Hotter Than Hell(21)

“More,” I whisper, and the Minotaur rumbles with pleasure. He sits up, holding my hips tight against him as he rises to his knees. I tip backward, head and arms resting against the sand, bound by flesh still large and hot.



The Minotaur is strong. He holds me flush against him and thrusts hard, driving into me with a strength that is both pain and pleasure. He is in complete control as he moves my body, rutting with a ferocity that makes me cry out, the tips of my toes digging into the sand. I try to move with him, but give up, letting him set the pace as he holds and pulls me with raw hungry strength. It is a punishing rhythm, but so is my desire, and the gathering pleasure inside my body is so devastating I lose myself when it breaks, arching violently, breath rattling in a silent scream as I come in his arms—as he comes in mine—sinking us down at the last moment to move against each other in the sand.



We keep thrusting, savoring the aftershocks, fighting for breath—so tangled that as the Minotaur turns us, I remain pressed against his body, one leg hooked over his waist, fingers digging into his hard shoulder. I do not want to let go. Neither does the Minotaur, if his hands are any indication. He cradles my body, holding me as I have never been held; as though I am wanted, needed, desired. His breath ruffles my hair; his lips trace a path down my flushed cheek.



“I did not dream,” whispers the Minotaur. “I did not dare.”



“You brought me here.” I am still breathless, muscles limp and warm. “You must have thought something would happen.”



The Minotaur touches my face. “Not this. Truly.”



I close my eyes. “Not an optimist, then.”



A short gasp of laughter escapes him. “No more than you, I think.” He runs his fingers through my hair and I sigh at the simple pleasure of it, the warmth and strength of his fingers.



“There were others, long ago,” he says quietly. “Women who came to me as a novelty, a freak to be bedded. But never for more. Not like this.”



“You think this is more?” I press gently. The Minotaur shifts in my arms and places his hand over my heart. After a long moment, I do the same to him. I cannot help myself.



“Yes,” he breathes. “I know it.”



I try hard to think of a response, but before I can, the Minotaur stiffens and pulls away.



“What,” I begin to ask, but his large hand claps over my mouth and my heart begins to pound all over again. The Minotaur is so very quiet, I would not know he was there if he did not touch me. I try to do the same, hardly breathing, and after a moment I hear a distant sound. It is a cracking note, like a whip—or a sail kicked by a sharp breeze.



Then, suddenly, a woman screams; a bloodcurdling howl that twists like a sour wind, so bitter the sound becomes a taste inside my mouth: like ice dragged over by filth, or candy doused in gasoline.



The Minotaur stands, dragging me with him. I do not resist. I stare blindly into the darkness, my fingers tight around the Minotaur’s hand.



“You must go,” he whispers.



I shake my head. “I thought you were alone. Who was that woman?”



“Not a woman. A harpy. More than one. And they have caught your scent.” The Minotaur embraces me, an act that feel so desperate, so lost, fear cuts my heart, stealing my breath.



“I should not have brought you here,” rasps the Minotaur. “Forget me when you leave this place. Please.”



“No,” I protest. “No, I won’t.”



But I hear that odd crack split the air—again and again—and in my head I imagine wings snapping, like bones breaking, and the taste of those rising howls makes me bend, gagging.



The Minotaur touches my hair, my cheek, and then slips away, leaving me alone and blind. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I hear the harpies coming, but do not run. I do not know how, in this place.



“What about you?” I call into the darkness.



The Minotaur’s voice drifts like a ghost. “They will not hurt me.”



He is lying. I know it. And I see, suddenly, sparks of red in the darkness, glowing like the embers of hot coals. A deep fire, slow burning. It takes only a moment to realize I am looking at eyes.



The harpies scream. I flinch, stumbling backward, and for one brief instant glimpse against that hateful light the outline of a man. A man wearing the horns of a bull.



And then the harpies are there with us, the air stirring foul with the beat of their wings, and the Minotaur steps in front of the creatures with his arms outstretched, shielding me with his body. I watch, horrified, snatching glimpses of bulbous breasts, stringy hair, talons sharp as knives. The Minotaur bellows a word I do not understand, then staggers, grunting. I hear flesh rip, and something hot and wet spatters my face. I scream—and the world disappears. I bolt upright in my sleeping bag, skin slick with sweat. The sudden silence bears down upon me like anchors stuffed in my ears, and all I can do for one long moment is sit, staring, listening to my heart rage and rage. I lick my lips and taste something metallic. Touch my face. My fingers come away dark with blood.