TailWind Read Online Free PDF Page A

couldn't move. He..."
    Tears spilled to her cheeks.
    He laid the tips of his fingers over her lips to silence her. There was no need for her to finish. He could see the devastation, the knowledge in her wounded gaze and he knew hatred so deep, so virulent, it threatened to consume him.
    Blaez had spent a lifetime looking out for number one. There was neither room nor space in his black heart for anything other than the ship he had toiled so long and hard to acquire, the first thing in his life that had ever been entirely his.
    She was a fragile flower, this rose. Her petals had been crushed, her stem broken, and she lay limply in his arms, her head to his shoulder as the light died completely and they were cast into utter darkness.
    Instead of railing against the abolishing of the light, Blaez tightened his grip on the woman lying beside him and though she eventually relaxed and fell into a whimpering sleep, he lay awake and glared into the darkness, promising retribution for whoever had dared hurt her.
    Some time during those long hours of glooming, her hand moved to his chest and she caressed him, her fingers moving over the hairs at the V of his shirt. It was a silent need she was putting forth and he understood it. He had the means to wipe away the brutality of what had been done to her, to make her whole and she was pleading voicelessly to him to help her.
    "Are you sure?” he asked.
    Her answer was a tiny sound—"Aye."
    He'd had his first woman at an early age and had discovered a world of heady delights with her that had given him the only pleasure he'd ever known up until that night. Under a glorious full moon he had taken her with a wild soaring lust that had left them both satiated and sore. Since that time, he'd used sex to do many things—to calm his nerves, deplete his body when he was on an adrenalin high, for revenge, for reasons only he would ever know. He'd fucked more than his share of bitches but never had he undertaken to make love to one.
    Amazed to see his hand shaking as he laid his palm on Rozenn's breast, the sound of her indrawn breath made him feel manlier than he ever had before. He felt other emotions as well and none of them were selfish.
    "Be gentle with me,” she begged, her fingers plying the hollow at the base of his throat.
    "Always,” he whispered.
    Gently, tenderly, he caressed her, his thumb barely stroking her nipple through the coarse fabric of her ugly gown. She was trembling beneath his touch and when he slid his hand down her side and to the skirt of her gown—inching it slowly upward—he heard the slightest of moans escape her throat.
    He was hard, thick, aching with a need of his own. He could not see her—even his lupine sight could not pierce the strange darkness—but he knew her eyes were on him. Knowing they would be trusting eyes, nervous eyes, eyes filled with the fear of being hurt again, he went slowly, drawing the hem of her skirt up slowly. When the gown had been brought up to the juncture of her legs, he laid his palm on her thigh—softly, gently—and let her accustom herself to its weight, its feel, the heat of his flesh. After a moment or two, she relaxed beneath his touch and he slid his palm to the apex of her thighs, cupping her, surprised there was no undergarment to shield her from his touch.
    Rozenn sucked in a breath the moment he laid his hand upon her. She was damp and aching between her legs and the touch of his flesh on hers sent shivers up her spine.
    "You are wet, wench,” he said and gently stroked her, his hand moving up and down over her heated core. With each descent downward, his middle finger grazed the opening of her sheath and dipped just a little ways inside.
    "Oh, my,” she whispered. Her breath was coming in shallow little hitches and he could feel the pulse beating fiercely between her legs.
    He moved so he could take her mouth with his. Her lips were closed and he nibbled on the lower one until she opened her mouth and he could