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She nipped at his lobe in delicate reprisal, then grinned when he shuddered with delight.
He grasped her skirt and worked it up over her hips, then stiffened and went still. "You're wearing a
suspender belt," he accused.
"I sneaked it on when you weren't looking," she murmured, rubbing her palms over his shirtfront. His
chest expanded; heavy muscles tightened.
"Witch." His gaze was possessive and burning with need, but soft, so soft.
"Flatterer," she retorted, no longer worried about her wild Montague genes. Her psychic talents had
been catalogued, listed, analysed and measured, as much as anyone was able to measure anything so
intangible. She had decided not to share any of her dreams, though; they belonged to her and Blade, and
were far too personal for a research paper.
Anna had found out she was special, but not alone. She was, in the latest jargon, an empath meaning
that she could pick up on feelings, emotions. She also had a capacity for mental telepathy, but it
appeared to be at its strongest with Blade.
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Her link with Blade had the experts baffled, and they had wanted to test him, too, certain that he must
have a degree of the same talent, even if it was only minor. Blade had refused point blank, just as he had
put his foot down about her participating in an ongoing programme of testing. In his words, Anna was his
wife, not some guinea pig. If she wanted to use her powers on anyone, it was going to be on him.
The one thing that had really bothered Anna was what she'd done to Henry when she'd hit out with her
mind. They had conducted tests and tried to get her to replicate the effect, but she hadn't been able to do
it. She had come to the conclusion that what had happened with Henry had been an aberration, fuelled
by the years of fear and grief and anguish. During the test, she simply hadn't been able to build up any
fury at all; she had been too happy.
She wound her arms around Blade's neck and obligingly wriggled her hips as he peeled her dress up
until it bunched at her waist. He leaned down and whispered something bluntly explicit in her ear.
A shiver swept her as she felt the edge of his teeth on the tender join of neck and shoulder. He had
called her fat, a witch, and now he had told her what he was about to do to her in a string of very short
words.
He lifted her and set her back against the wall of the elevator. Anna heard the rasp of his zipper,
shivered as she felt the hot, beguiling stroke of his fingers, then without further preliminaries, he began
pushing inside her.
His eyes were hooded, intent, his dark golden skin stretched taut against the strong bones and exotic
hollows of his face. And then there was no more time for talking. At least, nothing that could be
described as a coherent word.
*
Hours later, Blade left their bed, pulled from sleep by a dream that had shaken him.
He pushed the doors to the balcony wide and stepped out. The weather was hot, balmy, a soft breeze
deliciously cool against his naked skin. He stared at the narrow curve of the moon, riding low against the
cityscape, the nascent glimmer of impending dawn in the east.
The power of the dream washed over him again, sending an odd, weakening tremor through him.
"Bad dream?" Anna murmured, coming up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist and hugging in
against his back.
Blade turned in her grasp, pulling her close. Fierce elation thrummed through him. He wished he had her
to himself closeted at home, closeted to himself; he wouldn't let her out of bed for a week. Sometimes the
extent and depth of his love for Anna shook him, but never more so than now. "Uh-uh. Great dream."
Contentment filled Blade as he held his wife and his future close, safe, against him.
He didn't know if Anna knew it yet, but she was pregnant.
Maybe he should do some research into his own ancestors, he mused. Amongst the brigands and
mercenaries, buccaneers and pirates, he wouldn't be surprised if he discovered a warlock or two.
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