Bound By His Blood

by Jennifer August

  “Take your panties off.”

  Her shoulders twitched and she shook her head.

  He smiled gently. “I can work around them but I can’t guarantee they won’t end up ripped like your skirt.”

  She gave him a slow smile in return. “Good point.” Her fingers tucked into the black waistband. Her tummy sucked in as she breathed. He saw the tremor in her hands as she pushed the panties down.

  His mouth went dry and his dick went even harder as she revealed her sweet pussy to him. She kept her hair trimmed but not over done in some crazy shape as he’d seen before. The golden brown patch was just a shade darker than her head. Her lower lips pouted downward with a fullness that made him even more eager to sink into her. He desperately wanted to feel her hot pussy clenched around him as he fucked her.

  “Turn around, bend over the bed and put your hands on the mattress.”

  “Why?”

  “Please?”

  Her mouth pursed in an adorable way and he wanted to kiss her again. But right now, he was slowly exerting control. No time for tenderness or she might get the idea he was not serious about this.

  “Turn. Around.”

  Sheridan regarded him closely, brow raised and eyes snapping. She probably knew what he was doing, but would go along with it to prove he had no control over her.

  A win-win situation for him.

  Slowly, she pivoted and traced the path to the bed. On a raised pedestal, the top of the mattress came to navel-height on her.

  McCallister followed her but kept a small distance between them as he eyed the full roundness of her ass. The honey-cream flesh made his palms itch to smack it then kiss away the sting.

  His control was nearly blown when she scooted her legs just past shoulder-width apart and bent over the bed.

  Her musky aroma tinged with that damn hint of floral tease walloped him like a jackhammer.

  Further proof she wanted him.

  He stepped between her spread legs and enveloped her body with his. Her soft sigh and shudder pleased him. He slid his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and to the mattress where her fingers were spread and slightly curled into the comforter.

  He tangled their fingers together and squeezed lightly. She trembled.

  McCallister exerted a bit more pressure against her back with his chest. “You have beautiful skin, Sheridan. As soft as cashmere and as smooth as melted chocolate. I bet you taste as sweet, too.” He nuzzled the hollow of her neck and shoulder.

  “McCallister.”

  Just his name on her breath aroused him.

  He dipped his knees then came back up, his hard cock now nestled along the slickness of her pussy.

  “Oh God,” she whimpered.

  He began a slow grind, his own breath wrenching from the sensual contact. Her fingers tightened on his and a tremor built up then dispersed through her frame.

  More enticing hints of her scent swelled and hovered between them. His dick was soon coated in her juices and the slow slide was damn near killing him.

  “Sheridan?”

  “Hmm?”

  He bared his fangs and lightly scraped the skin of her nape. She shuddered and moaned.

  “I like that,” she said.

  “From how wet your pussy is, it seems you like my cock, too.”

  Her back stiffened and pushed against him but he didn’t move away. After a long moment, she relaxed again.

  “Are you always so cocksure?”

  “I’m sure you like my cock. That’s good enough for me.”

  She giggled at that. Sheridan looked back at him, the corner of her mouth tipped up in a seductive curl. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

  Though her words were light, he heard the seriousness flowing beneath them.

  He nipped at her shoulder again. “Yes, I am. You can tell how much I want you, Sheridan.” He pumped his hips between her slick outer lips a few more times. “But I want you to tell me what you want.”

  She bit her lip and looked down, but not before he saw a rosy blush on her cheeks. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “Good girls don’t, you know.”

  He untangled their fingers and cupped her tits, pulling her up from the bed and into his chest. “Good girls always make the best bad girls. It’s in your genes.” He pistoned lightly. “All you have to do is ask and I will fill your sweet pussy with my cock, Sheridan. Just ask me for it.”

  She covered his hands on her tits and pressed inward, squashing her flesh. He noted how turned on that made her and filed the knowledge away for future use.

  “Ask me, Sheridan.”

  He knew the instant she gave in, even before the words tumbled from her lips.

  “Fuck me, McCallister.”

  The air around them flared bright and pink. His vision grew dim, leaving him able to see only the beautiful woman in front of him.

  Bending Sheridan to the bed again, he cupped her ass cheeks and spread her pussy lips wide then fitted the head of his cock to her dripping slit and eased his length inward.

  The room dimmed even further, highlighting only Sheridan. She filled him, her thoughts and desires pounding at him from every direction.

  He clenched his teeth and battled the temptation to go even further into her mind.

  She gasped and writhed in his touch. “What is that?”

  McCallister pulled out to the tip and steadied her hips. “What is what?”

  “The noise. It sounds like rushing wind. Damn it, you’re torturing me. Fuck me, McCallister, fuck me.”

  He dismissed the noise and focused instead on sinking back into her warm, grasping pussy. He ground his pelvis against her butt, buried all the way in.

  “Oh, damn,” she whispered.

  “How do you like to be fucked, Sheridan? Soft? Slow, with tenderness?” He imitated the words and she squirmed on him. “Or do you want it rough and fast?” He increased the pace of his thrusts and she groaned, fingers curling into the blanket.

  “Ah, rough and fast,” he murmured. Still fucking her, he gathered her hair into a ponytail and placed his other palm to the small of her back, forcing her head up and her body down.

  She whimpered but didn’t protest. He looked down between their bodies, watched his cock slam in and out of her, slick and shiny with her juices.

  Unable to resist a taste, he pulled out, dipped his finger into her pussy then brought the digit to his lips. One long suck and it was his turn to shudder.

  Sweet. Like manna.

  He fitted himself back to her opening and again fucked her. She bounced and writhed, spewing all sorts of demands his way. Her pussy clenched tightly on his dick and he responded by swelling impossibly large.

  “Fuck,” she yelled, hips whipping even harder. “I’m going to come, McCallister.”

  Instantly, he stopped and pulled out.

  She waited, breath escaping in harsh beats then turned to look at him. “Why did you stop?”

  He moved a step away. “Because I didn’t give you permission to come.”

  She snapped straight up and glared at him. “What the hell do you mean?”

  He winked and stroked his dick. “I want to be in your pussy, Sheridan. I love how your muscles clamp around me, trying to keep me in. But I don’t want you to come unless I say you can. Can you do that for me?”

  “Hell, no,” she retorted and pushed away from the bed. Rage and frustration chased across her face. Her intense blue gaze focused on his still hard dick and she seemed to falter for a moment. McCallister waited tensely.

  “I’m out of here. God, and they call women cock teases.” She stormed across the room, scooping up her clothes as she went. “You’d better get this damn door unlocked or I’m calling the fire department,” she yelled.

  He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. He’d not counted on such resistance. He should have, though. Her willpower and strength of mind was incredible.

  When he re-entered the living r
oom, she was dressed in the skirt and shirt, but her fishnets were nowhere to be seen.

  “Just so you know—” she stabbed a finger in his direction, “—I’m going home, getting out my vibrator, and coming until I collapse.”

  He lifted a brow. “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “I do not give you permission to come, Sheridan. Remember that.”

  She flipped him off, snatched her purse from the table, and stomped to the door. “Are you going to open this damn thing or not?”

  “Yeah, give me a sec.”

  He returned to his bedroom, her shout of annoyance loud and clear in his ears. He tugged on dark jeans and a black t-shirt, stepped into his black sneakers and made his way back to her.

  She had her phone in her hand. He reached out and snatched it, disconnecting the call.

  “Come on, Sheridan, I’ll take you home. You don’t want to be out in a cab this time of night.”

  “Oh, like you’re any safer?” She shoved his chest and grabbed her phone back. “I’ll take my risks with the crazy drivers.”

  He touched her arm with just enough light pressure to still her. “Sheridan,” he said, keeping his voice low and even. Soothing. “I will take you home. Please, let me do this.”

  The furious beat of her heart continued for a long moment as she skewered him with a harsh glare. As the heat left her eyes, her pulse slowed. Weariness etched a frown on her forehead and she finally nodded. “All right. But no funny business, either.”

  He reached into the hall closet and pulled out a battered leather jacket. One he’d had since...he frowned...well, since forever. “Here, put this on,” he said gruffly. “It’s a little chilly and you’re not really dressed for the outdoors.”

  “Fine, whatever.” She shrugged into the jacket and pointed to the door. “Unlock it and let’s go.”

  “Car’s in the garage, past the kitchen. This way.”

  He headed through the house, listening for her light footfalls behind him. He opened the door and waved her by, snagging his keys from the cabinet hanging in the laundry room. The car he’d left on Dorchester Street belonged to the precinct. He sure hoped Leopold had taken it back by now. No telling what kind of damage vandals would do to it otherwise. He should call dispatch and make sure the car was secured. He just reached for his phone when Sheridan’s low whistle hit him.

  She stared at the car then back to him. “Wow,” she said, voice losing more of its edge. “Is this a ’65 Mustang?”

  He rubbed a non-existent spot on the gleaming black hood and nodded. “Yep. All original parts, too.”

  “How long have you had it?” She rounded the car and gingerly eased herself inside.

  He watched her with bemusement. Sheridan Aames was a muscle car buff? Interesting.

  He got in the car and cranked the engine.

  Sheridan’s gasp was filled with admiration. “Sounds beautiful. My dad and I used to re-build old cars like this,” she said, tone now way more relaxed, almost friendly. “So, how long?”

  McCallister punched the button to open the garage door and laid his arm over the bench seat, fingers gently, deliberately tickling her nape. “A while,” he hedged.

  No sense telling her he’d bought the thing brand new in ’64.

  But something must have tipped her off because she inhaled sharply then turned her head to look out the window.

  He noticed she didn’t move away from his hand, though.

  “Where we going?” he asked.

  She gave him directions to her house and he was surprised to find she lived not very far from him.

  That could prove very convenient.

  They rode in silence but he could feel her mind whirling, processing, trying to figure out what had gone on this evening. As much as McCallister wanted to probe and find out what she was really thinking, he didn’t. He wanted to earn her trust and compliance the right way, not by sneaking into her brain.

  As he idled at a light, he looked at her. “For a reporter, you’re awfully quiet. I’m surprised you haven’t bombarded me with a thousand more questions by now.”

  She blushed and tugged her skirt down, though the material didn’t go much further than mid-thigh. “Sorry, I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  She gave a derisive snort. “Not you, egohead. I’m trying to decide if you’ve completely blown my cover or not.”

  He pulled into her drive and killed the engine, stepped out and was at her side before she could even gather her purse and reach for the handle.

  He opened her door and helped her out. “You’re not going back there, Sheridan,” he said flatly. “Someone knew about you long before I showed up.”

  “Why do you say that? Where in the hell are my keys?”

  “Because someone shot at you, remember? Just what are you chasing?”

  “Nothing that has anything to do with you.” She frowned as she looked up at him. “Well, except for the name but that’s it.”

  “What name?”

  “Forget it, copper. The last thing I need is the fuzz busting my informants before I can get the scoop. Damn it. Keys!”

  She shook her small purse and finally fished out her keys. She fitted one to the door, twisted, and moved through.

  He started to follow, but she put a hand up to stave him off. “No,” she said. “You are most definitely not invited in.”

  McCallister managed to maintain his calm façade, but internally he winced. Despite his earlier claims bashing vampiric lore, an invitation was usually better to have than busting into someone’s space.

  The Uninvited generally tended to be a bit more vulnerable.

  He also might have overstated—outright lied—about that mesmerism thing, too. McCallister loathed using that particular skill, though. Too many bad memories associated with being helpless and guided by someone else’s desires.

  He banished the past by cupping her cheek.

  He stroked his thumb along her bottom lip.

  He wanted to kiss her again, wanted to delve into her body and explore all of her.

  Instead, he allowed his hand to drop away. “Lock your doors, Sheridan.”

  She hesitated then slowly, eyes still locked with his, stepped back and closed the door. He waited until he heard the tumblers roll, securing the house.

  McCallister headed back to his car. He opened the door and leaned over the roof, staring at her standing at the window, curtains peeked open just enough to show her sleek silhouette.

  “Don’t forget what I said, Sheridan. You are not allowed to come.”

  Despite the distance, he caught her growl of indignant anger, the curtain twitched shut, and she snapped off the light.

  He chuckled as he slid into his car. “Sweet dreams, Sheridan.”

  Chapter Four

  “What the hell do you mean someone shot at you, Aames?” Steve Dennison yelled across his paper-strewn desk. “Why in the hell are you just now telling me about this? Why didn’t you call last night?”

  Sheridan rubbed the back of her neck and tried to come up with a good excuse, but nothing clicked. She was a horrible liar.

  “I ran into a cop and he helped me out of the jam.” Mostly true. “By the time it was over, I just wanted to go home, take a hot bath, and go to bed.” Definitely true.

  She’d luxuriated in her garden tub, inhaling the soothing scents of lavender and chamomile while she tried to get Detective Sexy out of her mind. She’d even put on her favorite episodes of the old Dick Tracy radio show.

  For a little bit she’d succeeded. Sort of. But when she finally made it to her bed and tried to pleasure herself, she was horrified to hear his voice in her head just as she was about to come, denying her. Telling her to stop.

  She never did orgasm. Five tries and not one blasted time could she come.

  Bastard.

  Sheridan refused to dwell on exactly why she couldn’t come, preferring to chalk it up to nerves inst
ead of some vampire hocus pocus. Mostly.

  “Look, Steve, I’m positive my informant was right about that deal going down last night. Those guys in the Caddy were trying to shill that Vampire Dust to some unsuspecting druggies. I just know it. That’s why I got shot at. I got too close.”

  Sweat pooled on Steve’s forehead and slithered down his neck. He shook his head and droplets splattered the papers in front of him. He smelled a bit, too. Like sardines a few hours overripe.

  Behind her, she could hear the clacking of keystrokes on computers from the newsroom and the creak and buzz of conversation. Snippets of words echoed in her ears as if the speaker stood right next to her. She turned her head only to find no one there.

  Then everything returned to normal.

  Sheridan held her breath. What the hell just happened?

  “Exactly why you need another assignment. I don’t need you hurt, Aames.”

  She rose and planted her palms on his desk, towering over him with a glare. “I’m not giving this story up, Steve. I’m in already. I just need to shift my disguise a little bit. I have a few more stool pigeons I can hit up for information.”

  He still looked like he would refuse then his shoulders crumpled. “You always were too damn stubborn for your own good. Or mine. Fine.” He waved his hand. “Get the hell out of my office and run your story down.”

  She smiled. “You’re a gem, Steve. A real gem.”

  He shook his head. “You’ve been listening to that 30’s detective show again, haven’t you?”

  She laughed but was puzzled. “Dick Tracy. How’d you know?”

  His smile was genuine and his eyes twinkled a bit. “You always spout the lingo. I guess it seeps into your brain.”

  Sheridan shook her head, waved goodbye, and high-tailed it to her desk to grab her purse. She wanted out of the newsroom before he could change his mind.

  “Going out again, Sheridan?” Bobbi, the Metro’s uber-efficient receptionist asked. Her syrupy voice was a holdover from a lifetime spent in the Deep South.

  Sheridan learned quick enough Bobbi’s personality was just as sugary. Bobbi—with an i, thank you—was as Southern as the General Lee, sweet tea, and barbecue. She’d met and married her husband in college and broke her mama’s heart when they moved to Boston from Gumlog, Georgia. The young woman was a genuine breath of fresh air, though, and Sheridan really liked her.