The sorceress was reading his mind!
“It won’t last. Melanthe will never be what you need her to be. You can’t break my daughter, and that’s the only way she’d love you . . . .”
Thronos didn’t want Melanthe’s love, had no desire for it. He would break her—but only to make her become what he needed. And he’d start by using this temple against her, getting answers out of her.
From behind him, she cried, “Why would you keep me from such a place?”
He turned to her. The distress on her face was priceless. She was practically vibrating with eagerness. He repeated her words: “Why not?”
Must get in! Behind this door was more gold than Lanthe had ever witnessed in one place. Even the great Morgana, queen of the Sorceri, didn’t have that much in her possession.
How could Thronos deny her?
Lanthe had already been on edge from his memory, then from her own dreams. She turned back to the stone, resting her body against it, raising her arms over her head—for more of her skin to touch the door that separated her from heaven. She remained like this, as if she could melt through.
He might as well be here blocking her way, her body pressed against his. He was the key! She had to convince him. Think, Lanthe! What did he want from her?
She faced him again. “Please, you can’t keep me from it!”
He sat on the ground, one knee bent, a casual arm resting over it. “I found it. I claimed it. My temple, my gold—I make the rules.”
There was something about his domineering tone that was weirdly arousing. Even though she was filled with turmoil, her ni**les tightened again. She bit her bottom lip, wondering how far she’d go to sway him.
If she could just touch the gold, take its song into her . . .
She hastened over to kneel between his legs. He looked startled, but that didn’t stop him from widening his legs to accommodate her—so she moved in closer.
That electricity sparking between them made her hyper-aware of his body, of his heat. His shirt was hanging on only by a low button, revealing his chest, which rose and fell with his shallowed breaths.
When his Adam’s apple bobbed, she peeked down and found his shaft growing. It was only semihard, but already . . . generous. Demons were notorious for their size. I hope this one’s a show-er and not a grower, or I’m a dead woman.
No, no! There would be no intercourse with a Vrekener! So stop staring at his cock, Lanthe. Dragging her gaze up, she cleared her throat. “Thronos, beyond that wall is nothing less than heaven for me. Why would you keep me from it?” she asked, noticing that he had gold dust on one side of his neck. Did the temple rain gold? The thought made her pant.
He frowned at her reaction. “I’ll keep you from it because—”
He was cut short when she grabbed one of his horns and pulled his head to the side. “Gold dust,” she murmured, unable to help herself. “Give me this first.” His skin smelled as sublime as the gold. With a moan, she leaned in to rub her face against it, to get his gold on her. She rubbed her other cheek, then drew back.
A smattering remained right over his pulse point—which was palpitating along with his thundering heart.
Too much temptation! She dipped down to press her open mouth over his neck, feeling his pulse beneath her tongue, taking in the cool gold mixed with his own delectable taste. She shivered with delight. Once she’d licked him, she leaned in beside his ear to whisper, “I never knew you’d taste so good.”
His big body shuddered, bringing her back to reality. Oh, gods, was she actually gripping his horn? Releasing him, she drew back to face him.
His expression was . . . dazed, his pupils blown, his eyes glazed with lust. He shifted where he sat, no doubt because his erection was paining him. His claws dug into his palms as he fought not to touch her.
In that moment an epiphany struck her, as bright and shining as the temple of gold just one door away from her.
She could enchant this male.
In their history, she’d befriended him, run from him, fought him, and spurned him. But she’d never tried to tempt him. She was descended from the enchantment caste of the mystical immortal species. She wasn’t without innate skills.
Plus, she had centuries of sexual experience over this hard-up virgin novice. Though she’d never take it too far, she could tempt him up to a point. She’d run circles around him, wrapping him around her little finger.
If she didn’t want him to take her to the Skye, then all she had to do was ask him very, very nicely.
When she slowly grinned, his gaze dipped to her lips, so she licked them. His brows drew together, and he swallowed thickly.
Your ass is mine, Vrekener.
SEVENTEEN
Please take me back there, love.” Melanthe’s eyes were shimmering blue, her cheeks sparkling with gold.
Never in Thronos’s imaginings had he thought, She might lick my neck.
The decision to wed this creature is very sound.
She kept touching him—with her hands, with her mouth—and each contact made pleasure explode through him. She might not like his appearance, but she’d liked his taste. All his earlier plans seemed to evaporate, his mind shuttling to fantasies best left buried.
I could coax her to taste other parts of me. Feeding his shaft between her red lips . . .
Or he could taste her, wringing a cli**x from her with his tongue. At the thought of licking between her thighs, he was seized by the urge to toss her to the ground and feast.
His claws dug into his palms, the bite of pain helping him focus. Somewhat. “Why should I take you back there? Why should I make any concession for you?”
“Because your mate needs to see it.”
“Ah, so now you say you’re my mate.”
When she slinked even closer, her scent—a mix of home, sky, and woman—boggled his mind. “If that entitles me to fifty percent of your gold, then yes, I’m your mate.”
Where was her hostility? He could handle himself when she was a typical hateful sorceress, but this was throwing him. “If you see it, you’ll desire it. Then what? It’s not as if we can take it with us.”
“It would be enough just to touch it, to answer its call.”
Like touching a talisman.
“What can I say to convince you? Thronos, you can’t understand what the element is to me.”
He spoke before he considered his words: “It’s life to you.”
Her eyes widened, and she nodded. “Yes! Gold is life. It’s as beautiful as love, as divine as laughter.” She took his hand, raising it. When she made him trail the backs of his fingers over the soft skin above her breastplate, he just stifled a growl.
“Gold is this”—she pressed his palm flat over her chest—“next”—he dipped a thumb into her cle**age—“heartbeat.”
Her heart was racing; his must have stopped. Don’t squeeze her plump flesh, don’t squeeze. . . .
She laid her own hands on his thighs, shifting her weight to her straightened arms, which pushed his thumb deeper between her creamy br**sts. “You want to show me your gold. You want my fingers wrapped around your gold, stroking it.”
Trying to command him? With a scowl, he dragged his hand away. “Your power isn’t working.”
“I wasn’t persuading you.” She inched her hands higher, nearly to his groin. “I was seeing if I could get you to substitute a certain noun for the word gold.” She pressed her thumbs in, indicating what she meant.
Though she was in a room full of gold, her attention veered to him, crouched on that shelf. The muscles of his torso flexed with his movements. His stern, intense expression and that gargoyle-like position made him look very demonic.
She’d never bedded a demon before. Huh.
Yet as she strolled the temple, his constant scowl eased. Without that scowl, he was . . . gorgeous.
There was no more denying it—or her attraction to him.
Some females might consider his scars unsightly. Lanthe thought they made him look tough and warlord-y. Besides, who could care about them when those silver eyes were so compelling? When his warrior’s body seemed to have been sculpted from granite?