Kiss Me Deadly Read online

  Instead, when she got her first fully-lit look at his face, she sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh my God. It’s you.”

  The metal rod slipped from her fingers as she turned and fled into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Khail stared after her, stunned by her reaction to his face.

  It’s you. What did she mean by that? She couldn’t know him. He came from a place she had never been—where no mortal had been. And yet recognition had clearly dawned in her eyes.

  Open the door, Mikhail, the voices murmured in his head.

  He turned toward it, then stopped. If he opened the door to the Unkind, the woman would die.

  She has been chosen. It is her time to die.

  No.

  Shrieks of anger echoed through his mind, almost obliterating his own thoughts. She is special, he forced through.

  She is chosen.

  But not for you.

  Khail had no idea where that thought had come from, but it felt right. The woman had survived his deadly magic. She had stood strong with only a puny piece of metal with which to defend herself. And he felt that she was meant to be his.

  The warrior he had been grew within the cursed shell of a man he had become. The voices ebbed and flowed in his head—angry, hissed threats—but he tried to concentrate on blocking them out. And he vowed silently to keep the woman safe. He would not let the Unkind have her.

  Chapter Two

  Bridget leaned against the closed door and switched on the overhead light. There was no lock on the knob, and she had no furniture light enough to move yet heavy enough to keep him out.

  She tried to control her breathing well enough to hear what was going on in the living room. It seemed quiet out there, but he’d been naked. Even a large man could step silently in bare feet.

  When he had initially covered himself she had breathed a sigh of relief, only to choke on it when she got her first really good look at his face. It wasn’t the face of a stranger. In fact, it was a face she knew intimately. Not knowing what else to do, she’d run.

  Now, somewhat satisfied he wasn’t going to change his mind about being a nice guy and burst through the door, Bridget went to the line of books—a dark fantasy series for young adults—on the shelf above her dresser. She chose one at random and flipped through the book until she found a sketch.

  The words were another’s—the author an old man with a youthful imagination—but the illustrations were her own. The black pencil sketches were stark, but suited the series and they, along with prints she sold via the ‘net, allowed her to work from her solitary haven in the woods.

  The man who called himself Khail wasn’t in every illustration, but he was in many. Bridget had captured her current visitor right down to the weary agelessness of his eyes. Somehow, the character she’d been drawing for the best-selling series for several years was standing in her living room.

  But what did it all mean? Bridget sank onto the edge of her bed, staring down at her drawing. She could accept that death had come for her. Considering her life to this point, it wasn’t even that much of a surprise. After suffering at the hands of foster “fathers” and the ex-husband in her past, the real surprise was how painless it would have been. She would expect death at the hands of a man to be accompanied by shouting and screaming and pain. A lot of pain, as it almost had once before.

  She could even accept that death had come for her as a bird who shapeshifted into a man. Granted, that one was a little harder to comprehend, but since she’d seen it with her own eyes and she wasn’t dreaming, it was hard to deny.

  What she couldn’t readily accept was Khail’s image in her artwork. The mystery of how that came to be—the why of it—disturbed her. But what upset her even more was the possibility she and death had been intertwined for a long time. It really shot holes in the whole “random” thing, too.

  She leapt off the bed when a knock on the door sounded. Dropping the book, she kicked it under the bed as the knob turned and Khail appeared.

  “What is your name?” he asked, filling her doorway.

  There seemed to be no point in not telling him. “Bridget. Bridget Sawyer.”

  “I don’t know what to do now.”

  He looked like a little boy who’d just lost his puppy, and Bridget sighed. A flock of death birds had caused her to barricade herself inside her cabin with a stranger wearing a blanket like a bath towel, and yet her strongest emotion was sympathy for the intruder. Maybe she’d gone totally bat-shit crazy, and this was all just a hallucination.

  “You could leave,” she said mildly, though she guessed that wasn’t an option for him or he’d have already left. And there was a little piece of her not ready for him to go quite yet. That, she couldn’t even begin to understand.

  His appearance in her cabin had turned her life upside down, but his presence in the chaos he had created brought her comfort. He’d brought death to her door, and yet she still felt if she stepped into his arms he would hold her and keep her safe. The contradiction made her head spin.

  “If I open the door, they will come for you,” Khail responded. “Our voice is like an angry buzzing in my head. But it is not so loud when I am with you, so I came in here to think.”

  An angry buzzing explained why he kept clutching his head. So why exactly was he resisting those voices in his head? Was there some underlying bond between the two of them, as suggested by his presence in her illustrations, that he felt as well?

  “I’d rather not discuss this in my bedroom,” Bridget said quietly, not so accepting of his presence that she wanted him where she slept. “Let’s go in the other room. I’ll make coffee and we can talk about this like…whatever we are. Insane people.”

  He started to turn, but then he stopped and laid his palm against her cheek. She flinched. She couldn’t help it, despite all the years of head-shrinking she’d undergone before deciding a solitary life in the woods was all the therapy she needed.

  “You are so beautiful,” Khail whispered, his thumb tracing the arc of her cheekbone.

  His words—the gentle caress of his touch—stirred something deep inside of Bridget. Something she would rather had stayed deep and unstirred. “You’re only saying that because I’m still breathing.”

  It was thrown out there as a joke—a throwaway line to lighten the sexual tension suddenly sucking the oxygen out of the cabin—but she had to admit she was fishing just a little. She’d been called many things in her life, but she couldn’t remember a man ever calling her beautiful.

  Then a thought struck her and Bridget slapped at his hand. “You saw me naked!”

  Khail smiled. It was slow and awkward, as if he hadn’t smiled in a long time and was trying to remember how it was done, but Bridget’s stomach flip-flopped. He was beautiful.

  “I tried not to stare overly much,” Khail said, but there was a gleam in his eyes that told her he was full of crap. “But it was like a starving man trying not to ogle a leg of lamb.”

  His contrite, yet mischievous, expression made her laugh, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. The sound was incredibly foreign to the little cabin. What did she ever have to laugh at, here in her self-imposed solitude? And how could she even think of laughing now, under these conditions?

  “Don’t hide your laughter, Bridget.” He pulled her hand away from her mouth and his thumb lingered over the pulse point of her wrist.

  Bridget was out of her ever-loving mind. She had to be. She pressed her thighs together in a wasted effort to suffocate the yearnings growing between them. And she tried to ignore the physical knot of lust making her lower back ache. All this despite the fact that if his plan had worked, she’d be dead right now.

  But she wasn’t dead. And neither were the desires she’d spent so many years trying to unsuccessfully quell by her own hand.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked, hating the telltale quiver in her voice.

  “I don’t know. Somehow you are immune to us, and that cannot b
e ignored. But I won’t let them have you, Bridget. I will fight them in my mind and I will fight them with my bare hands if need be. But I will not give you over to them.”

  How had he gone so quickly from trying to kill her to being willing to die for her? “But why not, Khail? I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  “Nor do I. But I know you’re beautiful and your smile makes me feel uncursed and I want to hear you say my name over and over again.”

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “There is much to fear,” Khail admitted. “But not from me. Do not fear me.”

  And she didn’t, Bridget realized. She was very afraid of what lay beyond the cabin, but she didn’t fear Khail. That shocked her, so she tried again to dispel the heightening awareness between them. “We can’t stay in here forever. Eventually we’ll run out of food and I’m a total bitch when I’m hungry.”

  “I know hunger,” he replied in a quiet voice, and the look on his face told Bridget he wasn’t thinking about his stomach.

  God help her, but she wanted this man. There was a part of her brain still railing against the events of the night. But a larger part acknowledged she was supposed to be dead already and she might still turn out that way very soon, so why not?

  She was drawn to this man. She couldn’t deny that. The pull toward him she felt was like that of the moon on the ocean. And why deny herself this pleasure? She had been denied too much in her life, and if she was going to die anyway, she should grasp this opportunity for a little pleasure before it was too late.

  So…why not? Bridget unknotted the sash and let the robe slide from her body.

  Khail’s eyes widened as he sucked in a deep breath. He murmured something. It was in a language Bridget didn’t understand, but the awe with which he looked at her needed no translation.

  He dropped the blanket so it pooled at his feet, and his fully-erect cock twitched. Bridget expected to find herself flat on her back in the blink of an eye, but Khail didn’t move.

  His hands were tightly fisted and the muscles of his jaw clenched and unclenched. She would have been frightened if not for the raw desire she saw on his face. He wasn’t angry. He was—as he’d said—hungry. “Knowing what you know, you would lie with me?”

  “Crazy, huh? I must be out of my mind.” There was no doubt about that, actually. But if she was going to be murdered by a flock of birds, she saw no harm in sex with this beautiful stranger first.

  “I would answer that, but my words would be suspect as I want nothing but to bury my cock deep in you and hear you cry out my name in pleasure.”

  Judging by the moistness between her thighs and her taut, aching nipples, Bridget’s body agreed that was a good plan. “It is crazy. I’ve had a lot of pain in my life. But my body wants you. And the look on your face makes me feel as beautiful as you tell me I am. Nothing makes sense anymore, but there is one thing I’m sure of—right here and now I want you to make love to me.”

  Now, she thought. Now his control will break and he’ll throw himself on top of me. Then the fantasy would end and the reality would be a disappointment, as had always been the case for her.

  Khail stepped closer until he could take her hands in his own. He pressed a kiss to one palm and then the other. Bridget’s body trembled as a desire she hadn’t felt so strongly in years—if ever—blossomed in her very core. He ran his hands up the outside of her arms. Trailed his fingertips down the inside, back to her hands. Again he stroked up, this time to glide across her shoulders.

  “Your skin is so soft,” he whispered as he cradled the back of her neck before plunging his fingers through her hair.

  When a small whimper of pleasure escaped Bridget’s throat, Khail groaned and pulled her body hard up against his own. She gasped as her breasts were crushed against his chest, and the rigid length of his cock pressed against her stomach.

  Khail ran his hands down her back, his fingertips digging not quite painfully into her muscles. When he grabbed her ass and pushed her pelvis against his thigh, they both groaned.

  “Please, Khail,” Bridget almost sobbed.

  “I’ve not had my fill of touching you yet, moya kisa.”

  “How ‘bout you touch me with your cock now and you can touch me with your hands again later, okay?” The words coming out of her own mouth shocked her, and she almost giggled at her boldness.

  He chuckled, capturing her wrists with his hands. “How is it that you are more impatient than I?”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been touched by a man.”

  “For me it has been almost four centuries.”

  Bridget peered up at him, smiling sweetly. “It’s been almost four centuries since you’ve been touched by a man?”

  Khail laughed, and in the next second Bridget was flying through the air, only to land in the center of her bed. “A man? Move over, moya kisa, and I will show you that Mikhail Pavlovich Barsukov is a great lover of women.”

  When he covered her body with his own, Bridget thought she would stop breathing. He really was beautiful—all that hard muscle and dark golden skin. Despite the circumstances of his arrival, she was very glad he was there. She brought her legs up and crossed her ankles over his ass, urging him to enter her, but he only smiled and shook his head.

  “Patience. I will see to your needs when I am finished touching you.”

  “See to my needs?” She giggled—she couldn’t help it. “You’re such a polite gentleman, Khail.”

  He drew back, sitting back on his calves, still straddling her. Crossing his arms over his chest, he glared down at her—although the intimidation factor was lessened by the upturn of his lips at the corners.

  “Polite? I am a Cossack, moya kisa. A fierce warrior. On horseback, there is none feared more than I. So, woman, you will lay there while I touch you. Then, when I am ready, I will fuck you until you cannot walk.”

  Heat rushed through her veins before pooling at the juncture of her thighs. Bridget gazed at his face—the fierce warrior’s countenance marred by tender eyes and slightly smiling lips.

  And touch her he did. She lost all track of time as his hands roamed freely over her body. Gently—almost reverently—he explored her flesh. She should have felt self-conscious—she always had in the past—but he looked at her with such naked lust and adoration, she felt like a goddess. He cupped her breasts in his hands and shuddered, as though the sensation of touching her brought him as much pleasure as the act of being touched brought her.

  Then his fingertips captured her nipples and Bridget tensed, waiting for the painful tweak. When Khail was still for a few seconds, she opened her eyes to find him gazing down into her face. He smiled and gently rubbed a thumb over each nipple. He bent his head, swirling his tongue over the tip of each breast in turn. His gaze was tender when he looked down at her again.

  “I won’t hurt you, Bridget. Never would I find my own pleasure in your own pain.”

  Bridget fell just a little bit in love with him right then. That he not only sensed her hesitation, but had taken the time to reassure her, made her eyes well with tears.

  “I…I couldn’t help it.” She didn’t want to go down that road. She didn’t want her what the hell, I’m gonna die anyway one night stand spoiled by her painful sexual history. And now would come the false understanding—the godawful pity.

  “I, Mikhail Pavlovich Barsukov,” he said in a farcical, booming voice, “will show you how the great Cossacks tame even the most skittish of steeds!”

  She laughed, and the past disappeared like a popped bubble. “You fuck your steeds until they can’t walk?”

  He snorted in his attempt not to laugh. “I meant the gentle touches, wench.”

  “So touch me gently some more, great Cossack,” she said, and laughed again.

  When his fingers slid down over her stomach and his palm cupped her mound, Bridget’s amusement fled and she groaned. He pressed the heel of his hand against her swollen clit, applying a little pres
sure, and she moaned, her hips arching off the bed.

  He ran a finger through her moist heat and slid it into her. Bridget whimpered, her hands clawing at the bedspread. This…this was what sex was supposed to be all about, and she opened herself to it—and to him. Lifting her hips, she parted her knees further, giving him full access to her most intimate part.

  “You are like the finest of silks,” Khail murmured, never breaking eye contact with her. She felt as if she were drowning in his dark, passionate gaze, her body loving these new depths of pleasure and hungering for more.

  Bridget threaded her fingers through his thick hair and pulled his face down to hers. As his lips met hers, he slipped another finger inside of her and gently brushed his thumb over her clit. She whimpered into his kiss, her hips pushing against his hand.

  “Come for me, moya kisa,” he whispered hoarsely against her lips.

  “I…” She didn’t want to tell him she’d never come for a man before. The only orgasms she had came by her own hand.

  “Come for me, beautiful Bridget.” His soft urgings and the hardness of his knuckles had her panting. Oh God. So close…

  “Get yourself nice and wet for me and then…then I will fuck you. Come, moya kisa.”

  And she did. She screamed out once—in surprise as well as pleasure—as her muscles spasmed, her cunt clenching his fingers.

  She’d barely caught her breath before Khail shifted. He grinned down at her, slowly sucking her juices from his fingers. Her body tightened in response.

  “Are you ready for me now?” he asked, his voice husky and low.

  She had to swallow hard before she could speak. “Does that mean you’ve had your fill of touching me?”