When Wicked Craves

by J. K. Beck

  He should say no. He should tell her there were homeless in the tunnels on whom he could feed. Founts he could call—humans who were aware of the existence of vampires and charged a minimal fee, their compensation coming primarily in the form of the thrill of the taking.

  Hell, he could even order out for synthetic.

  And yet he said none of that. Because the truth was he did want her. He’d had a taste when they’d twined together in the sky, and now he desperately wanted to finish what they’d started. What he’d started.

  She was offering her blood, but he would have more than that. He would have the woman, too.

  “Are you strong enough?” he asked, tempering his desire.

  “I feel good,” she said.

  “Let me see your skin.” He spoke for no prurient purpose—he needed to see the color of her flesh and listen to the pulse of life within her. But as she slowly lifted the T-shirt she wore to expose her flat belly and tanned skin, he couldn’t deny the effect that the view had on him. He was tight with need, and suddenly, nightfall seemed much too far away. “We should leave when the sun goes down. We still have a long way to travel.”

  “No.”

  He lifted a brow, not used to being contradicted.

  “We don’t even know how we’re getting across the Atlantic yet,” she said. “We seem to be safe here, and you need time to think. Time to heal. And I need—”

  “Yes?”

  Her chin rose defiantly. “I need to do this.” He held her gaze for a moment, until she seemed to sag under the weight of it. “You saved my life, Nicholas,” she said, softly. “Let me feed you.”

  “Is that all you wish?” He wanted to hear her say it. Her body was already speaking to him, the blood connection burning between them. But he wanted the words. Hell, he would insist upon them.

  “No,” she said. “That’s not all.”

  “What else do you want?”

  She stayed silent.

  “Petra, what else do you want?”

  “I want you to touch me.” She met his eyes. “I want it badly.”

  “Good.” He could feel her desire crashing against him like waves, stirring his own, making him curse the sun that had not yet even crested in the sky.

  “Do you—” She cut herself off, as if the question was too much to ask. As if she feared the answer.

  “I do,” he said. “But understand this, Petra. That makes it dangerous. I want you, but I need to feed. If I don’t stop in time …”

  “You will,” she said, with such certainty that his doubts almost faded. Almost.

  “I don’t think you fully understand the danger that you acting as a fount can pose.”

  “I understand more than you think,” she said. “And you pose no danger to me.”

  He almost laughed. “Is that a fact? Why?”

  “Because there is something you want even more than me or my blood.” She looked at him, her expression defiant. “You rescued me in order to save Serge,” she said. “You won’t screw all that work up by killing me tonight.”

  She smiled at him, as if silently begging him to argue. He didn’t. “Sleep,” she said. “Rest up.” Then she flashed a wicked grin before turning on her heel and leaving the room, her last words trailing behind her. “I think you’re going to need it.”

  Nick watched her leave, overwhelmed by the odd and not entirely unwelcome realization that for the first time in a long time he’d truly met his match in a female.

  CHAPTER 18

  Petra barely slept.

  How could she when she knew what the night would bring. A blue moon. That glorious extra full moon that she used to dread so much, the unfulfilled desire to be touched too hard to endure.

  Tonight, she didn’t have to.

  Nicholas had stayed on the sofa in front of the window when she’d gone in search of a bed in which to curl up. Now, she stretched, enjoying the luxury of soft sheets and a firm mattress.

  She felt the cool brush of her mother’s bracelet moving on her wrist, and reached over to run her fingertips over the smooth stones. She’d lost everything else in the plane crash, but she was grateful she’d put the bracelet on earlier. At least she still had one piece of her past, even if the Bible and her journal were gone. And, of course, she still had her life.

  She had Nicholas to thank for that, and the idea that she could thank him properly tonight made her grin like a satisfied cat. She could thank him—and she could save him, too. She could let him feed. The thought made her tingle with anticipation, the promise of such intimate contact leaving her breathless with desire.

  She’d flirted shamelessly with him that morning, surprised by how easy it was even without the pull of the blue moon. Kiril would be shocked, of course. He’d repeatedly told her that casual sex during the blue moon would not satisfy.

  She no longer believed him. This was an itch she wanted scratched, and she couldn’t imagine a man more appealing than Nicholas Montegue to scratch it.

  And not just because he was so damn good looking. He was, of course. Hell, she could look at him for hours, examining his body like a curator would inspect a fine work of art. But that wasn’t what pushed him over the top. No, it was the whole package. The way he looked in a suit coupled with the way his mind clicked. That Hollywood handsome face complemented by a scientist’s intellect. And the inherent vampiric danger counterbalanced by a heart that would risk everything to save a friend.

  He’d treated her like something precious, and though she had no illusions that she was with him in this condo for any reason other than to benefit Serge, she also knew that he wouldn’t use her harshly or take advantage of their intimacy. He had a reputation, after all. As far as first lovers went, she doubted that she could do better than Nicholas Montegue.

  She closed her eyes, imagining him touching her, filling her. Flesh upon flesh, so close they were practically one. She’d been there with him already, as mist twined together, not knowing where one ended and the other began. She wanted to finish what they’d started in the sky. She wanted to tremble in his arms. Dear God, how she wanted it.

  Had wanted it, in fact, since she’d first realized that Nicholas would be beside her when the blue moon rose. Maybe even before.

  And now, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and shadows filled the room, the want had given way to need. And that, only for Nicholas.

  Slowly, she moved to the edge of the bed, then swung her feet over. She sat there a moment, relishing the change in her. The soft eroticism of air against the fine hairs on her skin. The arousing way her jeans pressed tight against her crotch. Just like every blue moon, she was horny as hell.

  This time, she was going to do something about it.

  With five gentle tugs, she loosened the fingers of the glove that sheathed her right hand, then followed the same procedure for the left. She toed off her shoes, then bent down to slip off her socks. Slowly, she eased her feet down onto the thick pile carpet, then squeezed the fibers with her toes. She never went without shoes and thick socks—bare feet were just too dangerous—and now the sensation of carpet against her toes was so luxurious she thought she might have to strip off her clothes and lie naked on the floor, the carpet tickling every inch of her.

  No.

  The clothes were staying on. And for one very particular reason—she wanted Nicholas to be the one who took them off.

  And damn if she didn’t want that right now.

  With single-minded purpose, she left the bedroom, crossing the large condo to where Nicholas sat in the living room, still on the couch, his eyes still closed. At some point he’d gotten up, though, and moved about, because the soiled jacket was nowhere to be seen. He wore no shirt, but he’d wrapped thick gauze over the wound, his pale skin actually seeming dark against the pure white of the bandage.

  His eyes were closed. She couldn’t tell if he slept. Frankly, she didn’t care. Her body was humming now. Her skin sensitive even to the brush of air. She was ready—so read
y—and waiting was not an option.

  She paused in front of him, wondering if he would open his eyes, but he made no move. She stepped closer, then eased one knee up on the couch beside him.

  Still nothing.

  Slowly, she grabbed the back of the couch, then swung her leg over and lowered herself until she was sitting astride him, her sex nestled up against his. And that, of course, was how she knew that he was not asleep. She felt his cock harden under the pressure of her weight, and she heard her own soft moan in response to his desire.

  “It is a brave woman who sneaks up on a sleeping vampire.” His eyes were still closed, but his mouth curved into a smile.

  “Not sneaking,” she said. “Seducing.”

  “Is that so?” He looked at her, his eyes dark with desire. His gaze took her in all over, then ended on her face, a question mark reflected in his picture-perfect brow. “The sun has been down for minutes now, and yet you haven’t touched me, not flesh upon flesh. Are you afraid the curse still lingers?”

  “Maybe a little.” There was always a hesitancy during a blue moon. Every time one had come around she’d been terrified to hold Kiril’s hand, afraid of losing the one person in all the world who truly belonged with her.

  “I won’t change,” he said. “For tonight, the curse has lifted. You feel it, don’t you? Pounding through your blood. In your breasts. Between your legs?” As if to make the point, he slid his hand between their joined bodies, cupping her sex through the tight denim.

  “The blood,” she said. “You can feel me.”

  The hand squeezed slightly, and she moaned with rising pleasure. “I can feel you,” he confirmed.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Please, what?”

  “Touch me.”

  “Soon,” he said. “There’s power in anticipation.”

  She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or smack him. “I’ve been anticipating this my entire life.”

  “Then you know how sweet it is. I’ve been thinking about your taste all day. Let me taste you, Petra.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, as he lowered his lips to her neck.

  She flinched as his fangs punctured her skin, then melted into his embrace as his mouth closed over her flesh and he sucked, drawing the essence of her life into him. She was floating—giving—her body raw with need and desperate for a touch even more intimate than this.

  He drank deep, more and more, until reason began to leave her. Until life, too, started to ebb away. She was floating. Gliding. And it felt glorious to be so close to being free—to no longer be trapped in a body that could only harm.

  Except tonight there would be no harm. If her life didn’t slip away, this could be a night of touches and sweet caresses.

  “Nicholas …” Her voice was soft and weak, barely audible even to her own ears.

  He pulled her closer, and she gasped with the pleasure of it, the pure, dangerous, erotic pleasure of being taken to the brink.

  “Nicholas.” Too much, she thought. Too much. But the words couldn’t come. She couldn’t form them. Couldn’t force them out past weakened lips.

  She could only languish in his arms until suddenly—finally—he thrust her away, pushing her off him as he laid her back on the couch. “Petra, Petra, by the gods, Petra, I’m sorry.”

  She let her eyes flutter open as his hands stroked her flesh, her body weak, but her mind spinning, overflowing with raw pleasure.

  He knelt beside her, the paleness of his skin replaced with the glow of life. “I’m sorry. I should have stopped. I drank too much.”

  She silenced him with a finger to his lips, a first for her, and one that made her smile, the effort of using those muscles almost exhausting her. “You’re healed?”

  “Because of you.” He began to lift his wrist toward his mouth. “You must drink.”

  “Not yet.” She closed her fingers over his wrist. “Show me.” Her fingers fumbled for the bandage. He reached up, helped her to remove it. The skin beneath the bandage had knitted back together, healthy and strong, with not even the slightest of imperfections. With awe, she traced her fingertip over his chest. “I did this?”

  “You did.”

  “I saved you,” she said, then stretched lazily, feeling a power within her despite the weakness.

  His grin was intoxicating. “So you did.”

  She propped herself up on her elbows. “It was only fair, you know. You’ve saved me countless times.”

  “Actually only three. So far.”

  “So far,” she agreed, then matched his grin.

  His fingers stroked her hair, then brushed her cheek. “You’re weak, Petra. Will you drink from me? Just like before. Not enough to change you. Only enough to make you strong. Tonight, I would have you strong.”

  She met his eyes, saw the tenderness there, along with a desire so sharp she feared it would cut her to ribbons. “Yes,” she said, the word little more than a breath. “I’ll drink.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Tariq stood outside Lucius Dragos’s Beverly Hills mansion, feeling smug. For the first time, he had Luke’s balls in a vise, and he intended to milk this particular situation for all it was worth.

  He’d been allowed entrance through the security gate, and now he waited impatiently on the front porch. He rang the bell again, then gave the door a slap with the heel of his hand for good measure. Half a second later, the door swung open, and he found himself staring up at Lucius Dragos’s massive form. “We need to talk.”

  For a moment, Luke simply stood in the doorway, as if taking Tariq’s measure. Then Tariq saw the vampire smile, thin and dangerous and dripping with malice. “You imprisoned my wife.”

  Tariq lifted his chin, forced himself to be calm. “With cause.”

  “Of course. With cause. Much like the cause I now have to rip your fucking head off.”

  “Do not threaten me,” Tariq said, anger mixing with enough fear to give a hard edge to his voice. “She helped a prisoner escape, and now she’s paying the price.”

  For a long moment, Luke only looked at him, hate hard in those amber eyes. Then, finally, he spoke. “Why are you here?”

  “I told you. We need to talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Tariq hesitated. He might have a firm grip on Luke’s balls, but that didn’t mean it would be wise to squeeze.

  Then again, how often did someone get and keep the upper hand with Lucius Dragos? Not damn often, and Tariq wasn’t one to ignore possibilities. “I’ve been thinking about the situation. Petra Lang’s escape. The fact that Montegue helped her—no, don’t bother denying it,” he added, though Luke had made no move to speak. “And, of course, your mate’s involvement.”

  “That’s a lot to be thinking about. I hope you didn’t hurt your head.”

  “Mock me all you want, Dragos, but my eyes are wide open, and what I’m seeing is pretty damn interesting.”

  “Is that so? What exactly are you seeing?”

  “Montegue getting himself in some serious shit, for one thing. And the only reason I can think that Nicholas would go to so much trouble—the only reason I can see that he’d actually drag Sara into his mess—is if he had something huge to gain.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Serge is alive, Luke,” he said, looking hard at Luke’s face. For any reaction, no matter how small. “Don’t even try to tell me otherwise.”

  “It’s an intriguing theory,” Luke said, his voice calm, his expression never wavering. “Hard to prove.”

  “Or maybe not,” Tariq said. “I’ve got Constantine, and we’ll get Montegue and the girl soon enough.”

  “Interesting,” Luke said, and now those eyes did change, narrowing as he peered at Tariq. He reached up and rubbed his chin, giving the impression of a man deep in thought. “Yes. Very interesting.”

  He didn’t want to ask, yet he couldn’t forestall his own words. “What? My theory?”

  Luke laughed. “No, your theory is shit. But
you’ve given me an idea. For that, old friend, I thank you.” He stepped back, and without another word, shut the door in Tariq’s face.

  The jinn stood there, wondering how the hell this encounter could have gone so wrong. He’d come to put the fear of God—or at least the Alliance—into Dragos. But Dragos wasn’t scared, not at all.

  Instead, he was scheming.

  And that, Tariq knew, was never a good thing.

  “Drink,” Nicholas said, pulling her gently back onto his lap. “Drink deep.” He took his fingernail and thrust it into his chest. A drop of blood rose, thick and crimson, and as she clung to him, frozen with both desire and fear, he cupped the back of her head and urged her lips to his skin.

  She remembered nothing about the blood she’d taken from him on the plane, the blood that had saved her life. Now it wasn’t her life she was concerned about, but the depth of her desire. As soon as she touched him, as soon as her lips brushed his skin and her tongue caught the tang of blood, she was certain that she would be lost.

  “Petra …” His voice was raw, as if waiting for her touch was torture.

  It was.

  Unable to stand it any longer, she grazed the tip of her tongue upon the wound, then felt her body quiver with the first hint of blood upon her taste buds.

  Nicholas moaned, his head falling back even as his arms pulled her closer, and she needed no more encouragement. She closed her mouth fully over the wound and drew in the sweet taste of him, his vampiric blood buzzing through her, bringing her senses to life and setting her already vulnerable body to tingling.

  His hands slid under her T-shirt, his fingers caressing bare flesh that no one had ever touched before. She tensed, wanting it, and yet at the same time afraid of the depth of her need. She felt as if she could consume him—hell, she was consuming him—and while part of her never wanted this to end, the other part was overwhelmed by the wildness that his blood, that his touch, shot through her.

  “No,” he whispered. “Don’t fear me. Don’t fear this.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said. On the contrary, her body was on fire, aroused, and she drank and drank, taking in his blood, his essence. This was Nicholas, and dear God, how she wanted him.