by J. R. Ward
FORTY-FIVE
Jesus Christ, John knew what he was doing.
That was the one thought which shot through Xhex’s mind after she came down from the soaring release he’d given her with his mouth. And then she promptly got swept up again. His bonding scent was a roar in her nose, and his lips were blisteringly delicious on her core, and his erection was a teasing hot length on her legs—
As he extended his tongue and went in deep, she flew apart again. The wet heat he brought to her, the shifting strokes that were soft when they were his lips and rasping when it was his chin, the circling of his nose against the top of her sex, it all blew off the top of her brain—a loss she was so willing to enjoy.
In the midst of the fire, there was nothing but John . . . no past, no future, nothing but their bodies. Time had no meaning and location had no matter and other people held no interest.
She wished they could be like this forever.
“Come in me,” she groaned, as she pulled at his shoulders.
John lifted his head and moved up her body, his arousal nudging against her inner thighs, getting closer.
She kissed him hard, grinding her mouth against his as she shoved her hand down between them and guided him where she needed him—
His massive body torqued at the contact as she bit out, “Oh, God . . .”
The blunt head of him parted her and he slid in nice and slow, filling her, stretching her. She arched so he could go all the way in and shifted her palms down his smooth back to the dip at the end of his spine . . . and even lower so that she could sink her nails into his ass.
His muscles bunched and released under her hands as he started to pump, and her head rocked back and forth against the mat as he pushed in and pulled out, pushed in and pulled out. He was heavy as a car on top of her, and his body had a lot of hard edges—and what do you know, she was so okay with all of that: She had enough curves to accommodate where he needed space, and she was so close to coming again that her lungs were burning for air anyway.
Linking her ankles behind the backs of his thighs, she moved with him until their bodies smacked and their breath exploded, and then John pushed his torso up and drove his fists into the mat on either side of her ribs, bracing the weight of his chest on the carved muscles of his arms—so he could pound harder.
His face was an erotic mask of the features she had seen so often, his lips drawn back off his long, white fangs, his brows down tight, his eyes blazing, his jaw clenched so hard that his cheeks had hollows in them. With every thrust, his pecs and his abdominals popped, the sweat on his skin gleaming in the dim light. The sight of him was the chaser to what he felt like deep in her, the sucker punch that came on the heels of the body shot, knocking her out completely.
“Take my vein,” she growled at him. “Take it—now.”
As she ricocheted off into another orgasm, he came to her throat in a lunge, his bite slicing into her neck as his own release jerked into her.
Once he started to come, he couldn’t stop and she didn’t want him to. He kept moving and drinking and shuddering into her, the rolling multiples that racked him saturating her sex as he fed and took her hard.
But it was what she wanted.
When he finally stilled, he didn’t so much stop as collapse on her. Running her hands up his shoulders, she held him as he drew lazy laps over his puncture marks.
Sometimes you had to sandblast in order to clean something properly. Delicate little circles with a sponge or a cloth just couldn’t get the dirt and grime out well enough. And what they’d just done was a sandblast and a half—and, given the way he was still hard, she knew that there was more to come.
Literally.
John lifted his head and looked down at her. His eyes were worried and he was careful as he brushed at her hair.
She smiled. “Nah, I’m fine. I’m more than fine.”
A sly grin bloomed on his handsome face as he mouthed, Ain’t that the truth.
“Hold up there, big man. You think you can make me blush like I’m some girl? Pulling that sweet talk?” As he nodded, she rolled her eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m not the kind of female who goes all dizzy, popping a stiletto off the floor just because some guy kisses her deep.”
John was all male as he cocked a brow. And damn it if she didn’t feel a tingle in her cheeks.
“Listen, John Matthew.” She took his chin in her hand. “You’re not turning me into one of those females who goes gaga over her lover. Not happening. I’m not hardwired for that.”
Her voice was stern and she meant every word—except the instant he rolled his hips and that huge arousal pushed into her, she purred.
Purred.
The sound was utterly foreign and she’d have sucked it back down her throat if she could have. Instead, she just let out another of those decidedly non-tough-guy moans.
John bowed his head to her breast and started suckling on her as he somehow managed to keep thrusting in slow, even penetrations.
Swept away, her hands found his hair again, spearing through the thick softness. “Oh, John . . .”
And then he stopped dead, lifted his lips from her nipple, and smiled so wide it was a wonder he didn’t bust off his front teeth.
His expression was one of total and complete gotcha.
“You are a bastard,” she said on a laugh.
He nodded. And pressed into her with his full length again.
It was perfect that he was giving her shit and showing her a little of who was boss. Just perfect. Somehow, it made her respect him even more—but then, she’d always loved strength in all its forms. Even the teasing kind.
“I’m not surrendering, you know.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head, all oh, no, of course not.
And then he started to pull out of her. As she growled low in her throat, she sank her nails into his ass. “Where do you think you’re going?”
John laughed silently, stretched her thighs wide, and went down the length of her until he was back where he’d started on her . . . with his mouth all over her sex.
His name echoed loud in the room, bouncing around the tiled walls as he gave her more of exactly what she wanted and needed.
Studiously ignoring the sounds of sex was a skill Blay was getting waaaaaay too much practice at.
As he came out of the weight room, he heard the echo of John’s name through the closed door of the rehab suite. Given the pitch and the tenor, it was clear a whole lot of conversating wasn’t the cause.
Not unless Xhex was a closet meteorologist and John was giving her the weather report of her life.
And good for them. Considering how hard-core things had been with John and those treadmills, it was a blessing.
Blay took a second to debate returning to the mansion, and decided that given how long Qhuinn could go, it was too early to head for his room. Ducking into locker-landia, he took a quick shower and changed into a pair of scrubs from the Vishous collection. Out in the corridor once again, he hustled along, pushing through into the office and shutting the door tight.
Quick hearing test and everything was quiet as far as he knew, which was just what he was after. Unfortunately, a check of his watch showed he’d blown through only about an hour and a half total. To think he’d always assumed an efficient shower was a wonderful thing.
Considering his alternatives, he decided to sit behind the desk. After all, studiously not listening to Xhex and John was an issue of decorum. Tuning out Qhuinn and Layla? Self-preservation.
Much better to rock the former than the latter.
Parking it in the swivel chair, he stared at the phone.
Saxton had been one hell of a kisser.
One . . . hell . . . of a kisser.
Blay’s eyes briefly closed as heat wafted through him, like someone had started up a banked fire in his stomach.
He reached out to the receiver . . . and couldn’t commit, his hand hovering, but not picking up.
An
d then he remembered Layla sauntering out of his bathroom, heading for Qhuinn.
Snatching the receiver from its cradle, he dialed Saxton’s number and wondered what the hell he was doing as the line rang.
“. . . Hello . . .”
Blay frowned and straightened in the office chair. “What’s wrong?” Long pause. “Saxton?”
There was a cough and a wheeze. “Yes, ’tis I . . .”
“Saxton, what the hell is going on?”
There was a terrible silence. “You know, I loved kissing you.” The strangled voice became wistful. “And I loved”—another cough—“being with you. I could look into your face for ages.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
Blay looked at his watch again. “Where is that.”
“Are you seeking to play hero?”
“Do I need to?”
This time the coughing didn’t stop after just one hitch. “I’m afraid . . . I . . . must go.”
There was a click and the call went dead.
With his instincts screaming, Blay bolted through the closet into the underground tunnel, and dematerialized past the steps that led up to the mansion.
He took form again in front of another door hundreds of yards down.
At the Pit’s entry, he put his face in the camera’s eye and hit the intercom. “V? I need you.”
As he waited, he prayed to the Scribe Virgin that Vishous was—
The stout panel whipped open and V was on the other side, his hair wet, a black towel around his waist. Jay-Z’s Empire State of Mind was thumping in the background and the scent of fine Turkish tobacco drifted out.
“Whassup?”
“I need you to get me an address.”
Those icy silver eyes narrowed, the tattoo on his left temple flexing. “What kind of addy you looking for.”
“Off a civilian’s cell phone number.” Blay recited the digits he’d just dialed.
V rolled his eyes and stepped back. “Child’s play.”
And it was. Couple of keystrokes at the Brother’s Four Toys and V looked up from his computers. “Twenty-one oh five Sienna Court—Where the fuck are you going?”
Blay spoke over his shoulder as he strode past the leather couches and the wide-screen television. “Out your front door.”
V dematerialized and blocked the exit. “Sun’s coming up in twenty-five minutes, true?”
“Then don’t keep me here a second longer.” Blay slid his eyes to the Brother’s. “Let me go.”
The whole lot of nonnegotiable he was feeling must have shown in his face because V cursed low. “Make it quick or you aren’t coming back.”
As the Brother opened the door, Blay thin-aired it right out . . . and took form on Sienna Court, a tree-lined street with Victorians of various colorful extractions. He flashed down to 2105, a perfectly conditioned clapboard number painted in dark green with gray-and-black trim. The front ginger-bread porch and the side door were lit with lanterns, but inside everything was dark.
Which made sense. Going by the way the glass panes double-reflected, there were internal shutters down in place.
No getting in through them.
Without a lot of options for infiltration, given that those window shields undoubtedly had steel in them, he went up to the front door and rang the bell.
The weak sunlight coming from the east heated his back even though the rays were barely strong enough to throw shadows. Damn it, where was the camera? Assuming V got the house right—and come on, he was always right—there would be a closed-circuit monitoring system. . . .
Ah, yes, in the eyes of the lion door knocker.
Leaning forward, he met the brass face and pounded with his fists.
“Let me in, Saxton.” As his shoulders and spine heated even further, he reached behind himself and fluffed out the top of the scrubs he’d put on.
The clicking shift of the lock and turn of the knob had him brushing quickly through his damp hair.
The door opened only a crack and the house beyond was shrouded in dense shadows. “What are you doing”—cough—“here.”
Blay went cold as he smelled blood.
Slamming his shoulder into the heavy panels, he pushed inside. “What the hell—”
Saxton’s voice receded. “Go home, Blaylock. As much as I adore you, I’m not in a position to receive at the moment.”
Yeah, big whatever on that. With a quick shift, Blay shut them in together to keep the sun out.
“What happened.” Even though he knew. On an instinctual level, he knew. “Who beat you?”
“I was about to take a shower. Perhaps you’ll join me?” As Blay swallowed hard, Saxton laughed a little. “All right. I’ll take one and you have a coffee. Because it seems as though you are my guest for the day.”
There was the sound of the lock turning on the door, and then the male shuffled away—which suggested he might have a limp.
Although it wasn’t possible to see Saxton in the dense black, the sounds of him walking headed over to the right. Blay hesitated. No sense in checking his watch again. He knew that the chance to get back had likely passed.
He was indeed staying the day.
The other male opened the way into a cellar, revealing a set of dimly lit steps that descended below. In the soft glow of illumination, Saxton’s beautiful blond hair was matted with a rusty stain.
Blay marched forward and snatched hold of the guy’s arm. “Who did this to you?”
Saxton refused to glance over, but his deep shudder said plenty about what his voice had already revealed: he was tired and in pain. “Let us say . . . that I shan’t be going for more cigars anytime soon.”
That alley by the bar . . . shit, Blay had taken off first, but he’d assumed Saxton had done the same. “What happened after I left?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The fuck it doesn’t.”
“If you’d be so kind, permit me”—more of that damned cough—“to go back to bed. Especially if you’re going to get testy. I’m not feeling particularly well.”
With that, he looked over his shoulder.
Blay’s breath shot out of his lungs.
“Oh . . . my God,” he whispered.
FORTY-SIX
The sun was just about to pierce the veil of forest when Darius and Tohrment took form in front of a small, thatch-roofed cottage miles and miles and miles away from the site of the abduction and the mansion beside it . . . and the reptilian thing who had greeted them in that dank underground hallway.
“Are you sure about this?” Tohrment asked, switching his satchel to his opposite shoulder.
At the present, Darius felt sure about nothing. For truth, he was surprised that he and the boy had managed to get free of that symphath’s house without a fight. In point of fact, however, they had been escorted out as though they had been invited guests.
Then again, sin-eaters always kept their own best advantage in sight, and verily, Darius and Tohrment were of far greater use to the head of that household alive as opposed to dead.
“Are you sure?” Tohrment prompted again. “You hesitate to go therein.”
“Alas, my tarrying has naught to do with you.” Darius walked forward, picking up the beaten path that led to the front door, said groundway having been created by the repeated passing of his own boots. “I shall not have you sleeping on the cold stone floor of the Tomb. My home is rough, but has a roof and walls sufficient to shelter not one, but two.”
For a brief moment, he entertained a fantasy that he lived as he had once done, in a castle full of rooms and doggen and lovely appointments, in a luxurious place where he could open his doors to friends and family and have those whom he loved safe and secure and tended to.
Perhaps he would find a way to have that again.
Although given that he had no family and no friends, it was hardly something to pursue with alacrity.
Popping the cast-iron latch free, he put his torso t
o the oak door—which, considering its size and heft, was more of a movable wall. After he and Tohr went inside, he lit the oil lamp that hung by the entrance and closed them in, laying a broad beam thick as a tree trunk across the panel.
So modest. Only one chair before the hearth and a single pallet across the way. And there was not much more to be had down below the earth, just some precious supplies and a hidden tunnel that terminated well into the bounds of the forest.
“Shall we have a repast?” Darius said as he began to disarm.
“Yes, sire.”
The boy removed his own weapons and went to the hearth, settling down onto his haunches and lighting the peat that was always set when there wasn’t a fire burning. As the scent of the smoking moss wafted over, Darius pulled up the trapdoor in the dirt floor and went underground to his food and ale and his parchments. He returned with cheeses and breads and smoked venison.
The fire cast a glow over Tohr’s face as he warmed his hands and asked, “What dost thou make of it all?”
Darius joined the boy and shared what little he had to offer with the only guest he had ever had in his home. “I have always believed destiny makes for strange bedfellows. But the concept that our interests could be aligned with one of those . . . things . . . is an anathema. Then again, he seemed equally disposed toward shock and dismay. For truth, those sin-eaters favor us in no greater regard than we favor them. We are but rats at their feet.”
Tohrment partook of the ale flask. “I should never wish to mix my blood with theirs—they disgust my senses. All of them.”
“And he feels similarly. The fact that his blooded son took the female and held her even for a day within his walls made him ill. He is as incented as we to find both parties returned unto their families.”
“But why use us?”
Darius’ smiled coldly. “To punish the son. ’Tis the perfect corrective action—to have the female’s kind rip his ‘love’ from him and leave him with the burden of that absence as well as the knowledge that inferiors had bested him. And if we bring her home safe? Her family will move and take her away, and never, ever allow ill to befall her again. She will live long on the earth and that sin-eater’s spawn shall have to know that for every day he draws breath. This is in their nature—and precisely the kind of soul shattering that the father could not attempt without you or me. That is why we were told where to go and what we would find.”