The Champion Read Online Free PDF Page A

next to his own. His fingers traced a warm line across her shoulders, sliding under her hair to caress the nape of her neck. “Have you ever thought about me this way?”
    She closed her eyes, caught in a slow fall toward panic. “I don’t know.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “You were never this real. You were always a dream.”
    “What kind of a dream?”
    “A foreigner, like me, lost here, trapped here. But they couldn’t force you. They couldn’t capture or kill you. And no matter what they did, they could never change you.”
    He stood at her back, his fingers tracing along her neck, infinitely gentle as he stroked a path down her shoulder. “And that’s the only way you thought of me?”
    “I thought you would understand. I prayed that you would.”
    “And if I did, if I understood, what would I do then?”
    “You would help me.”
    “Help you,” he murmured, kissing her hair, her neck. His large hands slid around her waist, pulling her up against him. The moment slowed to something infinite, the slip of skin on silk almost deafening, the soft catch of her breath echoing in the stillness. She heard her heart beating, its pace now dizzying and frantic, racing toward an upended horizon.
    “Mr. Letoures—” She struggled to say something, anything, whispering the truth by accident. “I do not think I could please you.”
    “You’re not my servant.”
    “But this…”
    He shook his head, a hint of darkness in his voice. “No matter what happens, you’re safe with me. I promise you that.”
    He was a solid wall behind her, his hold keeping her stretched almost to her toes against him, leaning back like a dancer in his arms. She felt his fingers caress warmth over her throat, deftly cradling her chin and guiding it higher, angling her face toward his.
    “I…” She wet her lips. “Everyone knows that Robert Letoures has seduced hundreds and—”
    He kissed her, stifling a sentence that had nothing more to offer. Softly, gently, he urged her lips open for the warm taste of wine on his tongue. His hand stroked over her face, the threaded bands around his wrist brushing her cheek, still moist with water. It was a feverish dream, frightening…too frightening. She clasped onto his arm, drowning in the soft play of his tongue, the fluid warmth of his embrace.
    A different man. A different touch. A different meaning.
    Still, she shivered, her fingers digging into his skin.
    The thief made no move to grasp her, or take her further, but she could feel the towel loosen at his waist as she slid against it, a thick and insistent nudging forming under the fabric.
    Images came, drawn from a dozen stories of the women he’d corrupted over the years, most of whom—it was said—were discovered by their cries of pleasure in the night. He’d surely kissed them this way, stroked them until they grew careless. He must have also whispered promises of safety, ever so sweetly, before parting their legs and settling the solid weight of his hips between them, pushing the full length of his cock inside their bodies, until their voices rang out, until they…
    She broke the kiss, struggling for breath.
    He held her steady, his gaze seeking hers, his breathing just as uneven. “Tell me what you need from me,” he whispered. “What kind of help did you come here for?”
    “There is nowhere else to hide.”
    “Hide? You need to escape?”
    “Escape would be impossible.” She hesitated, her reply so soft, she barely heard it herself. “But there is a machine, a war machine. It would change Ruman forever. We need your help…to complete it.”
    He narrowed his gaze, suddenly colder, his expression strikingly resolute. “A war machine,” he replied, a soft tone of regret in his voice. Reaching for the oil lamp on the table, he turned its brass knob, extinguishing the wick.

    Jacob heard her quiet panic, her breathing turned quick and shallow beside him. He stroked his hand down her shoulder to reassure her, though