by J. R. Ward
And then they were in the cabin. On the floor. Her legs cranked apart, his mouth on her sex.
With his hands clamped on her thighs, and his still-erect cock sticking out of his open fly, he went down on her with a furious tongue, lashing at her, penetrating her, taking what he’d just had.
The pleasure was unbearable, a kind of agony that had her throwing back her head and contorting on the floor, her palms squeaking on the linoleum as she struggled unsuccessfully to keep herself from riding backward—
The orgasm plowed through her so violently that as she shouted his name, bright lights flickered across her vision. And he didn’t relent in the slightest. As the onslaught continued, she was pretty sure that at some point he bit her on the inner leg, at that juncture where the thick vein went down to feed the lower half of her. But there was too much sucking, too much releasing, too much… everything to know or care.
When John finally stopped and lifted his head, they were in the far corner, nearly into the living room. Oh, what a picture. Her mate’s face was flushed, his mouth glossy and puffy, his fangs so long he couldn’t close his jaw—and she was likewise wrung out, her breathing ragged, her sex throbbing with its own heartbeat.
He was still erect.
Too bad she barely had the energy to blink—because he deserved one heck of a payback.…
Except he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. Rising up between her open legs, he gripped himself and began to stroke.
With a moan, she arched and rolled her hips. “Come all over me,” she said through gritted teeth.
John worked himself, his palm locked around his thick shaft, a clicking sound rising up as he pumped. His massive thighs split wide as he shoved his knees farther apart for balance, the muscles in his forearm standing out in harsh relief as he went harder and faster. And then he was barking something in a soundless way, his body going rigid as hot jets splashed all over her sex.
Just the thought of herself wet and messy was almost enough to make her come again. But the sight of him making it happen? Sent her right over the edge once more…
“She’s going to need an extra two hundred if she does him.”
Xcor stood off to the side during negotiations with the whores, making certain that he was in the shadows—especially now that Throe had reached the tricky part of his being accommodated. No reason for the reminder of what he looked like to drive the price even higher.
Only two of the three girls had shown up at this abandoned house down on Trade Street, but apparently number three was on her way—although courtesy of her being late, she had been handed the short straw: him.
Her friends were taking care of her, though—unless, of course, they intended to take a cut of the increase. After all, good whores, like good soldiers, tended to look out for themselves.
Abruptly, Zypher stepped into the woman who was doing the talking, clearly prepared to use his physical assets to conserve financial ones. As the vampire trailed a fingertip along the girl’s collarbone, she appeared to fall into a trance.
It was not mind games on Zypher’s part. Females of both races couldn’t help themselves around him.
The vampire dipped toward her ear and spoke softly. Then he licked up her throat. Behind him, Throe was as he always was, silent, watchful, patient. Waiting his turn.
Ever the gentlemale.
“Okay,” the woman said breathlessly. “Just fifty more—”
At that moment, the door opened wide.
Xcor and his soldiers put hands into their coats, finding their weapons, prepared to kill. But it was just the prostitute who was late.
“Hey, girl, heeeeeeeeeey,” she said to her friends.
Standing in the doorway with a floppy jacket pulled over her whore clothes, and the bad sense of balance of a drunk, she was obviously on something, her face suffused with the blissed-out expression of the newly drugged.
Good. She’d be easier to deal with.
Zypher clapped his hands. “Shall we get down to business.”
A giggle came from the one next to him. “I love your accent.”
“Then you can have me.”
“Wait, me, too!” A giggle from someone else. “I love it, too!”
“You’re going to take care of my fellow soldier—my friend. Who is going to pay you all now.”
Throe stepped forward with the cash, and as he doled it out into waiting palms, the whores seemed more focused on the two males as opposed to the money.
A professional role reversal that Xcor was willing to bet didn’t happen very often.
And then the pairing off occurred, with Throe and Zypher drawing their prey into separate corners, whilst he was left with the whore who was fuzzy.
“So are we going to do this?” she said with a practiced smile. Indeed, the fact that her eyes were softened by drugs made the expression almost real.
“Come to me.”
He held his hand out of the darkness.
“Oh, I like it.” She sidled over, exaggerating the shift of her hips. “You sound like… I don’t know what.”
When she put her palm against his, he pulled her to him—except then she jerked back.
“Oh—er… um… okay.”
Turning her face to the side, she rubbed her nose, and then pinched it as if she couldn’t stand the smell of him. Logical. It took more than a rinse with water to get lesser blood off someone. Naturally, Throe and Zypher had taken a moment to flash home and get cleaned up. He, however, had stayed to fight.
Dandies. Both of them. On the other hand, their women were not already looking for an escape.
“It’s okay, though,” she said with resignation. “But no kissing.”
“I was unaware I had suggested such a thing.”
“Just so we’re clear.”
As moans began to rise up, Xcor stared down at the human. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, looking stringy and pulled-through. Her makeup was heavy and smudged at the lip line and in the corner of one eye. Her perfume was sweat and—
Xcor frowned, as he caught an unwelcomed scent.
“Now, listen,” she said, “don’t give me that look. It’s my policy and you can—”
He let her ramble on as he reached out and lifted one side of the blond tangle, exposing her throat.… Nothing but smooth skin. And on the other side…
Ah, yes. There they were. Two puncture marks right on her jugular.
She had already been used tonight by one of his kind. And that explained the fogginess and the musk his nose was picking up on.
Xcor laid the hair back where it had been. Then he stepped away.
“I can’t believe you’re being so pissy,” she mouthed off. “Just because I won’t kiss you—I’m not giving the money back, you know. A deal’s a deal.”
Someone was having an orgasm, the sounds of pleasure so rich and lush that the symphony transformed, for however briefly, the abandoned walk-up into a proper boudoir.
“But of course you may keep the cash,” he murmured.
“You know what, fuck you, you can have it back.” She threw the wad at him. “You smell like a sewer and you’re ugly as sin.”
Whilst the bills bounced off his chest, he inclined his head briefly. “As you wish.”
“Fuck you.”
The alacrity with which she changed from bliss to bitch suggested this kind of mood swing was not uncommon to her. One more reason to keep things professional between oneself and the female sex—
As he bent down to pick up the money, she drew back her foot and tried to kick him in the head.
Not smart. With all his warrior training and years of combat experience, his body defended itself without his conscious mind giving any commands: The whore was caught by the ankle, yanked off balance, and slammed into the floor. And before he was aware of even moving, he had her spun onto her belly and had taken that fragile neck of hers in the thick crook of his arm.
Whereupon he was prepared to break it.
&nb
sp; No more aggression from her. Now she whimpered and begged.
He immediately relented, jumping free of her, then helping her shuffle back against the wall. She was hyperventilating, her chest pumping up and down so hard she was liable to rupture her false breasts against the cups of her brassiere.
As he loomed over her, he thought of how the Bloodletter would have handled the situation. That male wouldn’t have let her get past the no-kissing proposition—he would have taken what he wanted on his terms, and to hell with how much it might have hurt her. Or whether it killed her.
“Look at me,” Xcor commanded.
When those wide, shell-shocked eyes lifted to his, he erased her memory of being here, putting her in a trance. Instantly her respiration calmed, her body resuming its loose, relaxed composure, her frantic, jerky hands stilling.
Gathering up the money, he put it in her lap. She deserved it for whatever bruises she was going to have in the morning.
Then with a groan, Xcor sank down and arranged himself against the wall next to her, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. He had to go pick up his satchel of goodies and his scythe at the skyscraper, but at the moment, he was too exhausted to move.
No feeding for him tonight, however. Even with the hypnosis.
If he took the vein of the woman next to him, he was liable to kill her: He was viciously hungry, and he didn’t know how heavily she had been tapped. For all he knew, her loopiness was low blood pressure.
Across the way, he watched his soldiers fucking, and he had to admit the rhythms of the bodies were erotic. Under different circumstances, he imagined Zypher would have merged the two pairings into one large tangle of arms and legs, breasts and hands, cocks and slick slits. Not here, though. The room was filthy, not secure and cold.
Easing his head back against the wall, Xcor closed his eyes and kept listening.
If he fell asleep, and his soldiers questioned whether he had fed, he would just use the other vampire’s aftermath to explain away their concern.
And there would be time to sink his teeth into another source later.
In truth, he hated feeding. Unlike the Bloodletter, he got no thrill from forcing himself upon women and females—and God knew, none of them had ever come willingly unto him.
He supposed he owed his life to prostitutes.
As someone else started to orgasm again, this time one of his soldiers—Throe, if he had to guess—he imagined himself with a different face, a handsome face, a comely face that summoned females rather than sent them screaming.
Mayhap he should be removing his own spine.
But that was the beauty of inner thoughts. No one had to know your weaknesses.
And once you’d finished dwelling on them, you could toss them into the mental trash bin they belonged in.
EIGHTEEN
Qhuinn had never been good at waiting. And that was when shit was going okay. Considering he’d just lied twice about where John Matthew was?
Not a happy camper.
As he loitered at the hidden door by the grand staircase—so he could duck into the tunnel if anyone came by—he had the best view of the foyer you could get. Which meant when the vestibule’s door opened, he got an eyeball full of his absolutely favorite couple: Blay and Saxton.
He should have known his luck wouldn’t have had it otherwise.
Blay held the way open, like the gentlemale he was, and as Saxton stepped through, the bastard tossed a lingering, half-lidded stare over his shoulder.
Man, that kind of “look” was worse than the pair of them sucking face in public.
No doubt they’d been out for a nice meal and then gone back to Saxton’s place for a little play of the sort that was hard to have here in the mansion. Total privacy was not something you could find on a bet around the compound—
As Blay removed his Burberry coat, his silk button-down pulled wide, and showed off a bite mark on his neck. And on his collarbone.
God only knew where else he had them.…
Abruptly, Saxton said something that made Blay blush, and the slightly shy, reserved laugh that followed made Qhuinn want to throw the fuck up.
Great, so the slut was a comedian, and Blay liked his jokes.
Fantastic.
Yup.
On that note, Saxton went up the stairs. Blay, on the other hand, came around the—
Shit. Qhuinn wheeled away and lunged for the door, hands scrambling to get the latch free.
“Hi.”
Qhuinn’s hands stilled. His body stilled. His heart… stilled.
That voice. That soft, deep voice he’d heard nearly all his life.
Straightening his spine, he fucked off the escape idea, turned around, and faced his former best friend like the male he was. “Hi. Have a good night?”
Shit, he wanted to take that one back. As if the guy hadn’t?
“Yes, and you?”
“Yeah. Good. John and I went out. He’s back now, and we’re going to go hit the weight room. He’s getting changed.”
Tough to know whether the lying or the burn in his chest was making him so chatty.
“No Last Meal for you?”
“Nah.”
Cue crickets in the background. The Jeopardy! theme. A nuclear bomb—not that Qhuinn would have noticed even a mushroom cloud at this point.
God, Blay’s eyes were so damned blue. And… holy crap, the two of them were actually alone. When was the last time that had happened?
Oh, yeah. Right after Blay had hooked up with his cousin for the first time.
“So you’ve taken out your piercings,” Blay said.
“Not all of them.”
“Why? I mean… they were always, like, you, you know?”
“Guess I don’t want to be defined that way anymore.”
As Blay’s brows popped, Qhuinn’s kind of wanted to do the same. He’d expected something else to come out of his piehole. Something like, “Meh.” Or, “Whatever.” Or, “I still got ’em where it counts, don’t you worry.”
After which he could honk his package, and snort like he had balls the size of his head.
No wonder Saxton seemed attractive.
“So, yeah…” he said. Then cleared his throat. “So how are things with… you guys?”
Cue second trip to the heavens for those red eyebrows. “I’m good—we’re… ah, good.”
“Good. Ah…”
After a moment, Blay glanced over his shoulder, toward the door into the butler’s pantry. Clearly, it was the beginning of a back-away.
Hey, as you leave, Qhuinn wanted to say, will you do me a favor? I think my left ventricle is on the floor, so don’t step on it as you pull out? Thanks. Great.
“Are you feeling okay?” Blay murmured.
“Yeah. I’m going to go work out with John.” He’d already said that. Fuck. This was a train wreck. “So there you go. Where you headed?”
“I’m going to go… get some food for Sax and myself.”
“No Last Meal for you guys, either. Guess we have that in common.” Someone bust out the pom-poms and cheer for the team. Yay. “So, yeah, enjoy yourself. Selves, I mean—”
Across the foyer, the vestibule door swung wide and John Matthew came in. “Son of a bitch,” Qhuinn muttered. “The bastard is finally back.”
“I thought you said he was—”
“I was covering. For us both.”
“You weren’t together? Wait, you get caught without being with him—”
“It was not my choice. Trust me.”
As Qhuinn beelined for Mr. Independent, Blay was right with him, and John took one look at the pair of them and his ahh-satisfied expression got ghost sure as if someone had booted him in the ass with a nine iron.
“We need to talk,” Qhuinn hissed.
John glanced around like he was looking for a bunker to jump into. Yeah, well, tough balls for him; the foyer was essentially empty of furniture, and the dumb bitch couldn’t jump far enough to reac
h the dining room.
Qhuinn, I was going to call—
Qhuinn grabbed the guy by the back of the neck and shoved him face-first into the land of pool and popcorn. Just past the threshold, John pushed free and went gunning for the bar. Picking up a bottle of Jack, he ripped the thing open.
“Do you think this is a fucking joke?” Qhuinn jabbed at the tattooed tear that was under his eye. “I’m supposed to be with you every second of the night and day, asshole. I’ve been lying for you for the last forty minutes—”
“It’s true. He has.”
As Blay spoke up from behind, it was a surprise. And kind of nice.
I went to see Xhex, okay. Right now, she’s my priority.
Qhuinn threw up his hands. “Great. So when V is stabbing my pink slip into my chest, you can still feel good about yourself. Thanks.”
“John, you can’t light-head stuff like this.” Blay went around and grabbed a glass, like he was afraid their buddy was going to suck the bottle down whole. “Give me that.”
He took the booze, poured a healthy dose, and…
Drank it himself.
“What,” he muttered as he got stared at. “Here, take it back if you want.”
John took a swig and then stared into space. After a moment, he shoved the Jack in Qhuinn’s direction.
Rolling his eyes, Qhuinn muttered, “At least this is the kind of apology I’ll accept.”
As he took the bottle, it dawned on him that it had been ages since the three of them had been together. Back before their transitions, they’d spent every night after training in Blay’s old room at the guy’s parents’ house, pissing away the hours playing video games and drinking beer and talking about the future.
And now that they were finally where they’d wanted to be? Everyone was going in a different direction.
Then again, John was right. The guy was properly mated now, so of course his focus was somewhere else. And Blay was having a rockin’ good time with Saxton the Slut.
Qhuinn was the only one pining for the GODs.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered to John. “Let’s just forget it—”
“No,” Blay cut in. “This is not okay. You cut the shit, John—you let him come with you. I don’t care if you’re going to be with Xhex or not. You owe this to him.”