by Jackie Ivie
“Yep. Option four. Avoidance. And this is really smooth vodka by the way. I figure I can drink myself insensible and by the time I wake up, you’ll be a figment of the night and everything will be back to normal.”
He shook his head.
“Okay. I’ll settle for semi-normal.”
He shook his head again.
“Buggers. You mean I won’t have a nice hangover?”
“I’m not a figment of the night, Sydney.”
Damn. He said her name. Again. With a slight warble. Her heart did a solid thump and that was just annoying. And confusing. And it was ceasing.
“Oh yeah? Well. I think you’re missing a big chunk of this plan.”
“Really? Which part?”
“By the time I get to the hangover stage, it will be solid daylight outside. You know it. I know it.”
“Why would you want that?”
“Vampires. Daylight. Duh.”
He shook his head.
“What? You don’t turn to dust in daylight?”
“That only works with the newest turned. I’m old enough for a bit of immunity. I might get some nasty burns though. Is that what you want?”
Now it was her turn to wrinkle her forehead. “That’s it? Sunburn?”
“It won’t be enough to keep me from you, Sydney.”
There went her name again. With just a touch of tremor. Dang! She was having a hard enough time keeping from reaching for him. Did he have to add to it? She cleared her throat and ordered her mouth to keep moving.
“Okay. Then... even if vampire lore wasn’t quite right, there will be staff running around. I could probably get one of them to assist me.”
“Assist you with what?”
“Escape.”
“Why would you want that?”
“Because you’re a figment of my imagination. This is a really bad version of a Sci-Fi movie. And I’m way over my head here.”
He shook his head.
“What? I’m not in over my head?”
“I’m not a figment of anything. Here. Allow me to demonstrate.”
And then he lifted the glasses right off her nose. She watched him fold them and secret them away in one of his jacket pockets. Using one hand. Okay. He was fast. He had fantastic dexterity. He was really good to look at. Wow. Stop that, Sydney. Damn! Why wasn’t she more near-sighted? That way, maybe he’d be blurry. As it was, anything within ten feet was crystal clear. Since Devereaux Castillion was about a foot away, he was in perfect focus. And perfectly highlighted by the candlelight. And in a perfect state of undress with a lot of skin on display. And he had perfect features. Perfect height. Perfect build. Admit it, Syd. He was just plain perfect.
“That was cheating,” she informed him.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Uh... and. And. And. What?”
“I’m amazingly favored. I almost can’t believe it.”
“Listen. Devereaux. I need my glasses.”
“Can I touch you?”
Oh... major frickin’ wow. Good thing she didn’t have the decanter. It would’ve hit the floor. She almost did as every part of her weakened and went limp-overcooked noodle limp. He loomed a bit nearer somehow, too, although she didn’t think his feet had moved. Or the candlelight flickers were lying.
“Um. Those specs were expensive. And I didn’t bring a spare pair.”
“Maybe even... kiss you?”
He licked his lips. Sydney rocked in place. Say something. Anything.
“I. Uh. I—”
“Please?”
Oh.
Hell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Devereaux rocked slightly as Sydney lunged for him, spanning any space between them, and then she sent his spirit into the stratosphere by burrowing beneath his jacket, locking her arms tightly about him. And the next moment she had her mouth fully against his.
The decanter fell. Probably broke. He didn’t care. He had his hands about her shoulders to lift her. Gain her. Press her to him. Hold her. Oh joy! Heaven. Oh bliss. Shaking overtook his entire frame as he held her, devouring her tongue and lips as she was his. Sensation rocketed through him, manufactured and then shipped everywhere by the absolute pleasure. Sweetness! Light! Paradise! He’d forgotten what a kiss felt like. No! He’d never known such a kiss as this. His eyes watered. He slammed them shut. And that put the situation beyond the scope of containment.
Somehow he had to contain the ignition. The absolute need. Powerful craving. Intense want. Somehow rein back the absolute passion that was overtaking him. If seeing his fangs caused her to faint, just a glimpse of the bestial side would terrify her.
It was scaring him.
Devereaux locked his limbs. Tightened his muscles. Strained to pull back desire that was proving uncontainable. His canines lengthened despite his effort. Razor-sharp. Efficient. They scraped along the sensitive skin of her inner lip, opening a cut. He rocked back at the first taste, and then his entire frame reacted, lifting them almost to the ceiling. And she wasn’t helping. Her every breath alternately burned then cooled. The moans she made only added to the blazing urgency. While her movements...! Oh sweetness! Every move seemed calculated to stoke the conflagration higher. It was her hands shoving his jacket from his shoulders, and pushing it to his elbows. Her form pressing closer, shoving nice-sized breasts against his pecs. Her fingers moving up his throat, threading through the hair he’d tied back... pulling it loose. And her teeth somehow slicing into his lip.
Oh love!
Devereaux pulled away to howl, his voice loud enough to make the chandelier beside him rattle. And then he released one hand to slide his sleeve off. Replaced it at her shoulders. Released his left hand. Shook the jacket free. He didn’t care where it fell. It wasn’t possible to ignore the throb of vein at her throat a moment longer. And he stabbed fully into it, sucking like a thing possessed, and shaking along with every tremor of her frame as she cried. And sobbed. And made exquisite sounds of ecstasy that surrounded him. Weaving a symphonic aura so vivid, it almost supported them.
Her cries changed to little mews that sounded like they carried pleasure. And then weakness. Devereaux wrenched himself away, spraying her fluid through the space, while his groan only intensified the scene. No! He wasn’t changing her. He had to stop. Somehow. Pull back. By some means. Despite how every atom throughout his body felt as if it hated him. And seemed to promise to make him pay. He still wasn’t changing her. Not yet. Not unless she asked. He wasn’t taking the choice from her.
And why the hell did he have to get that noble all of a sudden?
“Oh. Devereaux. Wow. Devereaux. Oh. Devereaux.”
She was whispering the words. Like a sonnet. She had her head lolling back and forth along her shoulders. Her lips pursed into a kiss whose power was broadened by the hint of blood droplets on them. His entire body pulsed against the constriction he’d placed on it, his head barely missing the plastered ceiling. It took three of her heartbeats in time before he had it conquered. And then he gazed back at her. Grinned. Watched her eyes widen.
“Oh. You haven’t seen anything yet, Love,” he informed her.
The trill that went through her and transferred into him probably had laughter at its core. She didn’t make much sound with it, but he felt it. Reveled in it.
“Oh...wow. Will I...survive it?”
He chuckled. “I don’t even know if I will.”
“Wow. Oh... Devereaux. Wow. What are we waiting for, then?”
She’d been wrong with her assumption to her employee, Stan, earlier. Devereaux had eight bedrooms in his estate. Along with eight bathrooms. All added through the decades as plumbing technology advanced. That made eight bedroom suites. There were two in this wing alone – one in the room directly above where they hovered. That one was furnished with a massive four-poster bed. Canopied. Specially made and ordered. King-sized. Engraved with the Castillion family crest, carved into each post, the headboard, footboard, and canopy as well. Even the
bedding had the Castillion crest woven into it.
And it was way too far to go.
He dropped them onto the couch he’d placed her on earlier, swiveling to take the brunt of their landing on his back. This piece was almost perfect, and proved it could take a sound blow. That was probably due to the horsehair stuffing the manufacturer had so meticulously sewn into place with each button that now bit into him. Their arrival made the piece shudder and creak somewhere in the frame, and then it accepted their combined weight. But nothing gave. It didn’t even bounce.
And his mate was becoming a wild thing. Devereaux’s hands were shoved off as she gyrated her way out of her jacket, tossed it somewhere behind her. It was followed by her top as she yanked it over her head. That move disturbed the clip she’d been using, sending waves of red-tinted brown hair past her shoulders. Her hair framed her face, displaying her beauty. Devereaux kept his eyes locked to hers as his hands ran up her toned midriff, his flingers slid beneath her brassiere, and then...
Oh. Sweetness!
They came completely off the sofa when his body arched, while his throat felt like it tore with the strength of his groan. Devereaux filled his hands with her flesh; his fingers cupping and molding and adoring while his thumbs massaged her nipples into tight nubs. He never moved his eyes from her, watching the pupils of her eyes enlarge and darken, even as his palm flesh ignited with awareness. Everything vibrated. Revved. And the uproar of sensation just kept coming, radiating outward from his palms.
Because he could actually feel them!
He dropped. The sofa creaked beneath them. He barely registered that it held. Realization that he was actually there – on the precipice of actual physical pleasure – ratcheted his muscles into complete tautness. Devereaux fought harder for control. Struggled to maintain. Begged the fates to give him stamina. Strength. Something that could mute the absolute need to rip the rest of her clothing off, find her softness, and fill it. Get buried. Sheathed. Caressed. Stroked. Anything. Because rocket flares were shooting right to his cock, making the zipper a barrier that felt like it cut.
“Oh my. Oh Love. Oh Sydney. Oh...sweet!”
Every word accompanied a shove against her. Against the barrier of cloth. Her jeans. His trousers. Her mouth snagged his, stopping the litany of words. And then she bit him.
Oh merde.
He’d been mistaken. The feel of her lips suctioned to his while she gulped and licked sent full-on fireworks through his head. Bright. Sizzling. Incredible.
Devereaux moved an arm, and shoved at the back of the sofa until it split, slamming limply into the wall. Good. He’d created a surface the size of a double bed.
“You... broke... the settee.” She panted the words between kisses that stung, caressed, and then oozed absolute nirvana.
“I’ll replace it.” His voice was guttural. Barely recognizable. He was actually surprised his throat worked.
“But— that... was an antique.”
“Don’t care.”
He rolled, placing her beneath him, and with only a smattering of wood groaning and a bit of give, the back of the couch held. And then he was working to get these damn trousers off. And her hands were helping. At first.
The moment he’d shimmied the pants to his hips, she grabbed him, launching Devereaux nearly airborne again. At the touch. The feel. The sensation of her fingers wrapped about him. Encasing him. Sliding along his length. And back to the tip. Again. Only this time she squeezed with her hands, making an even tighter restriction.
“Ooh.”
Her purr accompanied her hand movements, while her hips lunged up at him in little jerks as if to connect them. And that’s why he grabbed the waistband of her pants and ripped the damn things open. It was her fault.
She didn’t wear panties. Or, if she did, they were a casualty along with her pants because the moment he had her denims splayed open, he was in. Hilt deep. Gripped in place. Held tight. The sensation was accompanied by his deep cry that resounded through the entire square footage of his lower floor. The feel of her obliterated everything in his entire repertoire, overriding experiences, and creating new ones. He nearly sobbed aloud at it.
“Oh. Wow.”
Her words reverberated with absolute awe. Amazement. Maybe even the same tension, desire, and complete need he faced. He’d ask, but he wasn’t willing to wait long enough to find out. Her legs moved, locking about his hips as Devereaux pulled out only to ease back in. And then he did it again. And again. Each move accompanied by shaking. His shaking. Brought on by the actual physical feel of each coil and ridge about him. Again. He moved a bit faster, the increased motion adding realms of heat and thrill and friction to each thrust while the couch flexed and creaked beneath them. The sound grew. In volume and tempo. Matching their rhythm. Again. Over. He watched with unblinking eyes as his mate panted, gasping for air, little cries accompanying each breath, as her release grew nearer. Closer. Devereaux increased his strokes. His timing. Working and striving, and then watching raptly as Sydney flung her head back to keen a cry into the room. Ecstasy filled him at her shuddering. Her release. And that thrill carried pride because it was him giving it to her. Masculine pleasure. And he wanted it again. And more of it. Lots more.
Dev pushed his upper torso up, gaining more stability. Her legs gripped tighter to him. The couch creaked and groaned with every thrust he made. But it held. Supported. Anchored.
And then he felt it. The loss of command. The rigid restraint slipped. Perfection of experience and sensation blended into a flurry of basic need. And want. And primal power. His own body betrayed him. Devereaux couldn’t control the thrusting power of his own frame, dominating his will, manipulating his stamina. And she helped. Her cries coming one upon the other, while her loins pounded against him. Over and over. Again and again. Every thrust starting to gouge a chunk of plaster from the wall.
He couldn’t halt it. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even modify it. All he could do was careen right over a precipice and into a pool of such wonder, he was sobbing. And shaking. And emptying. Heat and fulfillment shredded through centuries of nothingness. Accompanied by the longest, harshest groan he’d ever given. He’d never felt like this.
Ever.
He didn’t know what to do. What to say. How to act.
Devereaux’s cry ended with a harsh sobbed note; his body slowly stopped pulsing, and then he looked down. Into the beatific features of his mate. So beautiful. So loving. So amazing. She smiled up at him. And...
Oh no.
She had fangs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“VAL Headquarters. Nigel speaking. How may I direct—? Oh. Hi D.C. Long time. Like... three days. How’s the weather down there in NOLA? Hot, steamy, and ‘ditch-the-clothing’ humid?”
“Hi Squirt,” Devereaux answered.
“Any sweet happenings? Man! You have the perfect un-life! Living in U.P.C. like that. I’m so stinkin’ jealous I could spit nails. If - of course - I ate them. Hey, I wonder...? Any chance you could talk to the old man for me? I mean wow. Think of the potential. U.P.C. and me. And I gotta tell you, Man. We’re missing a huge opportunity here. I really know how to par-tay. I could show them how it’s done.”
“Nigel.”
Devereaux recognized Akron’s voice and tone. Nigel just winked before replying.
“Yes Sir?”
“Who is it, please?”
“Oh. Just D.C. From NOLA. U.P.C. And dang! I’m jealous.”
“Since I don’t speak acronyms, you want to translate? Or do I need to cut down on your video gaming time again?”
“Oh. Yes, Sir. Ahem. D.C. is short for Devereaux Castillion. NOLA stands for New Orleans, Louisiana. Everyone should know that. And U.P.C.? That was my own creation, Sir. It stands for Undead Party Central.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“What? And ruin my mojo?”
“What era spawned you again?”
“Cross-over, Sir. I like to call it ‘late H
ippy/early Disco’... although I tip more toward the 70’s. Loud shirts. Polyester clothing. Bell bottoms. Platform shoes. Boom boxes. Long hair. Down with the establishment. Keep on Trucking. Drive-in movies. Muscle cars that waste gas and heavily pollute... just about everything. Nice back seats - just made for free love. Hand-rolled weed. And who can forget 8-track tapes? You know. The seventies.”
“Ah yes. I remember. That explains quite a bit, actually.”
“So, how about it, Sir? Any chance I can go down to NOLA and—”
“You know, Nigel... most of our associates only call this line because they need something.”
“Oh. Right. Got it, Sir. Devereaux has called. I should find out what he wants.”
“You might want to notice that we don’t have much time left on this call before it’ll be disconnected, as well. Devereaux?”
“I’ll call right back.”
Dev hit the END CALL button; pitched the cell into the trash; picked up another cell from the drawer; pushed four numbers; got Nigel’s electric signature again.
“VAL Headquarters. Oh look. It’s Devereaux Castillion from New Orleans, Louisiana calling. Wait one moment while I transfer you to His Highness.”
“Nigel—” Akron’s voice interrupted.
Dev chuckled. He was still smiling when his screen bisected, giving him Nigel’s image on one side, and an empty-looking desk beneath an alcove on the other. That’s the only image anyone ever got of Akron.
“Hello, Devereaux. How can we help you? And where do you think you’re going, Nigel? Stay connected.”
“I have a problem,” Dev began.
“I did a bit of searching while you reconnected, Devereaux. Seems pretty tame from this prospective. How many incidents did you find, Nigel?”
“One hundred and two.”
“All vampire sightings?”
“You told me to look for anomalies featuring the undead. I didn’t eliminate the twenty-three zombie sightings, fourteen witches, assorted werewolves, the angel, and—”