The Nymph King. Gena Showalter

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      He, of course, could then concentrate on…Up Yours. “What is your name?” he asked. While her continued defiance was amusing, it was also frustrating.

      “When the cops hear about this you’ll…you’ll…this is kidnapping, you bastard.”

      That she didn’t want him and would have been happiest if he’d left her on the surface world was as humbling as it was shocking. “You are frightened,” he rationalized. “I am sorry for that.”

      “Frightened? Ha! I’m pissed.”

      Despite her denial, he knew she was scared. Her heartbeat drummed erratically against his back, and he could feel the shallow exhalations of her breath against his skin. She fought the emotion, however, showing only fury. His admiration for her increased.

      Gods, he wanted—nay, needed—her. To kiss her. To know the taste of her tongue. He’d come close to kissing her in the cave. But one touch of her sweet little tongue, and he would not have been able to stop. One touch and he would have needed a second and a third. He knew it. He would have spread her legs, laved his tongue through her heat, then pounded inside her to the hilt. So deep she would only have been able to gasp his name.

      He knew women and knew this one would be violent with her passions. Look at the way she reacted to anger and fear, like a hissing, scratching wildcat. Her sexual desire would be no different. Once she unleashed her inner fire, she would erupt into flames, burning her lover to sated ashes.

      That passion belonged to him, he mused darkly.

      Frowning, he came to a halt. “Will you attack any man who attempts to claim you?” With a gentle tug, he moved her body down his. Slowly, so slowly. Their naked stomachs brushed, and she sucked in a breath. His muscles jumped in excited reaction.

      She might deny it, but she was aware of him in a very sexual way.

      “Will you attack them?” he repeated. He’d plant the suggestion in her mind, if necessary.

      “Damn right I will.” Her eyes glared amber fire at him, daring him to contradict her or threaten to punish her. “I’ll fight to the death. Their deaths.”

      As if he would punish her for something he wanted desperately. His lips edged into a contented smile. Since he could not make her admit her desire for him—yet—this was the next best thing.

      Get this over with. Urgency filling him, he intertwined their fingers and pulled her behind him. They quickly bypassed the training arena, as well as the kitchens. “Do you like the palace?” he asked before she could begin protesting again. See the beauty, he silently commanded. Sconces decorated the walls, flames flickering inside and illuminating the path.

      Her eyes locked on the murals, murals so vivid they almost looked alive. Sensual multihued scenes, all, where naked men, women and creatures of every race writhed in different stages of orgasm. He and his men had painted the scenes to make the palace theirs, not the dragons’.

      Nymphs were natural wanderers, flittering from one location to the other, always searching for the next sexual conquest. They’d never cared where they resided. But Valerian had grown weary of that type of existence. He’d wanted more for himself, more for his people. He could not pinpoint exactly what had made him feel this way; he only knew that a sense of restlessness had been growing inside of him for months and that the thought of wandering had no longer held any appeal.

      When he learned a mere hatchling of a dragon had been left in charge of this palace, he’d decided to take it. Quickly. Easily.

      And so he had.

      He did not regret the decision. Once he’d entered the palace, his restlessness had been replaced by rightness. Valerian tilted his head as a thought occurred to him. Perhaps he needed to take the woman at his side the same way he’d taken the dragon palace. With cunning. With precision. With an absolute lack of mercy.

      Oh, yes. Slowly his lips lifted in a grin. She would soon find herself on the receiving end of a full-scale, irresistible attack. He could hardly wait to begin.

      “Do you like the palace?” he asked again.

      She hesitated before saying, “I’ll be honest. Your home…the walls, remind me of you.”

      Our home, little moonbeam, our home. “Thank you.”

      Frowning, she slapped at his hand, trying to force him to release his hold. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

      “Being told pictures of sex make you think of me is not a compliment?”

      Her mouth fell open, but she snapped it closed. “That’s not how I meant it, and you know it.”

      He chuckled. “Deny it all you want, but every time you look at me you think of naked flesh and writhing pleasure.”

      “Don’t forget the gag and rope,” she growled. “Let me go.”

      “I like the sound of the rope.”

      “You would, you dirty pervert.”

      The air was heavy with anticipation and excitement as he stepped into the dining hall. Up Yours stilled, gasped. He stopped and wrapped an arm around her waist. For once, she didn’t protest. Didn’t fight. Shock probably held her captive.

      “We have arrived,” he announced. A contingent of warriors lined one side of the room. A sweet-smelling cluster of females lined the other. And a large wooden table etched with fierce dragon heads separated them.

      He’d meant to destroy the table, for he wanted no dragon possession in his home. But he’d found no other table large enough for his men.

      Perhaps he’d keep it and love his woman on it.

      The walls were plain onyx and ivory. Before, sapphires and emeralds, diamonds and rubies had glittered from the wide expanse, but they had been removed by human soldiers months ago. Those humans had been slaughtered by dragons, providing the opportunity Valerian needed to sneak his men inside and conquer.

      Usually nymphs only attacked when provoked, keeping their bestial natures under strict control. Yet dragons were enemy to the only ally they possessed: the vampires. Unlike every other race in Atlantis, the vampires did not curse the nymphs for their power over women; they did not seethe with jealousy. Layel, the king, found it amusing.

      Wiggling at Valerian’s side, his mate said, “I’m not placing myself on the menu of this—this smorgasbord.” Her elbow slammed into his stomach, almost knocking the air from his lungs.

      “Be still, woman.”

      “Die, bastard.”

      His men watched them with varying expressions of horror. He’d taught each of them the surface language, for he believed knowledge equaled power, so they knew exactly what the little moonbeam had said to him. Women simply did not act that way. Not with Valerian, at least. Women loved and worshipped him. They fought for his notice. They begged for his touch.

      They did not command him to die!

      He was not embarrassed by this display, however. No, he was elated. If Valerian, the most desired СКАЧАТЬ