The Chosen

“Enough with the food.”

“I’m almost finished here.”

And I’m totally finished over here, she thought.

Sitting forward, Layla tried to distract herself with pouring some tea, but it was a lost cause. She did, however, note the way the lapels of her robing loosened.

Take it, run with it.

Bringing her hands to the tie at her waist, she released the knot and pulled the two halves apart, exposing the translucent sheath that was the traditional undergarment of the Chosen. Okay, that had to go, too—and what do you know, as she slipped the tiny seed-pearl buttons free of their eyelets, they followed the prompting with an ease that suggested they were determined to be of aid in her endeavor.

Taking her cue from them, she then slipped herself out of all that covered her and lay back into the nest of the robing.

Yet him still with the frickin’ toast.

As he sat back a little and contemplated the buttering job he’d done, she had a thought that although the bonded-male-feeding-his-female thing clearly had its evolutionary advantages, this was ridiculous.

What was he going to do next? Get a ruler to check the verticality? “You know what would be good on toast?” he said as he went in again with the knife tip.

Yup, ’cuz there was a millimeter on that left upper edge that was underserved.

“What?”

“Honey,” he murmured. “I think it would be rather good indeed.” Layla looked at the honey pot. “I believe you’re right.” Reaching forward, she picked the thing up and arched her back. “Honey is good on a lot of things.”

Swirling the dipper, she took the thing out and held it over her breast, and as the honey spooled and fell, her nipple caught the sweetness. The tickle made her bite her lip, and then more of the amber glow dripped onto her skin, a river of it easing down to her abdomen.

“Xcor …?”

“Yes—”

When he glanced over at her, he did a double take—and dropped the toast on the tray. Which was a relief because, really, if she couldn’t win a competition with carbohydrates for his attention she was seriously in trouble.

His navy blue eyes were instantly hot and very, very locked on the way the honey slowly, tantalizingly hit her breast drop by drop and meandered down, down … down.

“I wonder,” she said in a husky voice, “whether honey is sweeter than me?”

With that, she cocked one knee up and flashed her core at him.

Her male shoved that tray away so fast it was like the plate on it had said something bad about his fighters.

The pumping growl coming out of him was more like it, and so was the sight of the tips of his fangs descending in a rush. And then he was rearing up over her, great arms bowing out above her body, his tremendous strength barely in check as his tongue extended just under her nipple … to catch a drop.

With a moan, his warm, slick lips captured and sucked, licked and kissed. Layla’s head fell back, but she turned it to the side so she could watch her enormous male. The sensations were so erotic she could feel an orgasm coming on, but she didn’t want this over with. Having been impatient to be with him, she now wanted to savor every second they were together.

“Xcor … look at me.”

As his eyes flipped to hers, she held the wand over her mouth and let the last of the honey land on her tongue. And then she did some swirling of her own before sucking the bud in and pulling it out … sucking it in and pulling it out …

“You’ll be the death of me yet, female,” Xcor cursed.

With a deft move, he took the dipper from her and returned it to the pot, just as her body became what she had poured on herself, her bones melting away, her muscles going lax. As her legs fell even further open, he took her mouth hard, their lips clinging from the stickiness, his arousal pressing into her core through his pants.

That didn’t last.

With rough hands, he freed his sex and then he was inside of her, pumping while he kissed her, their bodies finding a rhythm that was so rough the sofa itself rocked and banged against the wall.

Harder, faster, deeper, until they couldn’t keep their mouths together anymore. Reaching up, she held onto his surging shoulders, the muscles under his smooth skin like an ocean that was storming—

Pleasure broke like a lightning strike, but also made her whole—and then he found his own release, pouring himself into her.

And Xcor didn’t stop.

Or slow down.

FORTY-EIGHT

Blay’s heart tap danced as that porch door opened behind him and the scent of his one-and-only preceded the guy coming over to the railing.

One good thing about smoking was that it gave you something to do with your hands. One bad thing about smoking was that when you decided to tap your ash as busywork, if you had a tremor going on, it showed.

“Hi.”

Blay coughed a little. “Hey.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Pause. “I didn’t think you were going to be.” For a moment, Blay just wanted to yell, Neither did I, motherfucker! But that seemed like an omission best kept to himself if he wanted to look strong, be strong … stay strong.

God, why did Qhuinn have to smell good? “I brought Rhamp,” Qhuinn murmured. “That was your plan.” Except he frowned. “Where’s Lyric—”

“Oh, she’s here, too. Yeah.”

As a soft breeze came in from the south, Blay thought of a ballet dancer spinning with controlled turns over the blue-tinted snowy landscape. There were no more leaves to pirouette with her, everything cov-

ered with that white blanket, but on the edges of the property, evergreen boughs that were bent under the weight of what had landed on them got some relief as snow swirls jetted off of their burden.

In his peripheral vision, through the windows behind Qhuinn, he could see his parents moving around in the yellow, homey light of the kitchen. His mahmen had insisted on cooking for six hours straight, her excitement and happiness reinvigorating her after a trying night and day. So great was her joy, it was hard to remember that they’d had to put her under and reset that bone. That there were stitches under her cast. That she was going to have to go back in the night after tomorrow to have Dr. Manello check everything.

At least Fritz had been able to take them back here in the blackout van, even though it had been daylight by the time Lyric had been released from the clinic. His parents had really wanted to get home after the ordeal, and Blay sure as hell hadn’t been into arguing with that—

“I have something for you,” Qhuinn said.

As the male reached into his coat, Blay shook his head and stabbed out his half-smoked cigarette. “Let’s go inside? I’m cold.”

He didn’t wait for any acknowledgment, and wasn’t interested in whatever it was.

Stepping back into the house, he was hit with a warm wall of scents that reminded him of family, and made him want to vomit. Especially as Qhuinn followed him into the kitchen, the male’s presence undiminished even though he wasn’t in Blay’s line of sight.

Maybe even magnified. “How can I help?” Blay asked as he smiled at his mom.

The elder Lyric was sitting on a stool in front of the gas stove, frying up bacon and eggs and French toast.

“You can say hello to your kids,” she tossed over her shoulder. “And set the table.”

Swallowing a burst of pain in his chest, like someone had kicked him in the sternum, Blay put his Dunhills by the house phone, went to wash his hands—and tried to prepare himself for seeing the young.

Nope, he thought as he dried off what he had scrubbed. He couldn’t look in those carriers yet. He needed to get ahold of himself somehow first or he was liable to break down.

Busywork at the drawer where the silverware was kept. Busywork gathering red-and-white napkins. Busywork getting out four plates.

At the island that ran down the entire middle of the kitchen, Qhuinn and his father were talking about the war, about human politics, about the NCAA football playoffs and the start of NCAA conference play in basketball.

Qhuinn’s eyes were on Blay the whole time.

And the male was smart. He knew if he said one thing about Blay going over to the young, who had fallen asleep in their carriers on the table, it was going to backfire.