“No, sweet, you don’t want to stop. I scent how badly you need release.”

Desperately!

The sorceress in her was clamoring, Pleasure’s there for the taking!

The vulnerable woman within murmured, If he shames you after this, it will hurt forever.

“Let me tend to you, Melanthe. You must be aching.”

“I . . . can’t.” She turned her head away.

TWENTY-EIGHT

She’d let other males pleasure her—just not him!

Thronos punched the tree, cracking the trunk, but Melanthe never faced him.

Before he said something he regretted, he drew back his wings, striding away from her. He found his breeches, nearly ripping them apart in frustration.

Touching her had surpassed all of his fantasies. He’d never known a female could be so soft, so sensual. But she’d denied him. He’d failed to overcome her resistance—he’d . . . failed.

And he’d been unable to hold out against the feel of her. His legs were still unsteady from that mind-blowing release. His shaft had liked its culmination so well, it’d been primed for the next one immediately.

He would never get enough of her! Yanking his breeches up his damp legs, he fastened them over his still raging member, then collected his shirt. By the time he was dressed, she’d donned her skirt and was fastening her breastplate.

Yet again things had gone sideways. Yet again Thronos didn’t understand his current position. She’d described Pandemonia’s traps; was this an unearthly pleasure followed by punishment?

Or merely a foiled plan to get her pregnant? “Why would you let other males give you pleasure but not me?”

She met his gaze. “Because none of them would ridicule me if I let go. And none of them deemed me a harlot. There were things I wanted to do to you, with you, but I heard your voice in my head, sneering that I was easy quarry.”

He wanted them to get past this, to start over. So he could touch her again, wrap her close to him. Gods, how erotic it had been, with the skin of his wings molding over the curves of her womanly little body. Enfolding her had fulfilled some primal need in him, had made him feel like he was taking her into him. “I won’t insult you like that again.”

“No, you’ll just think it. Thronos, I want to be with a male who likes me. Not one who hates me but is forced by his instinct to be with me anyway.”

“I don’t hate you, Melanthe.”

“Three nights ago, you compared me to a broken bone!”

“I thought you were different then.”

“Ah, yes, you assumed that I was sleeping with my brother. Yet after we resolved that little misunderstanding, you’ve been trying to shame me. You expect me to lose control with you—when you scorn that very behavior? How can I just snap my fingers and get over that?”

“Why did these thoughts arise in the middle of what we were doing? If I could temporarily clear my mind of all the males who’d come before me—”

She gasped.

He rubbed his hand over his face. “That came out worse than I intended.”

“And proved my point utterly!”

“Though I’d once wanted to hurt you, I no longer do.”

“Why this turnaround?”

“I was cruel before because I thought you were evil. For centuries, I believed that. This anger inside me grew and grew. It’s been seething there so long, and I felt like I’d explode if I didn’t vent it.”

“Thronos, you haven’t been venting it—you’ve been giving it to me to keep. You might have eased your ill will, but you’ve kindled mine.”

“Do you want me to just forget how many males have bedded you? Every time you and your sister left Rothkalina, I knew it was because you were on the hunt for a power. I knew you’d bedded yet another sorcerer who’d stolen one of your abilities.” He paced, his leg beginning to ache once more, a stark contrast to those moments when all he’d felt was her lush body against him and the residual heat of pleasure. The pain was all the worse after its temporary absence. “I was left so damned conflicted. Even as I was enraged because someone hurt my mate, I’d be racked with jealousy. Whenever you let another take you . . .” He stopped to face her. “Melanthe, there is no word to describe that pain.”

She lifted her chin. “I can’t change my past. I wouldn’t even if I could.”

“Why? I suppose those lovers were so amazing that you couldn’t stand to miss a single one?” And yet his first sexual encounter with Melanthe had resulted in no orgasm for her, and him releasing against her belly.

How excellent, Talos.

“I wouldn’t take back my past, because then I wouldn’t be me. I’ve done these things, and I’ve had these experiences. Which means I’ll only fall for someone who can accept me—as is. There’s nothing worse than when a male looks at a female and thinks, ‘She would be perfect, if only . . .’ ”

“You believe I think that?”

“I know you do! Melanthe would be perfect if only she were a convent-raised virgin, innocent in the ways of men. If only she could fly, tell the truth, and go without stealing/drinking/gambling. If only she were a Vrekener.”

He couldn’t deny these things. “And have you reasoned so about me?”

“If only you laughed. If only you valued gold—and each minute alive. If only you could comprehend that I’m more than a number.”