by Sophie Avett
No… He would not need this witch. She could be the fool and trust him if she wanted to, but he would not need her. Sweat burned his eyes shut and he turned his cheek. “Fuck you.”
“Sh-sh…” Straddling him like a proper rider, she palmed his face and caught his mouth in a deep kiss, and pleasure banked and bled into his defenses until every muscle in his body was aching and stiff—held a snap away from shattering altogether, and with every passing stroke, every delicious curse and moan ripped from the back of her throat, he was dying a little inside. Touch her. Take her. Beg her. Whatever she wants. The desperate chant rose like the tide, banking against his crumbling defenses. Anything. Everything.
Bracing herself with her hands, she doubled forward and pressed her temple to his. They shared breath, but he refused to open his eyes. She laid butterfly kisses on his eyelids and they fluttered open of their own accord.
Peeking between the tendrils of her disheveled hair, she chanced a timid look at his face, gnawing on her bottom lip. Vulnerable. She looked completely vulnerable, like she’d been caught uttering the unspeakable, doing the unforgivable.
“Tell me, little vampire, who made you feel so ugly?”
His body went taut as she quoted his words back to him. “Shut up, witch.” He didn’t recognize his voice. It was hoarse from stifled violin notes. Dry and bitter. He thrust and sheathed himself farther in her cunt. “Just fuck me.”
“No. You will tell me who made you feel so ugly.” When he didn’t answer, she braced herself on the wood and rocked forward, pulling him out of her blessed heat. “Tell me, little vampire.”
Choking himself on the bind around his throat like a diseased wolf, he gnashed his fangs and snapped at her throat. “Shut. Your. Whore-mouth.”
“Careful, now.” Her whisper seemed to echo everywhere at once. Leaving teasing little notes to linger in his mind. Magic poured off her as green markings flared to life on her skin. Swirls similar to the Unseelie markings on her wall and paddle. Fey. She was fey. It made little difference. If she wanted a fight, he would gladly give her one.
Lust faded into the background as his fangs curved past his bottom lip. She spilled forward and murmured in his ear. The sweet nothing was lost on him as he shifted his wrist from flesh to shadow, allowing it to pass through the bind unfettered. Blood drummed in his ears and he lifted his hand, wicked black claws curved and poised overhead like a knife.
“Enough,” she growled. The sound was completely animal. A jungle cat’s roar. She caught his wrist, her expression passive as if she’d known all along. She forced his arm down to the wood like his strength was nothing more than an unruly twig bending to her will. “You will be punished for that,” she assured him. “Now, tell me, vampire, who dared?”
Maneuvering his arms above his head, she pinned his wrists to the wood. Her grip was tight over the black binds and he pulled, struggling against the foreign satisfaction of having her hold close even tighter. She seated herself back on his cock and the shock arresting his expression melted away in favor of desire, of pleasure as she began to ride him in earnest, jerking back and forth with abandon.
Flesh smacked against flesh and sweat painted their skin until they were glittering idols in the moonlight. She was fucking him like he was all she would ever need. Like they’d been lovers in another time and she’d been given this one night to prove it. She was starved for him, pistoning herself on his cock as if she was truly going to ride him six feet under.
“Come for your Mistress, vampire.”
“Stop.”
“For me, Marshall. Just me.”
For her. He scrabbled at her hold. “Elsa…”
Blood curdled in his ears as images broke from their hold. Everything was silenced by the roar of memories, of pain. His heart threatened to explode in his chest and darkness dotted the corners of his vision. “Elsa…I…don’t…not…” He babbled, unsure why he needed to speak at all. But it spewed from his lips. Harsh, hoarse, almost incoherent.
“I’m here.”
The orgasm caught him off guard. A flicker of life so deep in the base of his being, he hadn’t even been aware it was growing, filling every crevice of his body. He bucked beneath her, arching and roaring like a wild animal as he came. Fast and hard. Thick white ropes spurting from his cock as pain poured through his pores. It felt like coming apart at the seams, like his skin was no longer the only thing keeping him from simply disappearing into the storm.
Elsa shuddered above him, her pussy closing around him a final time, and then she collapsed onto him. He was shaking, he realized somewhere in the buzzing stillness of his mind as he gaped at the ceiling, feeling violated, raw, and fucking amazing. His witch was breathless, chest rising and falling as she nuzzled the side of his neck. Slick skin sliding across skin, his slow pulse knocking against her lips, and she savored the rhythm in a kiss as if she knew it was beating for her.
She kissed him. Gentle, chaste. Sweet. Lips meeting in quiet conversation. Sweet pulls and sighs. Emotion swelled in his chest as he held his breath, suddenly quite content to be without oxygen if it meant the kiss would go on forever. Eventually, she pulled away and dropped her brow against his. Cock still sheathed in her heat, she melted against him.
Pain, sadness, and longing rose, carried him adrift, but she anchored him. She brought him back from the stark reality of his emotions, of his desires, of his needs—of all the ugly flaws he was content to be. She brought him back to life with kisses, erased the tension she’d etched into his body with reverence, with kindness.
A vampire could not be made to kneel before its food. A Dominant could not be made submissive. And a man could not change. So maybe he was different. Maybe he’d been different all along. Maybe he could be different…for her.
“He did.” His whisper quaked. “…Mistress.”
“He was wrong.”
But it wasn’t just him. It was everything. It was the violin, the darkness, the fucking blue eyes—he was everywhere. And no matter how Marshall tried to outrun it, he’d never be able to outrun his shadow. And there was no one to blame, but himself. He should blame Henry Ansley for his darkness. He should blame Moira for smothering him in it. And he should blame himself for everything that followed.
He cried out into the night like a wounded animal. Shuddering and shaking beneath her, broken violin and wounded sobs.
The darkness withered into Elsa’s solid embrace as she rolled them over, drawing his head against her chest. “I’ve got you, pebble.” She pressed her cheek against the top of his head. “Hush, I’ve got you now. Just disappear here.”
She bathed his tears in kisses and he held on to her, waiting for the raven to appear and rip him from her arms. Nothing. Just Elsa. Just his Mistress. That was enough.
Chapter Twenty
The water was black.
Sitting on his lap facing him, with her legs wrapped around his waist, Elsa squeezed a sponge over his shoulder, enchanted liquid glowing green. Warm and supple. Sliding down the expanse of his arm and chest, washing away what was left of his tears. Elsa had conjured some kind of healing root from one of the roses in a crystal vase on the edge of the garden tub and mixed it with her magic. Steam rose from the water lapping at his rib cage. Rose petals clung to his skin. Their scents mingled with the aloe, magic, and apricot oil pooling in his palm.
They’d been quiet since she’d urged them into the bathroom. Coaxing him to his feet, she’d threaded his arm over her shoulders and helped him into the tub. He felt weak. Not physically. But in every other way—he felt raw, vulnerable to the cat eyes peering at him through the steam. It didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought it would. Passion had a way of addling wits. Usually, after the smoke was clear and common sense reasserted itself, all you were left with was the walk of shame. Not that he ever felt any shame. He imagined the bedraggled women taking the narrow steps from his loft in the morning did.
This was different. Even now, he didn’t feel the need to tuck the raw strings of his e
motions back into his chest. He didn’t even think he could. They were tethered to the woman sitting neatly on his lap. Chest to breast. She cradled his broad frame against her petite body as if she alone would stand vigilant against the darkness nipping at his heels. It was…freeing.
Elsa dragged the sponge across his heart. Porous. Wet. Scratching and scrubbing his skin like she could clean the cobwebs out of his soul. “Did you know Merlin, the wizard of Arthurian legend, was a cambion?”
“I don’t recall there being a set of fangs anywhere in Le Morte d’Arthur.” He dribbled oil down her spine. “Though, that might have been one of the books I didn’t actually read. I lied about it on an exam quite brilliantly though.”
She arched a thick red eyebrow in vague amusement. “Top of the class, were you?”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “The very top,” he whispered.
“I’m sure,” she mused, dunking the sponge into the water. “Just so you know, there were no fangs because Merlin was a different kind of cambion. You are a beast of man, incubus, and vampire. He was a beast of man, coven, and incubus. A powerful and wise wizard.”
He nuzzled her neck, lost in the damp curls clinging to her slick skin. “Is all of this etched on his gravestone?”
“If it is, I surely didn’t put it there.” She plucked a piece of fruit from the platinum fruit platter on the edge of the tub. “I wouldn’t put it past the cat, though.” Elsa offered up the orange wedge, rubbing the succulent crescent across his mouth. Painting his lips with the juices like he’d painted hers with frosting. “When we began this venture, I took the liberty of studying about your species in one of my father’s grimoires. I have never seen Merlin’s tomb. I am told humans call it the Stonehenge.”
Species. Yes, now there was a subject begging to be brought up. She was fey. That much, he was certain of. Fey and coven. His little shopkeeper was some kind of twisted half-breed like him. Marshall’s fingers skated across the curve of her shoulder, riding the contours of her neck. He buried his fingers in her damp red hair and feathered his thumbs across the delicate jut of her stubborn chin. Honestly, it didn’t matter what she was. She was here. That was enough. “Have you never left New Gotham?”
She squeezed water over his arms. “I’m on this bleeding boat, aren’t I?”
His mouth curved. “That’s not what I meant. Why have you never seen Stonehenge? Is that site not some sort of Mecca for coven?”
“Busy.” She nodded curtly, urging the orange against his lips. “Very busy.”
He accepted the slick piece of fruit and crushed the wedge between his teeth. Citrus, sweet tang concealed in individual rivulets of flavor exploded on the tip of his tongue. Her fingers lingered and he sealed the treat with a dangerous nibble with his fangs. Green eyes flared with passion and she covered his mouth with hers, kissing him. Deeply.
Fuck. He moaned into her mouth like it held nourishment for him, a violin note vibrating down her throat as her tongue snaked to greet his. Dueling with his as she ate from his mouth and swallowed a tendril of orange with a catlike purr.
How the fuck had she not seen the world? How the fuck had any man kept such a beautiful creature caged behind the snow-frosted doors of Bits and Pieces? How had he?
She broke the kiss, dropping her forehead against his. Breathing labored. Her chest rising and falling, nipples slick with oil. Hard little peaks rubbing against his pectorals. He cradled a heavy breast in his palm, dropping wet, reverent kisses down her neck.
She closed her eyes, savoring the caress. “Vampire, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness, Ms. Karr.”
She laughed. Short and sweet. Rusty ice cubes scratching at the bottom of a tumbler. The sound warmed him through his skin to wash away the lingering shadows. He straightened and met her heated gaze. She was all Mistress. All control. All the right kinds of demands. Fucking gorgeous.
Strangely enough, it didn’t bother him to think of her that way. He wasn't sure if he would feel differently once she put her new-found mastery into practice, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea of being a “switch” suited him. Though, he doubted he would find the idea of kneeling for another woman appealing. Ever. He was still him. It was still his bed—his rules. But perhaps, for her—and only her—he would take the risk of climbing into someone else’s bed. He would risk playing the game by someone else’s rules. Her rules. She’d earned it.
Marshall slouched against the porcelain and draped his arms on the edge of the tub, regarding his witch from under hooded eyes. “You were saying about Stonehenge?”
Elsa raised a loofah over his stomach, wringing it dry. Water splashes marking the lines of his muscles. “Have you ever been to Stonehenge?”
The vampire rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Heavens, no. Those twinkly-eyed fucks and their sticks…” Elsa crushed the sponge in her grip and he fell silent, remembering himself and his audience, and then shook his head and chuckled. “No, Elsa, I can’t say that I’ve ever been to Stonehenge.” He tried to catch her gaze. “Why? Would you ever want to go? To visit Merlin’s tomb?”
“Perhaps,” she busied herself soaking up some of the moisture on his pectorals, “one day.”
He’d never thought of Elsa as much of a liar. And now, he knew why. She was terrible at it. Her desire to see the monument was written across her face almost as clearly as her desire for him was. Suddenly, he was curious at the creature straddling his hips, touching him like he was made of glass. He wondered at the Black Irish in her memories. Why had he never taken her to Stonehenge? It was practically in his backyard. Where was he now? How was the bloody man living with himself knowing Elsa was seated on another’s lap?
“Elsa.” He lifted her chin with the gentle fingertip. “Who was he?”
She went still. A Gothic Rubenesque statue seated on his lap. If it wasn’t for the fact he had a clear view of her breasts, the gentle rise and fall of the swells, he would’ve thought she’d stopped breathing altogether. Dread blanketed her frame, weighing her shoulders down. And then, her gaze met his. Pleading with him to change the subject. No, he would know. Everything. She had demanded as much. Gwyneth could have her secrets, but Elsa—hers were too precious to spare.
Finally, she seemed to realize that he would stay his course and sighed. “My first.”
“Your first what?”
She lowered her attention to his heart. “My first everything, vampire.”
He lifted his eyebrows. Surprised. “Everything?”
“Yes.” She abandoned the sponge and started picking through the fruit platter instead. “He left.”
There was a finality to her tone that suggested the subject was closed. So many reactions. The first, from the vampire—interest. Morbid curiosity. The story wasn't finished. There was still more. She loved him. That much was apparent. He’d felt it. The burn. She still held a candle for the Irishman, and probably always would. It seemed Elsa did everything wholeheartedly. From her kisses and spanks to love and heartache. How rare.
Second—the demon coiled in annoyance. How dare she still hold a candle for that miserable little twit. How dare she ever look at anyone else the way she was looking at him now. Didn’t she know she belonged to him? Didn’t she know that if he was to be hers, she would be his? And he would not share her. He would not abide it.
The man—the man straightened and gathered his Mistress against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her powerful and dainty frame, and her strength against his heart. If she still loved him, she still hurt. And just like love, pain was only relevant if it still hurt. And that miserable son of a bitch was still hurting her. If he ever crossed paths with him, he’d rip his fucking head from his shoulders and feed it to the charming cat on principle.
“Why did Gwyneth leave?” she asked, a faint rasp.
It wasn’t a hard question to answer. It was just a long answer. Every iota of his being called out for him to push the subject away. He c
ould if he wanted to. She’d allowed him that. And yet, it didn’t matter how long he held Elsa’s light against his icy heart, he would have to resume the mantle of who he was soon enough. Even now, that time was quickly approaching. Though the punishment had felt like it lasted for consecutive eternities, it had only been two hours. Leaving them enough time for a bath and change of wardrobe before they were due at the festivities. He’d have to net Sinister Stitches and then tuck Elsa away long enough to deal with his family and the woman haunting him all the way from her room at the other side of the ship.
He would have to be Marshall Ansley soon enough. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be. He wanted to stay where he was. He wanted to stay wherever Elsa would continue to wrap herself around him like armor. He didn’t want to have to break her perception of him. Tarnished as it may have been, the idea that she would find him unworthy and undeserving of any more of her attention gnawed an ache in chest. What rubbish are you going on about now? You sound like a ninny. Marshall couldn’t muster the will to care. Dropping his mouth in the curve of her shoulder, he opened his eyes and met the inevitable. “I made her leave.”
Elsa pulled away to look at his face. “Your meaning, vampire?”
“It really is as simple as that. When I first arrived at New Gotham and started working for the Mirage Agency, I was given my first big opportunity to distinguish myself from the brutal competition with a new perfume company, Spider Shine. Gwyneth was a fresh face who couldn’t get anyone to look at her portfolio. I guess you can say we bonded over adversary. No one thought we would make it—”
“Why?” She frowned as if she couldn’t fathom a world where he was bested.
He almost laughed. “Even back then, I was kind of…eccentric. My ideas were always dark. And they were always sexy. And I didn’t always have this…charming demeanor.” She arched a brow at that, eyes glittering with mirth as he scraped his teeth across his bottom lip. “Anyways, I was freshly disowned.” At her frown, he added, “That is a much longer story that will have to wait until later.”