed long ago never to let herself be used. But look at me now. I begged and pleaded for Lucien's kiss, and he never saw me as anything more than unimportant.

  Growling, channeling
all of her considerable strength, fury and hurt, she shoved him. He propelled forward like a bullet from a gun and slammed into Paris. Both men hmphed before ricocheting apart.

  When Lucien righted himself, he whipped around to face her. "There will be none of that."

  "Actually, there's going to be a lot more of that." She stalked toward him, fist raised. Soon he would be swallowing his perfect white teeth.

  "Anya," he said, her name a husky entreaty. "Stop."

  She froze, shock thickening every drop of blood in her veins. "You know who I am." A statement, not a question. "How?" They'd spoken once, weeks ago, but he'd never seen her before today. She'd made sure of it.

  "You have been following me. I recognized your scent."

  Strawberries and cream, he'd said earlier, accusation in his voice. Her eyes widened. Pleasure and mortification blended, spearing her all the way to the bone. All along, he'd known she was watching him.

  "Why did I get the third degree if you knew who I was? And why, if you knew I was following you, didn't you ask me to show myself?" The questions lashed from her with stinging force.

  "One," he said, "I did not realize who you were until after the discussion about Hunters had taken place. Two, I did not wish to scare you away until I learned your purpose." He paused, waited for her to speak. When she didn't, he added, "What is your purpose?"

  "I—you—" Damn it! What should she tell him? "You owe me a favor! I saved your friend, freed you from his curse." There. Rational and true and hopefully would move the conversation away from her motives.

  "Ah." He nodded, his shoulders stiffening. "Everything makes sense now. You've come for payment."

  "Well, no." Much as it would have saved her pride, she suddenly realized she didn't want him thinking she gave her kisses away so easily. "Not yet."

  His brow furrowed. "But you just said—"

  "I know what I said."

  "Why have you come, then? Why stalk my every waking moment?"

  She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, her frustration renewed. There was no time to reply, however, as Reyes, Paris and Gideon closed in on her. All three were scowling. Did they think to grab her and keep her still?

  Rather than answer Lucien, she snapped at the men, "What? I don't recall inviting you into the conversation."

  "You are Anya?" Reyes eyed her up and down, his revulsion clear.

  Revulsion? He should be grateful! Hadn't she liberated him from the curse that had forced him to stab his BFF every night? Yes, damn it. She had. But his look was one she knew well, and one that never failed to raise her hackles. Because of her mother's amorous past and the widespread expectation that she, with her free-spirited ways, would follow suit, every Greek god in Olympus had projected that same sort of revulsion at her at one time or another.

  At first, Anya had been hurt by their smug disdain. And for several hundred years, she'd tried the good-girl thing: dressing like a freaking nun, speaking only when spoken to, keeping her gaze downcast. Somehow she'd even squelched her desperate need for disaster. All to earn the respect of beings who would never see her as anything more than a whore.

  One fateful day, when she'd come home from stupid goddess training, crying because she'd smiled at Ares and that bitch Artemis had called her ta ma de, Dysnomia had pulled her aside. Whatever you do, however you act, they are going to judge you harshly, the goddess had said. But we all must be true to our own nature. Acting as anyone other than yourself merely brings you pain and makes you appear ashamed of who and what you are. Others will feed off that shame, and soon it will be all that you are. You are a wonderful being, Anya. Be proud of who you are. I am.

  From then on, Anya had dressed as sexily as she pleased, talked whenever and however she wanted and refused to look at her feet for any reason other than admiring her strappy stilettos. No longer had she denied her need for disorder. An offhand way of saying "fuck you" to the ones who rejected her, yes, but more importantly, she liked who she was.

  She would never be ashamed again.

  "It is…interesting to see you in the flesh after all the research I've done on you lately. You are the daughter of Dysnomia," Reyes continued. "You are the minor goddess of Anarchy."

  "There's nothing minor about me." Minor meant unimportant, and she was just as important as the other, "higher" beings, damn it. But because no one knew who her father was—well, she did, now—she had been relegated as such. "But yeah. I am a goddess." She raised her chin, showing him no emotion.

  "The night you made yourself known to us and saved Ashlyn's life, you told us that you were not," Lucien said. "You told us you were merely an immortal."

  She shrugged. She hated gods so much she rarely used that title. "I lied. I often do. It's part of my charm, don't you think?"

  No one replied. Figured.

  "We were once warriors for the gods and lived in the heavens, as I'm sure you know," Reyes said as if she hadn't spoken. "I do not remember you."

  "Maybe I wasn't born yet, smartie."

  Irritation flickered in his dark eyes, but he continued calmly. "As I told you, since your appearance weeks ago I have been researching you, learning everything I can. Long ago, you were imprisoned for murdering an innocent man. Then, a hundred years or so after your confinement, the gods finally agreed on the proper punishment for you. Before they could carry out the verdict, however, you did something no other immortal had ever managed to do. You escaped."

  She didn't try to deny it. "Your research is correct." For the most part.

  "Legend claims you infected the keeper of Tartarus with some kind of disease, for immediately after your escape he weakened and lost his memory. Guards were placed in every corner to fortify security, as the gods feared the strength of the prison depended on the strength of its keeper. Over time the walls did begin to crumble and crack, which eventually led to the escape of the Titans."

  Gonna blame that on her, was he? Her eyes narrowed. "The thing about legends," she said flatly, "is that the truth is often distorted to explain the things that mortals cannot understand. Funny that you, the subject of so many legends, don't know that."

  "You hid here, among humans," Reyes said, ignoring her. Again. "But you weren't content to live in peace even then. You started wars, stole weapons and even ships. You caused major fires and others disasters, which in turn led to mass panic and rioting among the humans, and hundreds of people being imprisoned."

  Warmth suffused her face. Yes, she'd done those things. When she'd first come to earth, she hadn't known how to control her rebellious nature. Gods had been able to protect themselves from it, humans hadn't. Besides that, she'd been almost…feral from her years in prison. A simple comment from her—you aren't going to let your brother talk to you like that, are you?—and bloody feuds erupted between clans. An appearance at court—perhaps laughing at the rulers and their policies—and loyal knights attempted to assassinate their king.

  As for the fires, well, something inside her had compelled her to "accidentally" drop torches and watch the flames dance. And the stealing…she'd been unable to fight the voice in her head that whispered, Take it. No one will know.

  Eventually she'd learned that if she fed her need for disorder with little things—petty theft, white lies and the occasional street fight—huge disasters could be averted.

  "I did my homework on you, too," she said softly. "Did you not once destroy cities and kill innocents?"

  Now Reyes blushed.

  "You are not the same man you used to be, just as I am not—" Before she'd completed the sentence, a sudden wind blustered around them, whistling and harsh. Anya blinked against it, confused for only a moment. "Damn it!" she spat, knowing what would come next.

  Sure enough, the warriors froze in place as time ceased to exist for them, a power greater than themselves taking hold of the world around them. Even Lucien, who'd been carefully watching her exchange with Reyes, turned to living stone.

  Hell, she did, too.

 
Oh, no, no, no, she thought, and with the words, the invisible prison bars fell away from her like leaves from a winter tree. Nothing and no one could hold her prisoner. Not anymore. Her father had made sure of that.

  Anya walked to Lucien to try to free him—why, she didn't know, after the things he'd said of her—but the wind ceased as suddenly as it had appeared. Her mouth dried, and her heart began an unsteady tango in her chest. Cronus, who had taken over the heavenly throne mere months ago, bringing new rules, new desires and new punishments, was about to arrive.

  He'd found her.

  Freaking great. As a bright blue light appeared in front of her, chasing away the darkness and humming with unimaginable power, she flashed away. With a sense of regret she had no business feeling, she left Lucien behind—taking the taste and memory of their kiss with her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A BLACK FOG HAD DESCENDED over Lucien, locking his mind on a single thought: Anya.

  He'd been in the middle of a conversation with her, trying to forget how perfectly she had fit against him, how razor-sharp his desire for her had been, and how, in the too-short minutes she'd been in his arms, he would have betrayed everyone he knew for a little more time with her.

  Never had a kiss affected him more. His demon had actually purred inside his head. Purred. Like a tamed housecat. Such a thing had never happened before, and he did not understand why it had tonight.

  Something must be wrong with him.

  Why else would saying Anya meant nothing, was nothing, have nearly killed him? But he'd had to say it. For her benefit, and for his own. Such need was dangerous. And to admit to it, lethal to his infamous control.

  Control. He would have snorted if he'd been capable of movement. Clearly he'd had no control with that woman.

  Why had she pretended to want him? Why had she kissed him as if she'd die without his tongue? Women simply did not crave him like that. Not anymore. He knew that better than anyone. Yet Anya had practically begged him for more.

  And now he could not remove her image from his head. She was tall, the perfect height, with a perfect pixie face and perfect sun-kissed-and-cream skin, smooth and shimmering, mouthwateringly erotic. He imagined laving every inch with his tongue.