by Karen Chance
No, no, no.
An hour ago, I’d have reminded myself that I wasn’t going to be with someone who was with me for the wrong reasons, and whose life I was likely to screw up to a gigantic degree. I’d have pointed out that we probably didn’t even need to do this, because I’d been along for that crazy ride and I couldn’t have re-created it, so how could she? I’d have told myself to relax, to have another drink, to wait for Mircea to work his magic.
But things had changed in that hour, hadn’t they?
I’d gone from thinking I might someday find a way to conquer my demon, to having it almost conquer me. From struggling to finally get my life together, to watching it all fall apart. From yearning to be alone in my skin, to wondering if I was about to live my oldest nightmare, trapped in a prison of my own mind, unable to get out, to stop her, to—
From having a future, to living on borrowed time.
And suddenly a lot of things didn’t seem so important anymore.
I stared at the hand. It was fine-boned for such a large man, long-fingered and slender. A fencer’s hand, if there was such a thing, a duelist’s hand. Louis-Cesare’s hand. Waiting. Offering…
A chance that might never come again.
I drained my wine. Screw it. I’d had a lifetime of no. And can’t, and shouldn’t and don’t. I was sick of no. Tonight, just for once, I wanted a little—
“Yes,” I told him, and locked my fingers with his.
Chapter Thirty-seven
I thought the whole standing and bowing thing was just Louis-Cesare being, well, Louis-Cesare. But no. He grabbed the carafe of wine and the blanket and out the missing door we went. Jehan gave me a knowing smile as we passed, like he’d seen it all before. And then we were through the trees and into the next field, and up a gentle incline carpeted with clover.
The Milky Way was a river of silver overhead, glittering in between dark clouds laced with distant lightning. The clover was soft and cool, and so thick we could have left the blanket behind. The dancers were still flickering around the fire, orange-red shadows on the hill above us, like darker flames. But I thought there might be fewer of them.
Like we weren’t the only ones to slip away into the night.
But the musicians seemed to have gotten a second wind, or possibly a second barrel, and were really going at it, pounding out a throbbing beat that made the stars seem to pulse, the flames to leap, the shadows to jump, as if the whole hillside were dancing. It reminded me of that night in Claire’s garden, only that had been fey magic. And whatever was here tonight…was not.
Primal, earthy, human, there was nothing otherworldly about it. Or even necessarily magical, at least not in the way humans defined it. But I knew better. The people here were glorying in the simple things: not grand mansions and fine clothes, but food in their bellies, the taste of new wine on their lips, and a lover beside them, under them.
And there was no greater magic than that.
It was all I’d ever wanted, and had somehow never managed to find: a place of acceptance, peace within myself, someone to love. I might never get the first two, not now. But tonight…tonight, I had the third. And I intended to take full advantage.
I pushed Louis-Cesare down to the hillside.
He looked a little surprised, like he’d expected to run things. And then he tried, pulling me down on top of him. I pulled back. He started to follow but I pushed him down with a foot on his chest.
No. My night. My way.
He settled back again, watching me with fire-lit eyes.
His shirt might have gotten dirty, but his skin was clean. It looked incongruous next to my dirty toes, but it felt good, and the thudding heartbeat below felt better. I kept the foot in place as I unbuttoned my jacket.
It was short-sleeved with no shirt required, a Jackie-O-in-the-sixties kind of thing. But it did have those gloves. I paused to strip them off.
And Louis-Cesare made a disappointed sound in his throat.
I arched an eyebrow, but kept them on.
They were the only things I did.
Jacket, bra, skirt—I had to move my foot for the last, because it was a pencil-type and I couldn’t get it off otherwise. Just as well. Easier to wriggle out of the panties that way.
He reached for me again, before I’d even finished, but my foot was back in place and I stopped him. He stared up at me with dilated eyes and a fading smile. Good; he was beginning to understand.
“My way,” I told him roughly, and pushed him down again.
I picked up the jug of wine and stood over him with it, straddling his thighs while I dipped my fingers inside and took out the wine-soaked fruit. Sweet with the sharp tang of liquor, sun-warm from a long afternoon in the sun, warmer from my body.
Rivulets ran down my arm, dripped off my elbow, spotted the material of his trousers like blood. I took some time to lick wine from my palm, my wrist. Then I nudged his waistband with my heel. “Off.”
His hands were shaking slightly as he undid the laces. Or maybe I was imagining things. Louis-Cesare was a duelist; his hands didn’t shake. But it seemed to take him a long time to get free, maybe because I didn’t move. He arched up to push the trousers down to his thighs, and then leaned forward to strip them down his legs.
He didn’t make it.
He stopped, his face next to my hipbone, and the heavy lids over his eyes fluttered closed. And he breathed. Not the way humans do, to take in oxygen, because he didn’t need that. But the way a vampire does, a breath that was almost touch, almost taste, almost sight, and gave more information than all three. He stopped and just breathed me in.
My hand came down, tangling in the mane of hair that was spilling, unconfined, over wide shoulders and down his back. I’d always had a problem with his hair. There was too much of it, it was too long, and the slight curl ensured that it was constantly escaping the discreet clip he used to confine it. I had often wondered why he didn’t just cut it off.
A lot of the older vamps didn’t, but it seemed that the dueling champion of the European Senate might have found it a hazard in battle. And after all, it was a small thing, this satin river gleaming red in the firelight. But I was suddenly, perversely, glad that he’d kept it.
My hand tightened, wanting to feel the softness I grasped, and his face turned into the gesture. A moment later, warm lips found the buttons on the inside of my wrist, undoing them without moving the strong hand he’d curved around my calf or raising the other. One, two, three buttons, undone by a deft tongue, and then a kiss placed on the inside on my wrist, where the pulse beat hard and fast.
Harder now, as he kissed down the smooth grain leather over my palm, as he bit the mound under my thumb, as he sucked a single digit into his mouth. And then white teeth clamped onto the skin-warm material and pulled. And stripped it off me in a single motion.
I swallowed, and felt my knees try to buckle.
He kissed his way back up my heat-damp skin, but left the other glove in place; I wasn’t sure why. Maybe he liked the contrast, black leather against pale skin, or maybe it was some kind of fetish. We’d never talked about those, never talked about anything to do with the intimacy we hadn’t had. But I must have been doing something right. When he suddenly looked up, his eyes were glazed, a little strange, and a little wild.
I wasn’t sure what had put that look on his face; I just knew I wanted to keep it there as long as possible.
I pushed him back, without allowing him to free himself from the trousers still knotted around his legs. I spent a second just taking him in: naked strength, flexing muscles, already half hard. And then I knelt, straddling his body, pushing the hand he’d looped around my leg to the ground along with the other. And pinned them both with my knees.
“My way,” I told him again, this time a little breathlessly.
He didn’t answer. But his eyes blazed up at me. I wasn’t sure if it was out of passion or frustration, but I doubted that Louis-Cesare was used to being ordered around. I imagine
d Christine never did that; her type of manipulation had been far more subtle. On the surface, she’d been the perfect elegant little vampire, all sweet and soft and obliging.
Too bad. Because I wasn’t soft. I was rarely sweet. And as for obliging…
Well, it depended on how you defined the term.
I pressed down, knees hard against the palms that cupped them, making my point about who was in charge. Louis-Cesare’s eyes flashed again, dangerously, but he didn’t move. I took that as a good sign and grabbed the carafe.
Another dip inside, another handful of wine-soaked fruit. I ate it while he watched me with hot eyes, while the drumbeat shivered our skin, while the juice dripped down my chest and onto his stomach. But I made sure to flex my thighs, keeping myself hovering just out of reach. Like the fruit I didn’t let him have.
Another handful and the wine was running in rivulets across his chest, along the dips made by his abs, into his navel. It should have looked strange; it didn’t. He matched the night now, the revelers up above, the festival that, I was willing to bet, had been old when the local church was a pagan grove attended by dark-robed priests. And defended by painted warriors.
Louis-Cesare would have made a fine ancient warrior, with the firelight playing over the high cheekbones, the proud nose, the sensual lips. Even the hillside seemed to think so. A wild vine had twined itself through the fiery hair, like a fey crown.
But no. He was too muscular for a fey, too solid, too broad. For some reason, the sheer size of him wasn’t usually apparent, despite the fact that he had inches on most other men, and more than a foot on me. It was something in how he carried himself, or how he stood or…I didn’t know. But sheer size wasn’t everything. And right now, I had the advantage.
I intended to keep it.
His body was warm and heavy, scarred and strong, and I learned it with lips and tongue and fingertips. Memorizing it for later as his breathing sped up and his skin flushed and pebbled and his abdomen tightened in helpless little jerks. But he didn’t move. Not even when I eased back, when my hands took the place of my knees, barely holding him down as I lapped at the spilled sweetness below his belly button.
He groaned, but didn’t move, even when I stopped the pretense and let go of his hands. He could have broken my hold at this angle anyway; hell, he could have done it before, if past experience was anything to go on. But he seemed determined to take whatever I could dish out.
I smiled against his skin.
I could dish out a lot.
More fruit, more wine dripping on the bare expanse of Louis-Cesare’s stomach and abs and chest and chin, because I ate it as I crawled back up his body. And then I paused, a few inches above his flushed face, to lick the residue from my palm. His mouth was open, his tongue flicking out again, like the strange little flutters in his abs, the ones he couldn’t control.
I decided to indulge him—slightly—leaning down to that perfect, smeared mouth to share a wine-soaked kiss. He tried to deepen it, but I pulled back. Not yet.
He needed to learn some patience first. Needed to writhe and squirm and moan. My gloved fingers dug into his hip as I moved down again, letting my mouth go where it would, tracing every muscle, every line. Because I wanted him to remember this.
No matter what happened, no matter if I ended up as little more than a memory in some recess of Dorina’s crazed mind, I wouldn’t forget this. I wouldn’t forget him. Hard muscles shining in the firelight, gleaming with the spilled wine, my red-stained kisses on his skin. Everywhere.
And something in his eyes I’d never thought to see from anyone. And I suddenly found that I didn’t care why it was there. It was there. It was enough.
I trailed the leather-gloved hand across his stomach, down his hipbone, then traced the length of him. I wasn’t holding him down anymore, but he stayed in place, watching me with half-closed eyes. Determinedly still.
Until I slowly followed the stains my finger had left with the tip of my tongue, licking them away.
And then his breath caught, and he gasped something and his body arched—but not enough. Because I drew back as he rose up, staying just above him, only my breath touching him. And either the wine was a lot more alcoholic than usual, or I was getting drunk on the whole experience. Because I laughed suddenly, low and elated, and reached for the carafe once more.
And somehow ended up on my back instead.
It happened so fast, I never even saw him move. But between one blink and the other, I was lying on the soft clover. And he was—
Standing over me, heavily muscled and solid as an oak, and barer than I was, since I still had on a glove and he was somehow wearing nothing but firelight. It shone in his hair, played over the hard body, darkened his eyes. But I didn’t have much time to enjoy the scenery. Because he scooped up the jug of wine, and then slowly, gracefully, went to his knees over top of me.
And he was more generous than I had been, scooping out a wine-soaked offering, holding it to my mouth. I opened it automatically, even though it felt like I’d already had enough. Maybe a little too much, I thought, as I felt the world shift beneath me.
And then it happened again, that strange connection we’d always had, clicking into place even though this wasn’t that sort of wine. But right now, I didn’t seem to need it. Maybe because I was already in his mind, or he was already in mine? Didn’t know. Didn’t care, caught in the floating, surreal feeling of feeding and being fed, all at the same time.
I felt soft lips part, brushing fingers that were both mine and his at the same time. Felt the heat of my own tongue as it curled around a finger, saw myself in a flash—dark eyes shining, face flushed, lips full and red-stained and opening hungrily again.
“More,” someone said. And I wasn’t sure if it was him or me.
But he was the one who sat back, showing me the whole long line of his body, almost every inch displaying signs of my possession. A bite mark on his left shoulder, which he deliberately wasn’t healing. Twin outlines of my hands, like the ochre-colored impressions found in cave paintings, on his pecs. A perfect imprint of my lips, caught in the middle of an openmouthed kiss, on his lower stomach.
Mine, I thought, but didn’t say. Because he wasn’t. Except for tonight. And if this was all I had, all I would ever have, then I needed to touch—
My fingers flexed under his knees, but he didn’t let up. It should have infuriated me, but instead I felt something in me twist, uncoil, release. I felt drunk on more than wine, as his thumb ran along the curve of my mouth, chasing some wayward juice, and received a nip of teeth instead. A silent order for more.
And more there was, more fruit, more wine, more strange double vision, showing me my own face superimposed over the flames dancing in blue, blue eyes. More emotions, most of which I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, name. But behind the heat was a strange vulnerability that was all too familiar, and a terrible sympathy that raked my soul, without stirring up the sharp-edged pride I carried like a shield.
Because he understood. What it was like to be unwanted, to be abandoned, to be shunned. Our isolation might have been caused by separate things, prejudice on my side, politics on his.
But the result…the result had been the same.
And it was suddenly too much, like something was cracking open inside. I let my eyes flutter closed, but I could still see through his, although I almost wished I couldn’t. Because my lids might have been shut, but my face was open, too open. He cupped my jaw, and I turned into his palm. And when he leaned close enough to lick the wine from my cheeks, I tasted it right along with him, and the faint edge of salt beneath the sweetness.
My voice sounded strange when I spoke, harsh and raw, and so low I could feel it in my belly. “More.”
He took a handful of fruit, bringing it to his mouth, before bending over me, one fat, wine-soaked strawberry held between hard white teeth, dripping a trail of bloody drops across my torso, my throat, my—
I took it from his lips although it wasn�
��t what I wanted. Not anymore. But the kiss that followed—yes. Yes.
It was slow, sweet from more than wine, and gentle, but not careful. I licked the taste of crushed berries from his mouth, finding Louis-Cesare beneath the wine. I wanted to kiss him until what passed for morning, to lick away every taste but my own. I moaned around his tongue and the sound made him kiss me harder. And I discovered that when he lost control, Louis-Cesare kissed the same way he fought, wild and passionately, and with his entire body. He kissed like he was never going to stop—
Until he suddenly did, leaving me gasping for air, while smooth lips and rough hands and soft hair trailed down my body. I could feel my heartbeat loud in my ears, at my groin, fluttering in the bottom of the foot I’d pressed against his thigh. He was marking me now, too, leaving prints and streaks on my skin as he worked downward, as he parted my legs, as he…
I breathed his name as he settled between my thighs, stroked his cheek, buried my hands in cool, silky hair as a warm tongue went to work. And I could swear his strokes matched the pulse of the stars, the beat of the drums, the sounds of the night. All of which became louder, brighter, more real as I was ravished by hard hands and soft lips and wet tongue.
I let my hands grip his head to steady myself, rather than to guide him where he needed to go. Because he already seemed to get that, judging from the way my breath was coming faster and my body was quivering and my thighs were clenching uncontrollably. And my fingers were digging into the muscles of his shoulders where they’d dropped when the hillside started to shake and the stars to spin.
To the point that I barely noticed when a storm spread across the horizon, blotting out half the sky.
It was sweeping this way, on wide, tattered wings of night, but it didn’t seem to matter. Not in comparison to the fingers digging into my hips, or the sounds Louis-Cesare was making in his throat, or the warm tongue dragging over me. And then I threw my head back and—