DARK LOVER BLACK DAGGER BROTHERHOOD #1 BY J.R.WARD PDF

This one's just messy. When you can use your large intestine as a belt loop, that's when you hit the pros. He put his arm around her, and he knew how affected she was by the way she melted into his body. It felt so good to have her relying on him for strength. I'm leaving as soon as this is done.

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This one's just messy. When you can use your large intestine as a belt loop, that's when you hit the pros. He put his arm around her, and he knew how affected she was by the way she melted into his body. It felt so good to have her relying on him for strength. I'm leaving as soon as this is done. Got three jars to collect. No wonder you like those stars so much. They should be back in a couple hours to report in, just as you asked.

As Wrath led Beth down the hall, he found himself stroking her shoulder. Her back. Then he curled his hand around her waist, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh. She fit well against him, her head coming up to his chest, resting on his pectoral as they moved together.

And even as he did, he wished he could take back what he'd said to her on that sidewalk. About her being his. Because that wasn't true. He didn't want to take her as his shellan. He'd been worked up, jealous. Picturing that cop's hands all over her. Pissed off that he hadn't killed the human after all. The words had slipped out. Ah, hell. The female did something to his brain. Somehow managed to unplug his well-developed self-control and put him in touch with his inner fricking psycho.

Beth closed her eyes and leaned against Wrath, trying to shut out the picture of that gaping wound. The effort was like blocking sunlight with her hands: Parts of the image kept seeping through.

All that bright red, shiny blood, the raw, dark pink muscle, the shocking white of bone. And that needle. Puncturing the skin, pulling the flesh out to a point, breaking through with the black thread -.

No matter what the man said, that was no little scrape he was dealing with. He needed to go to the hospital. And she would have argued the point more strenuously, except she'd been a little busy trying to convince her pad thai to stay put. He was also one hell of a looker. Even though the gore was distracting, she couldn't help but notice his dazzling face and body.

Short blond hair, iridescent blue eyes, a face that belonged on the big screen. He'd been dressed as Wrath was, in black leather pants and shitkickers, but his shirt had been cast aside. The muscles of his upper torso had stood out in sharp relief beneath the overhead light, an impressive display of strength.

And the multicolored tattoo of a dragon that covered his whole back was a total stunner. But then, it wasn't as if Wrath were going to hang out with some scrawny tax accountant-looking nancy.

Drug dealers. They were clearly drug dealers. Guns, weapons, huge amounts of cash. And who else got into a knife fight and played doctor on themselves? She recalled that the man had borne the same circular-shaped scar on his chest that Wrath did.

She suddenly needed some space, and Wrath let her go as they walked into a lemon-colored room. Her feet slowed. The place looked like a museum or something she'd expect to see in Architectural Digest. Thick, pale drapery framed wide windows, rich oil paintings gleamed from the walls, objets d'art were tastefully arranged. She glanced down at the carpet. The thing was probably worth more than her apartment. Maybe they didn't just deal in crack, X, and heroin, she thought.

Maybe they worked the antiques black market as well. She eyed Wrath when she got no response. He was standing just inside the room, arms folded across his pecs, at the ready even though he was home. She walked over to a Hudson River School painting. Good lord, it was a Thomas Cole. Probably worth hundreds of thousands. She glanced over her shoulder. He was focused on her, paying no attention to the painting. And there was no expression of pride or ownership on his face. Wrath walked across the room, toward an exquisite, full-length portrait of what looked like a king.

Beth approached carefully. The glow of gas lanterns flickered over black stone. She leaned in, seeing a set of stairs that disappeared around a turn far below. And my brothers are likely to show up soon. And you're stalling.

Go on. Nothing will hurt you down there, I promise. Beth took a deep breath and hesitantly put her hands out to the stone walls. The air wasn't musty; there was no creepy coating of moisture on anything; it was just very, very dark. She went down the stairs slowly, feeling her way.

The lanterns were more like fireflies, lights unto themselves rather than illumination for someone using the stairwell. And then she reached the bottom. To the right there was an open door, and she caught the warm glow of candlelight.

The room was just like the passageway: black walled, dimly lit, but clean. The candles were soothing as they flickered at their posts. While she put her purse down on the coffee table, she wondered if Wrath slept here. She figured he'd taken a lot of women down to this lair of his. And it didn't take a genius to figure out what happened once he closed the door.

Wrath walked past her, taking off his jacket. He was wearing a muscle shirt under it, and she couldn't ignore the raw power of his arms, his biceps and triceps rippling as he put the leather aside. The tattoos running down his inner forearms flashed as he peeled the empty holster from his shoulders. He went into the bathroom and she heard water splashing. When he came back out, he was drying his face with a towel.

He put his sunglasses on before looking at her. He sat forward, elbows on his knees. My brother in the work I do. Wrath smiled a little, as if remembering something that pleased him. He was fast on his feet, smart as hell, good with a knife. But he was cultured. A gentleman. He spoke eight languages. Studied everything from world religions to art history to philosophy. He could talk your ear off about Wall Street and then tell you why the Sistine Chapel ceiling is actually a Mannerist work, not from the Renaissance.

Wrath leaned back, running a hefty arm across the top of the sofa. His knees fell out to the sides, his thighs spreading. He just stuck to the job at hand until it was finished. He died with the full respect of his brothers.

Wrath actually seemed to miss her father. Or whatever man he was channeling for the purpose of

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Dark Lover

In the shadows of the night in Caldwell, New York, there's a deadly turf war going on between vampires and their slayers. There also exists a secret band of brothers like no other - six vampire warriors, defenders of their race. Among them, none relishes killing their enemies more than Wrath, the leader of the Black Dagger Brotherhood The only purebred vampire left on the planet, Wrath has a score to settle with the slayers who murdered his parents centuries ago. But when one of his most trusted fighters is killed- orphaning a half-breed daughter unaware of her heritage or her fate - Wrath must usher the beautiful female into the world of the undead….

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