1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Five

by Julie Kenner

  He nods. His expression is tight. Presumably he is still coming off a flood of worry. He’d been concerned that I couldn’t pull it off—hell, I’d been a little concerned, too—but the mission had gone seamlessly.

  I’m not sure what I had expected. Perhaps that Michael would tell me he didn’t share his collections. Or that he would only reveal them for a trade—I strip, he shows me the brooch, which is something that I really wouldn’t have liked. Except for the fact that Dante would be watching through the camera. That might make it interesting.

  I shake my head, feeling a little silly and a lot giddy. “So what now?”

  “Raine and Jessica and Pieter are putting together a counterfeit brooch. It won’t stand up to scrutiny, but with any luck it will only need to be in that case for a few hours. We’ll go in tomorrow morning when he goes for his morning jog. He’s religious about that. And then we’ll return the brooch in the evening. We’ve confirmed that he’s planning to see a show tomorrow night.”

  He speaks firmly. Matter-of-factly.

  And honestly, I just don’t get it. I want someone to share my victory. I’d expected it to be Dante, and I’m not at all sure what his problem is.

  I force my thoughts away from him and back to his words, then frown. “You’re just going to walk into his apartment? Did you see the security? There’s more electronic locks and gadgets than on the space shuttle.”

  “We’ve got it under control.” Again, his answer is clipped. Curt. Frankly, it’s starting to piss me off.

  “Fine,” I say. “Good for you. But why the hell do you only need it for a few hours?”

  “We have our reasons.”

  “You know what, Dante? Just screw it. I’m going back to my hotel.” I turn to head toward the door, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  I stand ramrod straight in front of him, practically vibrating with anger.

  “It has a microdot,” he says. “We need to retrieve it. That’s all.”

  “That is so not all.” I grind the words out, and they are harsh. They are an accusation.

  For a moment, he says nothing. Just meets my eyes. Just breathes.

  Then he seems to sag.

  Nothing changes. Not his expression, not his posture. But I know this man, and I see the change in him. And when he looks in my eyes, I see the sadness, too. “I didn’t like it.” His words are flat. Almost cold.

  “Like what?”

  “You,” he says. “With Folsom. I didn’t like the way he looked at you. I didn’t like the way he touched you. I didn’t like the way you flirted with him. And I damn sure didn’t like what he intended to do with you in that bed.”

  “You didn’t?” I can’t help myself—I’m smiling.

  He notices, and the corner of his lip curves up, too. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  He takes a step toward me. “But it doesn’t matter what I like, what I didn’t like.”

  I feel my pulse kick up in tempo. “Why not?”

  “Because we said we were done.” He reaches out, then gently brushes his fingers down my arm. “No more touching.” He takes another step toward me, so that there is barely any distance between us at all, and I forget the muscle contractions required to breathe. “No more fucking,” he adds.

  “That’s what we agreed.” It takes all of my willpower to form words, and then even more to take a single step toward him. “Those are the rules.”

  Now there are only inches between us, and I catch the scent of him—soap and aftershave and, oh god yes, the musky scent of arousal.

  I glance down and see his cock, hard now inside his jeans. Straining. My cunt is wet and throbbing, and I cannot help myself. I have to relieve some of the pressure.

  I drag my teeth over my lower lip, and as I do, I slide my hand down, then cup myself between my legs over the thin material of my skirt.

  Inches from me, Dante groans—and that sound of pure, male arousal fuels me. I use my fingers to ease up my skirt. I’m exposing my thigh—a little bit, then a little bit more. And then the edge of my panties. And then all of them.

  The pale blue silk is soaked through, so wet that the material clings to my bare pubis, sticking to my vulva, dipping into my folds. I slide my hand slowly up my thigh and then ease my flat palm under the material.

  My skin is so hot, my cunt so wet. And right then, all I want to do is fuck myself with him watching. All I want to do is make him crazy—make him come.

  I skim my fingers over myself, and the pressure on my clit makes me shiver. I keep going, my fingers gliding over my slick heat, and then I thrust one, two fingers inside. I swallow a moan, my head thrown back, my eyes closed, as I gyrate my hips, pumping my own hand and imagining that it is Dante.

  “Oh, baby,” he says. “Fuck the rules.”

  He drops to his knees and one hand goes to my hip, his thumb hooking in the band of my panties. He tugs them down, then uses his other hand to get them all of the way off.

  Then he takes my hand, ignoring my groan of both protest and excitement as cool air brushes over me, as arousing as a lover’s touch.

  Slowly, he sucks on each of my drenched fingers, and the sensation is so intensely erotic that my knees go weak and I have to cling to his shoulder so as not to fall over.

  But when he leans forward and laves me with his tongue, I know that I am going to explode. “No,” I protest, taking a step back. “Not yet. I want you inside me when I come. Please, Dante. Please, fuck me.”

  He looks up at me, and I think that he is going to lay me flat right there and thrust his cock hard inside me. And, oh dear god, I hope he does.

  Instead he stands, his golden eyes lit like flames. “Upstairs,” he says. “I want you in my bed. Naked and spread-eagled, your pale skin against my black sheets. Your hands fisted in the material as I take you. And I want to hear the echo of your scream when you come.”

  I can’t even manage a response. His words have turned my body to liquid lust, and it is all I can do to nod in blissful, eager agreement.

  He has an elevator in his brownstone similar to the one next door, and he leads me up to a masculine room with rich leather and dark wood. A huge bed dominates the space, and yes, the bed is made up with black linens.

  Beside it a window is open to the courtyard below. Pale yellow light filters up from a lamp below to cast the room in what looks like candlelight.

  “Take off your dress,” he says. “I want to see you naked.”

  “Take off your pants,” I counter. “I want to see your cock.”

  He laughs, and the sound washes over me. “Dear god, Brenna, I lo—I love that mouth of yours.”

  I draw in a ragged breath because we both know what he intended to say. And it’s true for me, too. I still love him. Wildly. Passionately.

  I just don’t know what that means.

  At the moment, I’m not inclined to analyze. I simply want his hands on me, his cock inside me. And as he follows orders and strips, I do the same, grinning at him as we both move fast, as if in silent competition.

  He finishes first, and for a moment, I can only stare at him. At the hard perfection of his body.

  A little too perfect, actually, because the scar I remember—that I loved tracing—is gone. And I’m not entirely sure how that can be. It is as if he has a fresh coat of skin, and the old, scarred skin was shed and left behind.

  That, of course, makes no sense.

  Or it makes as much sense as Dante not aging.

  He is looking at me warily, as if he knows what I am thinking. I frown, then make a circular motion with my finger. Slowly, he shows me his back. Where there had been five luscious birds inked on his back, now there are six.

  “You got another. Why?”

  “A reminder,” he says.

  “Of what?”

  “That I shouldn’t lose fights.”

  He turns back around, and now his face is hard, as if he is afraid that I am getting close to some dark secret. Honestly, I think that I am.

>   I reach out and touch his chest, then run my finger along the long path of the now-missing scar that once ended just above his pubic bone. He shivers in response to my touch, his already hard cock growing harder.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “How—”

  He takes my hand and cups my fingers around his cock. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now?”

  Part of me wants to scream yes, yes, because something inside me knows that this is so very important. That this is the key.

  But the other part of me—the part now holding velvet steel in my hand, the part that is wet and throbbing with desire—can think about nothing but his hands, his lips, his cock.

  Slowly, I shake my head. “No. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

  “Then get on the bed.”

  I slowly draw my hand over his cock, making him moan before stepping back and releasing him. Then I do as he asks. I get on the bed. I spread my arms. And, yes, I spread my legs.

  He is looking right at me, and rather than embarrass me, the sight of his eyes trained right at my core only arouses me more, and I give in to my body’s urge to move. To wriggle. To let my hips dance and sway in a futile attempt to find satisfaction.

  He takes pity on me and moves to the bed. And though I had told him I couldn’t wait to have his cock inside me, I cannot deny that the stroke of his hands upon my bare skin coupled with the kisses he now trails up my leg have me writhing with a building, agonizing pleasure.

  He laves my clit, then thrusts his tongue inside me with such wild ferocity it makes me buck. He lifts his head and smiles at me, and though I want more, he continues up my body until his mouth closes over my breast and his teeth bite down on my nipple, softly at first, and then hard enough to make me cry out—even as that pain ricochets down my body from breast to cunt.

  “Now,” he says, and in one swift and confident movement, he has rolled onto his back and is turning me with him. I end up straddling him, my legs on either side of his waist, his cock standing at attention behind me and teasing my ass in a way that is undeniably enticing.

  “Fuck me,” he says. “As hard as you want. As deep as you want. And keep your eyes open. I want to watch your face as you come.”

  I whimper a bit, but I don’t protest. Instead I rise up, then scoot back so that I am over his cock, the head placed right at my core. I ease down slowly, then harder. Until finally I can’t take the tease and I slam my body down hard before rising up on my knees and repeating the process.

  It feels incredible. Like fireworks in my womb spreading out to my fingers and toes.

  I feel alive and in love, and even in the midst of this wild passion, I know that is a very dangerous way to feel.

  At the moment, I don’t much care.

  I ride him hard, fondling my breasts when he tells me to, playing with my clit when he tells me to do that.

  And when he tells me to come, I do that as well, my body primed to his demands and desires. So yes, I explode on top of him, my body drawing him in, milking him, taking him all the way to his own, violent, explosion.

  After, I collapse forward on him and breathe deep, recovering from the power of what just crashed through me. It was more than sex, more than an orgasm. It was a communion, and I am not sure that I can ever be the same.

  His arms are around me, holding me close, and we lay like that for a long, long time.

  But once the tremors of the orgasm have faded, I slide out of his embrace and pad naked to the window. I hug myself and look down at the courtyard we’d passed through yesterday to get to his office. He’s told me that there is another courtyard on the other side of Number 36 and another brownstone, and that one is owned by Mal.

  I can’t help but wonder about the amount of money these men and Phoenix Security command, or about what they do. In truth, I know very little about them. But I know my heart. And I know what—and who—I want.

  I also know what I fear, because I will not survive being tossed away again.

  “Brenna?”

  I turn to see Dante propped up in bed.

  “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. “I should probably go.”

  He stands up and comes to me. “Talk to me.”

  I raise a brow. “Talk to you? What is there to talk about? You almost said you loved me—no, don’t try to deny it. But, dammit Dante, you’ve also told me you’re going to walk away. You told me that day at the Algonquin, and nothing has changed. And I don’t want to lose you again. Dammit.”

  I didn’t mean to spill all of that, much less these damned tears. But it’s the truth, and I have no interest in skirting around my feelings. Not now. Not when I have him back in my life.

  “I know,” he says. “But it can’t work,” he says, and the pain I hear in his voice is so sharp it feels like a knife that is cutting me to ribbons.

  “Why?” I demand. “How the hell do you know if we don’t try?”

  “Try?” He slides out of bed and comes to stand beside me. He clutches tight to my arms. Almost too tight. “Try?” he repeats. “There’s no room for risk in this game, Brenna.”

  I shake my head, not understanding.

  “Dammit, don’t you get it?” He is still clutching my arms, so tight I anticipate bruises. “I want you, Brenna. I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you, and I still want you. I want you, and I don’t ever want to let you go.”

  “Don’t do this to me again,” I say, tears flooding my eyes. “You told me that in London. You said we had an eternal love. A love that spanned time and distance, and all sorts of pretty words. But then you left. You just left.”

  “Because it can’t work,” he repeats. His words are so harsh it sounds as though he is spitting them. “It can’t fucking work.”

  “Why not?” I demand. “I love you, Dante. I wish I didn’t. The last thirteen years would have been one hell of a lot less lonely if I could have forgotten about you. But I love you, and every moment that I don’t have you is like a knife through my heart. You’re the one who left—you. So dammit, Dante, I want an explanation. You say it won’t work? Then you need to tell me why!”

  I am screaming, my voice rising with each word. I can’t remember ever being so angry. So hurt. “Tell me,” I demand. “Tell me right now.”

  “You want to know? Fine. This is the goddamn reason.”

  As he speaks, he races toward the window and bursts through the glass. And as my scream fills the room, he falls five stories, then lands in a broken heap in the courtyard below.

  Chapter Eight

  My scream still hangs in the air as I toss my dress over my head and race out of the room and down the stairs.

  Oh god oh god oh god...

  Another flight, then another.

  Oh Christ oh shit...

  And again and again until finally I reach the door to the courtyard and I burst through just as Raine and a tall woman with long dark hair race out of the door of Number 36 across from me.

  I stare at the woman. I’d seen her only once from a distance, but her image is burned into my mind.

  “You?”

  She is the woman Dante left me for. And like Dante, she has not aged a day.

  “I’m Jessica,” she says. “And no. I’m not with Dante. I never was. Trust me, Liam would be pissed.”

  “Liam?” I think about the huge, gorgeous man with the kind eyes.

  “My mate—my husband.”

  “But—but, Dante said—”

  She nods pointedly at his broken body that lies still on the concrete. “He’ll explain.”

  It is those nonsensical words that break the spell. Shock, I must be in shock.

  “Explain?” The word is ripped out of me. “But he’s—Oh, god. He needs an ambulance,” I cry. “Please, he’s—”

  “An ambulance won’t do him any good. He’s dead,” Jessica says. “But it will be all right. Trust me. I’m a doctor.”

  I’m not sure if I should be terrified of this trul
y crazy woman or feel sorry for her. But I take the chance of turning my back on her and hurry toward Dante. Raine is crouching beside him, but now he stands up and steps away from Dante and toward me, his hand held out as if to stop me.

  “You shouldn’t go closer,” he says.

  “The hell I won’t.” I know he’s dead—I can look at him and see that—but I can’t make myself believe it. I can’t lose him again. Not when I was so close to getting him back. And somehow I know that if I can just hold him then it will turn out that this is all a dream, and—

  I try to rush past Raine, but he jerks me to a halt. “Brenna, no. You’ll get hurt.”

  Hurt?

  And then, before I have time to ask the question, a wall of flames seems to encircle Dante, the fire moving in to lick at his naked body. Burning away his skin. His beautiful tattoos.

  Destroying all that is left of the man I love.

  I look at Raine. At Jessica. They are doing nothing about this. If anything, they seem pleased, and all that I can think is that this is crazy. Completely crazy.

  I start to scream. To cry. To fall into full-blown, horrible, hysterical grief.

  “Brenna, it’ll be okay.” Jessica’s voice is soft beside me, but it is not soothing. I want to hate this woman. This kind woman who presses a hand to my shoulder and says, very gently, “It will be better when you wake. Sleep now, sweetie. Go ahead, just sleep.”

  I don’t want to—I really don’t. But my body is so heavy and I start to slip toward the ground.

  The last thing I see is Dante’s ashes dancing in a circle of fire.

  And the last thing I feel is Raine’s strong arms going around me and keeping me from collapsing in a heap on the ground.

  * * * *

  I wake, groggy and disoriented, in Dante’s bed, the man himself sitting beside me, studying my face with concern. And with something else that looks like hope.

  “Hey,” I say as scrub sleep out of my eyes. “I had the most bizarre dream.” But even as I say the words, the freakish, impossible truth is settling over me.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  He is wearing pajama bottoms and no shirt. And there is a vibrant phoenix now tattooed on his chest, just over his heart.