Come Fill Me (The Prophecy) Page 3

  He’d struggle against release as most men did, but her mouth and tongue would work him as her cunt never could. On an unrestrained growl, he’d climax, and she’d accept his thick, salty come, delighting in it.

  A new rush of warmth stung Liz’s chest, traveling to her belly and sheath. A pulse ticked deep within.

  Disturbed by the sensation and her aching loneliness—the need for a powerful yet good man at her side—Liz recalled what Carreon’s lieutenants had claimed the first night she’d come here.

  “He’ll murder our women and children so our line dies out, just as his kind have always wanted.”

  If that was the truth, then Zeke was no different from Carreon, who hunted the weakest, eliminating them first. Once more, she examined Zeke’s face, lingering on his mouth. Instead of a sneer or a smirk, she imagined him smiling at her, his grin honest, reaching his eyes, his wanting of her obvious and—

  Stop it.

  What was the matter with her, indulging in a romantic fantasy when she was well aware of their people’s conflict and unending hatred for each other? Even if Zeke wasn’t a murdering psychopath, he wasn’t likely to be stirred by a woman from an enemy clan. So why was he affecting her like this? Was it a power he had…or something else. Perhaps the truth as to who he really was?

  Ignoring her persistent longing, Liz replaced it with a healthy dose of distrust. “This is Zeke Neekoma?”

  “You sound surprised,” Carreon said. “Why?”

  Because Carreon was a lying prick, and Zeke didn’t look like the monster he’d warned her about. Not that that was certifiable proof of anything except her own gullibility. After all, she hadn’t seen the devil in Carreon’s handsome face until she’d doomed herself.

  Turning from Zeke, she asked, “When did this happen?”

  Carreon’s expression remained stony, telling her he wasn’t about to answer.

  Fuck that. “Did he come here? Did you send for him, telling him you wanted to negotiate a settlement?” The same lie his men had used to dupe her into saving him. “Did you ambush him, Carreon?”

  With his elbows on the arms of his chair, he tented his fingers and gave her a patient smile, as artificial as his loyalty and love. “Did I ambush him?” he repeated. He grew thoughtful as though considering the matter. “I suppose you might say that, though it didn’t happen here.

  “My men intercepted—or rather they ambushed him—a short distance from your office.” His expression became sharp and focused. “For the last few hours, he’s been stalking you.”

  Liz stared, unable to believe it, not wanting to. However, something inside her wasn’t so certain, causing the room to spin. She curled her fingers around the bedpost to steady herself. Blood continued to drain from her face, a slight chill replacing its previous warmth. “Why?”

  Carreon tapped the tips of his fingers against each other as he spoke. “To kill you, Liz, so you wouldn’t be able to heal my men. Surely, you realize how your death would make Neekoma’s life so much easier.” He lifted his shoulders. “We stopped him from that.”

  She tried to imagine Zeke tracking her as an animal would, biding his time until he could take her down. She wanted to see evil in him.

  His tranquil expression and relaxed pose wouldn’t allow it.

  She pictured his large hands and long fingers curled around a woman’s breasts, not her throat. “Why should I believe you?”

  Carreon’s fingers stilled. “Heal him,” he ordered, then spoke through his teeth, “Now.”

  Why? So Zeke would have another chance to execute her or their people? Or so Carreon could torture him into telling everything Zeke knew. What he saw.

  In her office, Carreon had claimed Zeke was more valuable to him if alive.

  For once, Liz suspected he’d been telling the truth. As the most powerful seer of his clan, wearing its mark on his left biceps, Zeke Neekoma could predict the future. At least some of the time. He certainly hadn’t envisioned Carreon’s ambush or his impending death.

  And now, she was supposed to heal him. If that were even possible with one whose alien blood was different from hers.

  “It might not work,” she said, restating the obvious.

  “It will,” Carreon countered, then dropped his hands to his thighs and smiled. “That is, if you want to live a long life and be there for your father. You do want that, don’t you, Liz?”

  She dug her thumbnail into the bedpost’s wood, wishing it were his throat.

  Carreon’s grin faded. “Why are you stalling? Go on. We’re waiting.”

  That they were. While his men’s expressions remained inscrutable, their eyes glittered with interest. The one on the right studied her breasts, the one on the left her cunt. The one in the middle, who’d had her before, took in her full length.

  All three sat with their legs parted. Beneath their lightweight pants, Liz saw the meaty bulges behind their flies, the outlines of their erect cocks.

  “You can watch from the great room,” she said, tilting her chin to the ceiling, the close-circuit TV camera suspended from it.

  “And leave you here unprotected?” Carreon asked. Giving her no chance to comment, he warned, “Don’t make me wait. Begin the ritual now. Start with your hands. If that doesn’t work, then I expect you to strip.”

  Heat prickled her cheeks. Not because she was humiliated at having to disrobe in front of these men, but rather worried that she wouldn’t be able to heal Zeke even with her entire body pressed to his.

  What would happen then? Would Carreon drag her father in here, forcing him at the point of a gun or with a series of blows to do what she’d failed to accomplish?

  Desperate to keep her father out of this, Liz went to the foot of the bed and leaned down. Her hair swung forward, the chestnut-colored tresses falling across her cheek, delivering her shampoo’s violet scent. The delicate fragrance didn’t mask Zeke’s soapy-clean smell. Nor did it hide the odor of gunpowder from his wounds. Given that he’d stopped bleeding, none of the bullets had struck major blood vessels. His unique physiology might have also helped, slowing his eventual demise.

  Thankfully, someone had cleaned him of blood, bathing his body in preparation for her visit.

  From behind, leather squeaked. Carreon or one of his men was leaning up to observe her more closely.

  A pulse beat hard at the base of Liz’s throat. She regarded Zeke’s tattoo, a tribal band in the form of a stylized snake. A tribute to his Comanche or Snake People heritage. Settled within the band was the eye of an eagle, designating him as a prophet, a gift from his alien ancestors.

  The head of the snake was gone, cut out with a sharp instrument, possibly a scalpel.

  Given how the underlying skin glistened in the lamps’ meek beams, Liz suspected Carreon had taken that piece of flesh a short time ago. As a token.

  Fighting disgust, Liz avoided the wound and drank in the rest of this man. Even so close to death, she saw strength in Zeke’s broad shoulders and build, far more athletic than Carreon’s, exquisitely masculine and a decided contradiction to his almost gentle expression.

  How many women had he given that look to? Had he reserved such warmth for his wife? Had he been able to love and cherish any woman that much?

  What did it matter? Once Liz healed him, he’d beg for the end. Carreon and his men would see to it.

  Goose pimples rose on her arms and legs, worsened by chilled air pouring from the ceiling vents.

  One of the men cleared his throat as though impatient for her to begin.

  She couldn’t just yet. All of her life, Liz’s father had warned her about their shared gift.

  “There are things about it you don’t know,” he’d cautioned. “Things you should never know. But I will tell you this: you have to be very careful that you do more good than harm. No matter how badly you want to heal, you cannot do it quickly.”

  She had to leave the vital organs for later. If too much of her healing force flowed into the injured, the extreme r
ecovery could cause the arteries and veins to blow. No different from a piece of worn machinery receiving a sudden and intense surge of power, one it couldn’t handle.

  Her hand hovered above Zeke’s foot. Dark hair dusted his brawny calves and thighs. The hair thickened on his groin, its color the same as that in his pits. She tried to pull in a full breath and was unable, her mind taking her places it shouldn’t—her face pressed to his underarm hair so she could draw in his scent. The smell of a male. The fragrance of sex.

  Unsteady with desire she didn’t want and couldn’t seem to stop, Liz fought for control.

  Go on, dammit. Do it.

  Not knowing what to predict from a man whose ancestry was different from hers, Liz hesitated one last time, then wrapped her fingers around Zeke’s toes.

  Air hissed through her teeth.

  Despite his lowered blood pressure and scant respiration, he was invitingly warm, not cool. In that, he was like her people. Their life force didn’t succumb quickly to injury; their temperatures never dropped, even after they expired, nor were they subject to the normal physiological events of death. After a few weeks, their bodies collapsed into dust with no evidence of decay.

  With care, Liz squeezed his foot, her thumb stroking the short hairs at the base of his big toe. A tender, almost playful touch she hadn’t anticipated and wasn’t about to continue. Withdrawing her hand, she waited for him to take in a full breath.

  His chest barely rose. His dark brown nipples didn’t constrict. None of his muscles bunched.

  Not a problem. It was just too soon to see any obvious effects.

  She slid her palm over his shin, touching a jagged scar that had paled with age and looked vulnerable against his coppery flesh. She wondered if he’d gotten it as a toddler when he’d fallen off a swing. Had his mother comforted him then, or had she admonished him not to cry, to be brave, preparing him for the conflicts he’d eventually face?

  Liz tried to picture him as a child, accepting of all, guileless with innocence, wanting only safety and love. No different from her as she’d grown up in a family rich with affection, believing as all children do that her parents would always be with her.

  She’d had too little time with her mother, missing her more each day. She’d promised herself she’d remain close to her father, to see that his remaining years were as pleasant as she could make them.

  How she’d failed him. A wave of regret and sorrow washed over Liz, threatening her composure. Pushing all emotion away, she again waited for Zeke’s deep breath, any sign that her healing was having an impact on him.

  He remained motionless…unaware and untroubled.

  Worry ate at her, but she didn’t panic—not yet. Depending upon the extent of injury, a body might be quick or slow to heal. It had taken her a long time to restore many of Carreon’s men, their wounds had been so grave. As with Carreon, she’d had to strip, to drape her nudity over theirs in order for them to draw in the full impact of her gift.

  She touched Zeke’s hairy thigh, the birthmark on her palm pressed against his firm flesh. Nothing happened, and then it did. Beneath her fingers, his muscles jumped…or at least she thought they had. Liz stared at his face, then his chest. It didn’t move. He hadn’t taken in another breath or opened his eyes.

  Frowning, she laid her hand on his cock, waiting for it to grow thick, to stiffen within her caress, proving his vigor.

  Warm and smooth, just as she’d imagined, it remained flaccid.

  Damn. On a hard swallow, she eased nearer to him.

  From the side, one of the men, possibly Carreon, cleared his throat.

  At the sound, Liz went still, her lips no more than an inch from Zeke’s shaft. Surprised that she’d been about to kiss it, not recalling her intention to do so, she jerked away.

  Light-headed, she placed her palm on Zeke’s hard belly, her forefinger tracing his navel. Black hairs circled it, then arrowed down to his groin. With a light touch, Liz directed her palm to his right pec, the pads of her fingers brushing the small point of his nipple.

  Nothing happened. The areola remained smooth.

  She increased the pressure of her caress.

  He didn’t respond.

  She wanted to run from the room and shout for her father, knowing instinctively she’d never reach him before Carreon intervened. Strands of hair clung to Liz’s neck, suddenly sticky with perspiration. Taking Zeke’s hand, she folded his thick fingers back, then laced her fingers through his, pressing their palms together so their lifelines touched.

  A spark similar to static electricity passed from her to him.

  She didn’t wait to see if it had any effect. To do so would have her agonizing about failure. Instead, she trailed her other hand up the inside of his arm to his pit.

  The utter masculinity of that hair stole her breath. As Liz stroked the unruly tuft, releasing a wave of his heady scent, she regarded his heavy brows, long spiky lashes, the shadows they created on his cheeks.

  She fought the urge to lean down and press her lips to his. Still touching him, she glanced at his nostrils, seeing no movement. Beneath his lids, his eyes were still, like those of the dead rather than someone who merely slumbered.

  Was he fighting her because he wanted to continue his journey to the other side? Was he able to do that because of his unique bloodline and heri—

  “What’s taking so long?”

  Flinching at Carreon’s voice, Liz released Zeke’s hand. The tips of his fingers grazed her nipple and the curve of her belly before coming to a rest on her mound.

  She should have stepped back but didn’t. Her hair swung forward, hiding her face as she looked down at his hand.

  From the side, a chair’s legs skidded over the wood, as though Carreon was jerking it closer to the bed.

  “Touch his wounds,” he instructed. “Heal him. Make him conscious.”

  She argued, “If I go too quickly, he’ll die.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about? You’ve never taken this long before. I’ve watched. I know.”

  “He’s not one of us, Carreon. I haven’t any idea what to expect.”

  “Then find out. Touch his wounds, not the rest of his goddamn body.” He leaned up in his chair. “You need to be fucked, Liz? Is that what this is about? Fine. I’ll fuck you raw and so will my men, just as soon as you heal him.”

  A wave of heat, uncomfortable and overwhelming, rose to Liz’s chest, throat and face.

  Carreon regarded her, his expression sly. “I might even let him mount you. Give him a bit of pleasure before the pain. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Liz?”

  She turned away.

  Carreon’s command tore across the space. “Touch his goddamned wounds.”

  Her palm hovered above them, wary of moving closer as though facing the sting of a flame.

  “Bring her father in here,” Carreon ordered.

  “No. Don’t, please,” she begged. Bracing herself for the worst, she rested her palm on the blackened holes left from the bullets.

  A second ticked by, followed by another and another with no response. Her lids slid down, and her stomach clenched. Frightened, Liz pressed harder. And then, it happened. Not Zeke stirring but his skin constricting.

  She stared at the bullet holes, the size of pinpoints now, nearly healed. Once more, she rested her hand on him, the tips of her fingers over his heart.

  Her own beat crazily. She studied Zeke’s face and chest.

  “Is he healed?” Carreon asked.

  No. He still hadn’t breathed deeply or opened his eyes. She detected no improvement in his heartbeat. Was he actually fighting her?

  “Is he?” Carreon demanded.

  “Not yet,” Liz said, knowing very well he may never be, and because of it, her father would pay.

  Determined that wouldn’t happen, she stepped away from the bed. Before Carreon could ask what she was doing, Liz removed her right heel, dropping it on the floor.

  At its solid thunk, Carreon
didn’t even blink.

  Her left heel followed. With her attention on Zeke’s pecs and biceps, Liz eased her skirt past her hips and down her thighs. The garment fell to the floor with a faint rustling sound. Stepping out of it, she propped her foot on the mattress to remove her right stocking. Cool air brushed her naked ass. She’d worn a thong as she always did, having grown used to it from when she’d been Carreon’s lover, forever prepared to have his hands on her, her body available to his touch. Her garter belt and stockings were also from those days, as was her continued use of an IUD so she’d never bring an innocent into the sorry world Carreon and his kind had created.

  With her buttocks facing two of her captors, she unsnapped the front and side garter, then slipped her hands beneath the beige hose, coaxing it to her ankle and off, dropping it near the bedpost.

  When her remaining stocking was also on the floor, she stepped away from the bed, working the pearl buttons on her blouse. Her fingers continued to tremble, prolonging the effort. After what seemed a great while, she slid the garment off her shoulders, revealing her bra. Its snug fit forced her breasts upward until they nearly spilled from the lacy white cups.

  As it was, her nipples grazed the edge of the fabric, making Liz feel more naked than if she’d undressed completely.

  Her vulnerability wasn’t lost on Carreon and his men. They’d grown silent in the last few moments, not clearing their throats or shifting in their chairs.

  Liz had no desire to see their expressions.

  Dropping her blouse on the floor, she kept her attention on Zeke. Against the frosty white pillowcase, his shoulder-length hair was the color of pitch, thick and shiny.

  She imagined a woman’s fingers, no—her fingers—combing those midnight strands, taming them but not him. He’d work his hands through her hair, using it to anchor her so he could claim her mouth, refusing to finish their kiss until they were both restless for more. Him owning her body, exploring all of her curves, every orifice, each intimate part, making her cry out in delight.

  Zeke Neekoma would deliver pleasure. Liz had no doubt of that.