Bad Boys Southern Style. JoAnn Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ Hawthorne dreamed of her again. The sultry witch slipped into his sleep, into his mind, like a soft and sultry mist.

      They’d been in the forest, where she’d been standing in the sacred circle, waiting for him.

      Overhead the midnight sky was a vast sea of black velvet scattered with diamonds. Ice crystals sparkled in the frosty air.

      Neither spoke. Words were not necessary when hearts—and souls—were in unison.

      Rather than her usual black, she was clad from head to toe in white, the color of the season. But there was nothing wintry about the heat shimmering in her thickly lashed eyes as she looked up at him. Offering everything she was. Everything she would ever be.

      With hands that were not as steady as he would have liked, Sloan pushed her white fur hood back. A slight gasp escaped her rosy lips, hovering like a ghost on the chilly air between them as he gathered up a fistful of midnight black hair.

      She trembled, but not from the winter’s cold as his free hand unfastened the silver fastener of her cape and pushed it off her shoulders. From anticipation? Or, perhaps, fear?

      It’s all right, he soothed as he kissed her temple, her eyes, which drifted closed. You need to trust me. Her cheek. I wouldn’t ever hurt you.

      Although he did not say the words out loud, he knew she understood. As his mouth covered hers in a deep, claiming kiss, he felt her body relax in soft, oh so sweet surrender.

      She stood before him, gloriously naked, clad only in skin as pale and smooth as freshly churned cream. A silver amulet, carved with mysterious Celtic symbols from another time, nestled between her breasts.

      Although he’d lived in sun-drenched southern California for a dozen years, had worked in the movie industry for eight, Sloan had not known it was possible for any woman to be so beautiful.

      He drank in the sight of her, his gaze moving over her face, taking in her eyes with their sexy, feline slant, her nose, which tipped up ever so slightly. Having always found perfection boring, Sloan approved of the faint flaw.

      Her slightly parted lips were a soft and dusky pink against her milkmaid’s complexion, reminding him of late summer roses on a field of snow.

      She swallowed ever so slightly as he continued his slow, judicious study. When he bent his head and touched his mouth to that soft, fragrant hollow in her throat, he felt her pulse hitch. Imagined he could taste her low, deep hum of pleasure.

      Her long hair draped her breasts in a jet black curtain. He smoothed it back over her shoulders. As her nipples tightened beneath his hot and hungry gaze, it took every vestige of self-control Sloan possessed to keep from taking those pert berry tips between his teeth.

      He managed, just barely, to keep a tight rein on his rampant need to ravish as his roving eyes moved lower, down her torso, over her taut stomach to the nest of curls between her smooth, firm thighs. Beads of moisture glistened in the silvery moonlight like morning dew.

      No longer able to resist touching, he trailed a sensual path through those thistledown silk ringlets with a fingertip and slid a finger into her moist, hidden sheath.

      The body clenching around the gently invading touch was hot and tight. And, he thought, with a burst of primal male satisfaction as he flicked a thumb over her clitoris and brought her that first, sharp release, mine.

      She was clearly staggered. Her gleaming gold eyes were blurred. Color rode high on her cheekbones and her lush lips trembled on an unsteady breath.

      Just as he was worrying that he might have rushed things—rushed her—she smiled.

      A slow, sexy, siren’s smile.

      And the spell was upon him.

      Sloan had planned, while following her to this secret witch’s place, to have her. To ease the woman hunger that had been bedeviling both his mind and body for too long. But, as he’d also always prided himself on being a tender, thorough lover, he’d also intended to take his time.

      As lightning-hot need jolted straight to his loins, a ravaging madness flashed through Sloan. Patience broke, intentions scattered. With a violent heat raging in his blood, he muttered a half oath, half prayer, and crushed his mouth to hers.

      No less hungry, she kissed him back, her avid mouth moving beneath his, murmuring words in some mysterious, magical language Sloan couldn’t understand.

      His clothes disappeared, thrown to the four winds swirling wildly around them. Her nails dug into the bared flesh of his shoulders as she arched her fluid body against him. Her heart was pounding a fast, primitive beat through her blood, against her ribs, so hard he could feel it against his own chest.

      Primal need clawed. At her. At him.

      As the animal inside Sloan snarled and snapped its steel link chain, he dragged her to the ground, shoved her knees up, and mounted her.

      “Mine.” He needed to say the word out loud. Needed to hear her response.

      She didn’t hesitate. “Yours,” she agreed on a harsh, ragged breath.

      For all time.

      He pistoned his hips forward, surging into her, claiming her innocence in one deep thrust.

      Her cry, born not of pain, but pleasure, tangled with feminine triumph, echoed over the winter bare treetops.

      Clinging to him, her body bowed, her slender hands racing up and down his back while she chanted those musical words from an ancient time, the witch opened completely. Utterly.

      It began to snow, soft white flakes drifting down like feathers shaken from some pagan god’s goose-down pillow. Moving together in an age-old rhythm, steeped in the magic of the night and of each other, neither Sloan nor his witch felt the cold as the snow covered them like a pristine white blanket.

      “Okay. That’s it.”

      Damn. He’d done it again. Fallen asleep at his computer. Sloan lifted his head, relieved he hadn’t drooled and shorted out the keyboard.

      His head pounded, his mouth was as dry as when he’d filmed that adventure flick last year in the Sahara, his body ached like the devil, and he didn’t need to look down to know that it was still reacting to his hot and horny dream. He had, after all, been suffering from a damn near perpetual hard-on since he’d begun this frigging Morganna project. He was also getting sick and tired of icy morning showers.

      It was time for action.

      Time to take charge.

      “Time to get laid.”

      He reached out and snagged the phone from beneath a pile of comic books. Make that graphic novels, he reminded himself.

      Though, personally, having grown up devouring superhero comic books, Sloan couldn’t understand why there’d be a stigma to the term, but after all the years and trouble he’d gone to convincing Morganna’s creator Gavin Thomas to sell him the film rights to the sexy, crime-fighting witch, the last thing he needed to do was accidentally slip up one of these days and insult the writer’s work in public.

      Especially given СКАЧАТЬ