Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

brushing kisses along her spine. One hand settled on her hip, the other traveled, slipping between her thighs. He stroked deep, making her moan, the pace so beautifully erotic she forgot what he wanted to do and moved with him. Simply existed, riding the pleasure he gave her.
    A breath away from coming, he withdrew from her core. She moaned her disappointment. He answered, coming back to please her, entering her from behind. Angela gasped, arching beneath the press of his hands, fighting to accommodate him as he buried himself to the hilt inside her.
    God, he was deep…so very deep.
    “Fucking hell.” His big hands bracketing her hips, he withdrew and came back, circling his hips, touching…just…the right…spot. “Sweet Christ, I…oh, yeah. That’s it, Angela…move with me. Move, love.”
    Pinned beneath him, heart hammering, body throbbing, she used what little leverage she possessed to please him. To please herself. He cursed, the sound half pleasure, half pain, each thrust a slow, devastating glide. The coil and release of his body brought her closer, took her higher, made her ache and plead and need him more.
    How. Amazing.
    He was devastation in motion. Perfection personified. Made just for her. And as bliss swelled on a wave of delight, she moaned his name. He praised her in return, upping the rhythm, riding her so well she begged him for release.
    “Come on, angel,” he growled, working himself deep, his hips slapping against her bottom. “I want it. Give it to me.”
    With a gasp, she let herself go, lost herself in driving heat and greedy pleasure with the words I love you tangled on the tip of her tongue. Angela wanted to tell him. To lay herself bare and give him all but couldn’t make herself say the words. Couldn’t be that vulnerable. Not yet. Not until she was assured of his love in return.
    So she showed him instead, took him to the hilt, trusting him completely, giving him her heart with deed instead of word. And as she exploded around him, Angela dragged him with her. Into the light. Into oblivion where bliss lived, and love, she hoped, had already found a home in the deepest reaches of his heart.

Chapter Twenty-six
     
    His wings spread in flight, Lothair flew over the apartment complex. Eighth and Columbia Street. Perfect. He’d made it in under ten minutes. Then again, the female’s home had only been a quick glide away. He could’ve reached her on foot if he’d wanted to, but hell, flying in was a better bet.
    Safer, too.
    He didn’t want any Nightfuries mucking up the plan. The assholes had been everywhere lately.
    Lothair’s night vision sparked, picked up trace as he circled overhead. The full moon helped, glowing in a cloudless sky, washing Seattle in blue-gray light. He made another pass and scanned the terrain. Tidy brick pathways led to and from buildings below. Pushed by a chilly autumn breeze, colorful treetops swayed in the common. A grassy knoll swelled beneath the great beeches in front of the complex, providing a comfortable root base, rolling to the edge of a paved lot packed tight with cars.
    All of it pulsed with energy. Animate. Inanimate. It didn’t matter. Everything—big, small…alive or not—carried a signature. No female energy, though, came through the Meridian’s midnight blanket. Nothing but a single male pushing through the front door. Destination unknown.
    Not him, though. Lothair knew exactly where he was going and what he would do when he got there. Tania Solares awaited. Jesus, he hoped the female was high-energy. She was the second-to-last one: number six for cellblock A. Now all he needed to do was drop in and grab her.
    Fifth window in. Eleven floors up.
    The lights were on. Tania had taken the bait, and now she waited, his for the taking. And he would…take her. Probably in her own bed. Maybe several times before he carried her off to the Razorback lair and secured her in her cell. The instant that happened, he’d be one step closer to his real goal—killing the she-cop.
    Angling his wings, Lothair set down without a sound on the female’s balcony. He shifted without thought, scales turning to skin, claws and talons to feet and hands. As his boots settled on his feet, her name slithered through his mind. Angela Keen. He rubbed the side of his face, fingertips grazing the spot where she’d nailed him with the box cutter. Completely healed now, he didn’t feel a thing. No scar or imperfection marred his cheek. But the gash had