The Nymph King. Gena Showalter
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luscious pink lips along her every curve and hollow?
Stop, Shaye, a small, rational voice inside her commanded. Just stop.
“Come here,” he repeated.
“Yes,” her mom said, already stepping toward them. The dreamy glaze in her eyes darkened with eagerness. “I need to touch you. Please let me touch you.”
The part of Shaye that acknowledged these men were dangerous also acknowledged there was something wrong with her mom—and with herself—but she still couldn’t seem to care. A stunningly intense sensual fog was weaving through her mind, and nothing else mattered.
“Fight this,” she told herself. “Fight this, whatever it is.” Waging a mental war, she kicked and shoved at the sudden images of herself and that man, naked and straining together, his mouth on her breasts, his fingers slipping inside her, her legs parting, giving him better access…
“No. No!” she ground out. Even as she spoke, a blanket of calm settled over her thoughts. A familiar, icy wall encased her emotions, pushing away everything but the need to escape.
These men, whoever—whatever—they were, were dangerous, their intentions obviously malicious. They had swords, for God’s sake, and they radiated lust. Blood lust, sexual lust, she didn’t know.
They were almost upon her.
Scowling, fear cresting, she reached out and latched on to her mom’s arm, jerking Tamara to a halt. “Don’t go near them.”
“Must…touch.”
“We have to get help, warn the others. Something!”
“Let me go.” She struggled against Shaye’s hold, desperate to free herself. “I have to—”
“We have to go back to the tent. Now move!” Dragging her flailing mother behind her, Shaye raced toward the reception area, toward the laughing voices, soft music and unsuspecting guests.
As she ran, she dared a glance behind her. The men hadn’t slowed, hadn’t turned away. Lust and hunger intensified in their features as they followed her.
“Help us,” she shouted, kicking sand with every step. She swept the curtain aside and entered the tent. “Someone call 911!”
No one heard her. They were too busy dancing and drinking themselves into oblivion, thanks to the open bar.
“Let me go,” her mom continued to shout. When that failed to gain her freedom, she sank her sharp little teeth into Shaye’s arm.
“Goddamn it!” Shaye did the only thing she could think of: she hooked her foot behind her mom’s ankles and pushed, sending the bride hurling backward into the dessert table. Food and platters crashed to the ground, but at least her mom remained horizontal, trying to catch her breath.
Several people glanced at Shaye, then at the fallen bride. Their eyes widened, some in confusion, some in horror, but mostly in amusement.
“There are men—” Shaye pointed “—out there. Dangerous men. They have swords. Does anyone have a gun? Did someone call 911?”
Reoriented, her mom jolted to her feet, unconcerned that red-and-white frosting now streaked her ten-thousand-dollar dress. She elbowed her way past the guests. “I need him. Let me go back to him.”
“Tamara?” her new husband asked, incredulous. He rushed toward his bride and locked her in his arms, his expression concerned as she struggled to break free. “What’s wrong with you, kitten?”
“I need…him.” The last word was uttered on a relieved, happy sigh.
The six sea gods had jerked back the tent flap. They stepped inside, consuming every inch of breathable space and blocking the only exit. Immediately the music screeched to a halt. The male guests cowered, as if death had just arrived, and the females gasped in bliss, already moving toward the warriors, reaching out, eager to touch them.
“Get out of here,” Shaye growled. “We have weapons. Guns…and…and other menacing stuff.”
All six sets of eyes scanned the crowd, drinking in every detail…searching…searching…and then locking on her. She trembled, dizzying warmth spearing her. Naked images tried to rush through her again. Sweaty skin, flushed, pink with arousal…
Not again! She forced her mind to remain blank.
Who were these men? How did they do that? How did they make her long to forget who and what she was and simply enjoy the pleasures she somehow knew they could give her?
Fighting a wave of panic, Shaye quickly grabbed the cake knife from the ground and held it in front of her. Icing smeared her hand; her heart thumped erratically in her chest. In high school she’d picked a few fights with her stepsiblings. Yes, it had been her misguided attempt to keep them at a distance so she wouldn’t begin to like them only to lose them a few months later, but she’d actually managed to win some of those fights. Not that any of her brothers and sisters had carried knives or sported more muscles than two body builders fused together.
The warrior in the middle, the exquisitely formed blond giant who had beckoned her over to him on the beach, motioned her over once more. There was still a hint of anger in his eyes, still a too-sensual pull about him. Now, however, he seemed all the more predatory. Sexual. In the well-lit tent, she could see the silver hoop winking at his nipple.
“Come,” he said.
Everything inside her might scream to obey, to go to him, to suck that hoop into her mouth while she ground herself against his erection, but she gulped and shook her head. “No.” Erection. God. She hadn’t even looked there. But she knew, as if the knowledge was imprinted on her every cell, that he was aroused.
His kissable, lickable lips lifted in a slow, wicked smile, as though he’d wanted her to deny him. “I will delight in showing you the error of your ways.”
Yep. He’d wanted.
Chapter Three
MY MATE, VALERIAN thought, incredulous. He’d found his mate.
He hadn’t been looking, hadn’t wanted to find her, but found her he had. As legend claimed, he’d caught the scent of her and had known. Known beyond any doubt. Mine. His every cell had awakened for her, responded to her.
When he and his men had first exited the portal, human sea-warriors clad in strange, tight, black garments had attacked them and tried to drag them onto boats that waited above. There had been a struggle, but the nymphs ultimately won, disposing of both the men and the boats. After that, the nymphs hadn’t cared about the scenery of this surface world they’d only dreamed about. They simply wanted to find some women and sweep them to Atlantis.
One female in particular had caught and held his gaze. She was tall and slender, yet beautifully curved, her stomach flat, her hips slightly rounded. Her legs were long and tapered and climbed straight to the new center of his world.
Her angelic face boasted a luscious little chin, glowing cheeks and a daintily sloped nose. Her eyes were big and brown, a rich brown, almost gold, filled with striking vulnerability and undeniable determination, offset stunningly by pale, gloriously long lashes.
He’d never seen skin as fair and luminous as hers, not even on a vampire. Like the very moon he’d seen shining in the heavens, she was soft and radiant. Ethereal. His hands itched to reach out and caress her slowly, lingering and savoring, making sure she wouldn’t shimmer away, an unattainable dream.
As to the clothing she wore, well, he vowed to keep her dressed exactly so for the rest of her life. The many strips of green grass hanging from her waist parted with her every breath, revealing succulent glimpses of her thighs. No, he hadn’t wanted to find his mate—and a human, no less—and he was angry that he had. But beneath the anger was a possessive hunger he couldn’t deny. Didn’t want to deny.
He’d