Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

rather than canines, but his canines appeared very sharp as well. The distinction between vampire and Carpathian was there, but it was slim.
    Her heart raced far past pounding, accelerating so fast she feared it would come through her chest. He lowered his head slowly to hers, his mouth brushing the lightest of kisses on the corner of her eye. Her entire body nearly went into meltdown. There was no way to stop the purely sexual reaction to that feather-light touch. His lips trailed from her eye to her jaw, soft little barely there kisses, a leisurely exploration.
    Her body went soft and pliant, melting into his. Her temperature soared, her core on fire, burning her from the inside out. All tension drained out of her, her lashes drifting closed as his lips continued down her neck to her shoulder. She felt adrift in a river of pure sensation, floating toward him with her entire being. Her heart and maybe even her soul reached for him.
    His teeth scraped back and forth over that throbbing spot and her body reacted, raising her temperature another notch. Her breasts ached, nipples pushing against the thin lace of her bra. On some level she knew she was giving herself up to him, that if she succumbed to him she would never be the same, but he’d woven a sensual web and she was trapped in it—willingly.
    He sank his teeth deep, the pain crashing through her, shocking her.

7
    Z acarias lost himself in the scorching flames rushing through his veins, and the fireball roaring in his belly. Fire poured into his groin until he burned, heavy and full—for her. For Marguarita. The sensation was overwhelming, complete, shocking even. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the siege on his senses, for the primitive need and the raw hunger raging not only in his mind, but in his body.
    This woman had changed him for all time, changed his world, and where there was no feeling for as long as he could remember, now his entire focus, his entire being was centered on Marguarita’s soft body, the blood pulsing through her veins and the feminine scent of her calling to the male in him.
    He found he couldn’t resist the temptation of tasting her, she smelled so good, a lure he couldn’t resist. Her body went pliant, molding to his. Immediately his senses became acute, lost, drowning even, in the biochemical signals of a female calling for a mate. He shifted her closer to him, smoothing her hair away from her neck. He bent his head and licked over that strawberry mark that told the world she belonged to him.
    His body shuddered in anticipation. Actually shuddered. He felt as if the world stood still, as if he held his breath, waiting a heartbeat, savoring the feel of her, the scent and the incandescent beauty of her color, because—oh stars and moon above—he saw her color. Beautiful, unbelievable color.
    Overcome with unfamiliar need, Zacarias sank his teeth deep into her flesh, connecting them together. The pure essence that was Marguarita flowed into his mouth like the sweetest nectar. She tasted exotic, exquisite . . . she tasted. Nothing had ever tasted. He fed because he needed life and life was blood. In that single moment, life was Marguarita.
    His entire body hummed, his veins sang with joy. She was a musical instrument, playing a song written expressly for him. He knew he was the only man to hear her beautiful notes. He knew he couldn’t keep her. He was caught in a half-life and he couldn’t condemn her to such a thing. But he’d never truly known life, so right then, in that time and place, it was enough, it was everything to him.
    Marguarita was a drug in his system, as fluid as fire, rushing through his veins and filling him with a kind of primordial burst of radiance. The world around him was dull and lifeless, a stark contrast to her jewel-bright glittering eyes and shining blue-black hair. She was color and life, the reason every warrior fought against the plague that was vampire. She was his reason. He saw that in an instant. Tasted the truth in his mouth. Felt it vibrate through his body.
    He would always know exactly where she was at all times now, what part of the house, and what she was doing—even what she was thinking. He would know how many times she frowned, or raised her chin in stubbornness, bit her delicious lower lip or smiled. He was very aware of her as a woman, with her feminine fragrance, and he would always be aware of the exact moment when she turned her head and looked at him—and when she