“She died protecting me from Napoleon’s troops,” he answered. An indefinable shadow crossed his face, and she stroked his cheek, his beard stubble rasping her fingers in shared pain for all those lost in so many wars.
He caught her fingertips with a kiss and turned away from the stairs, sweeping her with him, and opened a small door cunningly concealed in the ancient wooden planks. An instant later, they were inside and moving swiftly down a steep, narrow stairwell under a single lightbulb’s dispassionate beam.
Good Lord, did the Santiago Trust have similar access to every nightclub in Texas?
“Has there been anyone else for you?” Jean-Marie demanded harshly, pausing on a tiny landing.
“Never.” Her voice broke, but she managed to smile. Her hands crept up his leather jacket, savoring open zippers catching on her fingers during a hot summer night. Dreams would never include that detail, although they had reminded her of the steady beat of his heart under her palm. “You bastard, I tried everything—and everyone. I even had an affair with another woman, but that only lasted for a day. You ruined me for everyone else.”
His eyes flashed, kingfisher bright.
“Thank God.” He brushed his thumb over her lips, and she caressed it with her tongue, finding—and remembering—his calluses. His gaze darkened, and he lowered his head to hers.
She met his mouth more than halfway, her joy washing away years of loneliness. Their tongues swept over each other in a hot, wet dance of aching remembrance and anticipation, while their lips matched and melded. She moaned into his mouth, sharing his breath, her arms around his neck. His jacket was supple, echoing the rise and fall of his breath, while the metal stabbed her through her thin T-shirt, highlighting the agony of unfulfilled lust. His starched jeans were a slick armor to rub herself over and against like a cat, desperate to mark her territory, eager for fulfillment. His hands were hard and unendurably skillful when they slipped up the back of her T-shirt.
She nipped his lip, drawing blood, and growled at the rich, sweet taste. More, she needed—she deserved more. “Jean-Marie…”
His head came up, his eyes heavy-lidded with passion. “Mon coeur.” His big hand shoved her disheveled hair away from her face, and he growled in frustration. “Let’s go.”
They burst out of the nightclub into an alley still simmering with heat. Irregular shadows marked where buildings wove together, while the smaller, boxier shapes of dumpsters and money machines competed for space against their edges, mixed with occasional bicycles chained to poles. A motorcycle stood before them, its black and chrome spotlit by a single brilliant light. Road Star it called itself, and it seemed to pulse with eagerness for the open road.
He unlocked a saddlebag and tossed Hélène a mesh and leather jacket. She donned it willingly, pleased by its evidence of his chivalry. Their matching helmets completely concealed their faces, while echoing the bike’s black and silver colors. She was now anonymous to the world—and ready to be a part of him.
She swung herself onto the bike, settling easily onto the pillion seat. Ostrich leather and a backrest? Very nice, indeed, and a far cry from her usual college lad’s scooter.
Jean-Marie tightened his leather gloves, giving her an opportunity to ogle him. He’d zipped up his jacket, making it hug his body so he became a true creature of the night.
Her fingers flexed with the need to touch and claim—and keep forever.
He boarded with the same easy grace she remembered so well and brought the black beauty into life with a decisive roar. He glanced over his shoulder at her, the engine rumbling its eagerness underneath them like the look in his eyes. “Ready?”
For so much. She nodded, her knees weak.
He briefly caressed her knee, his leather glove hiding all trace of his fingers. Yet her skin burned and her pulse skittered at the look in his eyes. “Hold on, my love.”
He flipped down his visor and brought the Road Star purring down the alley. Their passage along city streets was brief but remarkable for its decorum amid groups of rowdy locals. Amiable men and women filled the sidewalks, frequently inebriated but always talking loudly about music. An occasional policeman patiently eyed the music lovers, who seemed disinclined to cause trouble.
Jean-Marie always stayed in their lane, never threading between the massed vehicles, never doing anything to attract attention. But in each block they traveled, at least one hard-eyed man lifted his head to watch them pass, before turning back to looking amiable amid the music lovers.
Hélène had seen similar men before at coronations and similar functions, ensuring the crowd stayed happy and healthy. The Santiago Trust was obviously out in full force tonight.
She filled her hands with Jean-Marie’s chest, letting his steady heartbeat roll into her palms and into her bones. The sweet rise and fall of his lungs broke into a gasp when she toyed with a zipper over his nipple, slowly dragging it up and down. She wrapped her left arm around Jean-Marie’s waist and stroked down his right leg to his knee. Hers, thank God, finally he was hers, proven by bone and muscle under her hand, by the pressure of his back against her breasts, by his hips spreading her thighs. Soon, very soon, he’d fill her again, at last.
She hissed in anticipation.
“Remember you have a live mike, Hélène,” Jean-Marie crooned in her ear. They balanced on a hillside, facing the highway on-ramp, waiting for the light to turn green. Heat rose from the bike, cooler than that in her blood.
She blushed, hoping he couldn’t see her.
He dropped his hand onto her knee, his fingers wrapping around her leg. Waves of hunger rippled through her like rockets, tightening her lungs and making her skin crackling hot and tight. She could have told where his every muscle and bone was, and what they were doing, just by listening to their echoes in her own body.
She dragged in a breath, fighting not to pull him off the motorcycle.
The light changed, and he sent the bike surging forward, jolting her heart into a faster tempo. Soon, very soon…
In this world of concrete ribbons, he paid attention only to speed, not hiding in a crowd. The engine roared its approval, pounding rhythmically into her blood, into her lungs, into her pussy.
She fondled his flat stomach and played with his belt, barely conscious of where she touched except it was him, and crooned, singing her own enjoyment. She didn’t give a damn who heard, not on this night of nights.
He growled and shifted the Road Star into a higher gear. It screamed when they took a long, curving ramp off the highway and into the thickly wooded hills. Only his skill brought the bike through the tight turns, in the lower gears necessary—despite her fingers playing with the zippers on his jacket and his jeans.
When would they reach his house?
She rocked herself back and forth on the bike, rubbing her jeans’ seam against her swollen flesh. She stropped herself against his back, fighting for the perfect position whereby the combination of his superb muscles and bones, plus his jacket, would excite her nipples into truly aching peaks—instead of their current stiff points.
Most of all, she moaned encouragement into the mike, begging him to hurry. “Dammit, Jean-Marie, please!”
“What the hell do you think I’m doing, Hélène?” He sounded as if he’d gritted his teeth when she’d palmed his cock. She smiled privately, pleased he, too, was being driven insane.
They turned into a very proper bit of road, marked by stone walls and signs on either side, and paused before a small, sturdy guardhouse. The man inside leaned out, glanced at Jean-Marie—while she tried to look demure—and rolled back the great gate. He exchanged quick salutes with Jean-Marie when they passed, his sidearm very apparent.
She waved hello, pleased she didn’t have to worry about Jean-Marie’s household being disturbed by unfriendly types. She didn’t want to think about her lover living in an armed community centered on Don Rafael’s comitiva, a very rare lifestyle in Britain.
Instead she slipped her fingertip between
Jean-Marie’s belt and his jeans.
He groaned, his stomach fluttering under her hand. “Are you trying to make us crash?”
She wriggled her hips a little closer in answer.
The bike surged forward in response, swooped down the edge of the street, and up a steep driveway. A garage door popped open, and Jean-Marie brought the bike to a screeching halt inside. A half dozen other motorcycles, some classic but all expensive, formed most of the occupants. The latest Ferrari Gran Turismo sports car crouched in the corner, a wildcat ready to run free, next to the more massive bulk of a Mercedes S500, the fastest armored sedan in the world.
Smoke was still rising from the skid marks when Jean-Marie yanked off his helmet. His eyes were hot and deadly with lust, his mouth tightly controlled.
Her hands were shaking so badly, she could barely find the fastenings to her helmet.
Jean-Marie growled something under his breath in a language she’d never heard before and lunged forward. Within seconds, he’d undone her helmet, clipped it to the bike—and tossed her over his shoulder.
She shrieked in surprise and delight.
He fondled her ass, his thumb unerringly finding the center seam and using it to tease her pussy.
She squirmed.
He repeated the caress, lingering to draw out more of her heated cream over her folds and onto her thighs.
She wriggled again and moaned.
Hard muscle rolled under her stomach, and he kicked open the door toward the house, still stroking her.
Dear God, how could he remember so much of what she enjoyed? The slow glide up the long muscles, while teasing her just a bit? Not to mention the absolutely shameless fondling of her pussy, using the seam to masturbate her with her panties. If she’d known simple pieces of cloth could be used that way—well, she might have come naked to avoid being manipulated. Or maybe not, if she’d known she’d encounter him.
The door banged shut behind them, and soft waves of scent reached out to her—lemon and hibiscus, lavender and rosemary, roses and sage, plus others which were exotic and unfamiliar. Water rippled over stones and dripped into a pond. Small insects and birds sang to each other, while the city’s noises were impossibly distant. Hélène tried to lift her head for a look, but Jean-Marie chose that moment to knead her ass.
She moaned again, her eyes falling shut. Oh, please could he take her quickly before she grabbed him?
He rolled her off his shoulder and into his arms.
She blinked slightly and tried to form a question.
He stretched her out on a great wooden table, silky smooth and sturdy as a stone altar, nestled within a deep colonnade. Large woven chairs, covered by smooth, supple leather, ringed the limestone walls around it. Overhead, a circular, wrought-iron candelabrum hung below heavy wooden beams holding up long wooden twigs.
What a wonderfully private grotto for making love…
Pure anticipation sent fireworks through her veins and put a wicked smile on her face. She wiggled, testing her new throne’s potential.
Jean-Marie’s eyes flared, and he shrugged out of his jacket, then tore at his trousers. She tugged her jacket open and went for her jeans, fumbling at the buttons. Now—she wanted him now.
He yanked them down to her knees, opening her for him and braced his arms on either side of her, caging her. “Mine. You are mine.”
“Always,” she returned, equally fierce, and drew a single nail down his cheek. Crimson dripped in answer, enriching the air with blood’s wonderful salty perfume.
Their mouths mated, sealing their vow, tasting, devouring what they’d lacked so long. His hands slid down her sides, and he lifted her hips, his fingers harsh yet so very perfect. She arched her pelvis forward, begging silently, and his cock kissed her intimately, delved into her, plunged deep. She shrieked her approval and tightened herself intimately around him.
He shuddered like a lost ship finally coming into harbor. His arms tightened around her for a long moment before he started to move, slowly, then faster and faster. She threw herself onto him, seizing him, greedy for every taste, her every fiber needing proof they were finally together again.
Pulses built into waves, surging toward a crescendo. Fire ran through her veins, leapt from her breasts to her womb, tightened her lungs at the touch of his breath. Everything but him was a blur. All she could see, or hear, or feel was him and his desperate hunger.
He shifted slightly, changing her hips’ angle, and tucked her face against the base of his throat. Oh yes, please let her drink from him and taste his magical blood again…
He thrust again—and caught that perfect point.
She cried out and tipped into orgasm. Stars burst over and around her, shot up through her spine.
She bit down hard, cleanly, and found his jugular. His rich, sweet, lifeblood flowed into her—brilliant with joy, salty with long-ago tears, complex as the bright flowers of springtime.
Her body locked, convulsed in ecstasy—and she clawed his back, instinct driving her now. Rapture pounded her, ran caroling through her.
Her mate, hers, at last.
He shouted and arched, twining himself around her to take her neck. His fangs pierced her, quick and sharp, like a stab of pure joy—tossing her higher.
His lips closed over her, joining them perfectly at last in three places. He drank, one pounding beat speeding through them both.
A deep pull of his throat muscles tugged at her, sent his cock deeper into her—and tipped him into climax. He jerked again and again, his seed filling her hotly from within while their blood satisfied every hunger of each other’s body and heart. Flowing like a river of life back and forth between them…
FIFTEEN
Sunset faded from the night sky, revealing the stars. An owl called from the oak and cedar trees blanketing the hillsides beyond the high limestone walls. Fireflies danced in the night air, and a white-tailed deer delicately drank from water rippling down the hillside through a carved channel.
Jean-Marie’s garden was so cunningly cut into the hilltop with its terraces and staircases, it was difficult to tell whether humans or animals were supposed to frolic amid the masses of native and Mediterranean plants. Flowers and fruit trees scented the courtyards and stairs closest to the house, before yielding to the forests and thickets bordering the canyon and river edging the compound. Every room had windows offering their own unique view.
Like the rest of his house, the bedroom was furnished in an eclectic mix of Old World and New World antiques. The chests had come from Spain and England, while the bed had been built in St. Louis for the riverboat trade. The rugs were Turkish, the coverlet was a flamboyant, handmade star quilt, and most of the paintings were seventeenth-century Flemish. Museum curators had offered him serious money to break up his collection, and he’d laughed. He’d gathered them together for their memories of good friends and—foolishly, he’d once thought—to amuse Hélène.
She rolled onto her back beside him and stretched lazily, clasping his bed’s antique, wrought-iron headboard. It was the start of their second night together, and they still hadn’t gone anywhere else. By unspoken mutual consent, they’d spent their time making love, not talking. Everything beyond each other and this moment could wait.
Would he ever be sated? Not of her. Any part of her, from her nimble mind to the blinding rapture of her blood to the smallest portion of her body.
He rolled his thumb over her foot, fascinated by how neatly her toes fitted together. Dear God, she was so damn beautiful with the delicate flush under her satin skin.
He felt, rather than saw, her look down at him. “Still trying to see if they bend in the right direction?”
“You are a vampira, after all, whose anatomy deserves the fullest investigation.” He gently ran his hand up her leg from her ankle to the back of her knee, finding the strong muscles and tendons under her smooth skin.
“Flatterer.” She chuckled, drawing her other leg up and turning onto her side to face him.<
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He pulled a face in mock dudgeon, teasing her back. She laughed a little harder, and he slid down the bed until his face was even with her hips.
“You left me.” Hélène almost sounded like she was pouting.
“Not really.” He spread her legs and slipped neatly between them.
“Again so soon?” An air of curiosity, but not raising an objection.
“Why not?”
“True. But you’ve pleasured me so much, I may not have much to offer.”
“Is that a challenge?”
He fluffed her outer lips with his tongue.
“No, just a statement of, ah, fact.” She purred, lifting herself toward him. A warm blob of cream slipped down her thigh toward him. He licked it away, and she trembled slightly. Sweet, very sweet. Oh yes…
“Have something in mind, Mr. Texas vampiro?” Her voice was all too husky, and she gently kneaded his hair, while her knees embraced him.
His pulse speeded up, and his skin warmed. Good God, she smelled lovely—musk and sweat, salty and sweet, entirely Hélène as he’d imagined all these years.
“Just a little playing around, my dear firestarter.”
His tongue probed into her, delving deep for more of a taste, circling.
He muttered happily to himself and settled down for a feast. If he explored a little more—or maybe if he slipped his finger into her asshole to distract her and please himself…
She tugged at his hair, rather emphatically.
“Hmm?” He looked up at her, a bit amused. Sated she might be—but she could still offer surprises. He suspected she’d always find something new to amuse them in bed sport.
“I want to play, too,” she announced. Her mouth was bruised with passion, but one hand was tapping on the sheets. “I want your cock.”
Lust, which should have been long-since dulled into a pleasant haze, blazed back into life like a desert sunrise. His chest tightened, fireflies of life dancing over his skin faster than the heated sparks outside.
He came up onto his knees over her—and she grabbed his hip, her free hand cupping his balls.
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