He groaned—and looked down his torso at her. “I had been comfortable,” he complained mildly. “And completely willing to stay where I was for hours.”
“Are you refusing a blow job?” She sounded properly incredulous.
“Are you saying you don’t want me to go down on you?” he countered. He kissed the inside of her knee and gently nibbled the delicate pulse there.
“Jean-Marie!” Hélène arched, flinging her head back. Her voice was very husky, and he licked his lips in anticipation of her next reaction. Unable to stop himself, he teased her intimately with his fingers.
“You may have a point,” she admitted, panting. “Is this a scientific exploration? I thought we had done with odd behaviors and strange sights when you showed me all those iridescent hummingbirds.”
“True—but we’re not doing that. We’re simply having fun.” He slid his hand up her leg, bending it—and levered her onto her side.
“Ah—fun.” She dragged the simple word out, investing it with a wealth of sensuality. “You have such wonderful ideas, m’sieu—but only when you, too, participate in them.”
She opened herself to him, displaying the rich pinks of her intimate flower, bedecked with cream, frilled and heated, begging to be adored. But he couldn’t do her justice from a kneeling position.
He laughed at himself for having delayed and dropped down onto his side, facing her.
“Much better,” she purred and pulled him closer. She nuzzled the tip of his cock and rubbed her cheek against it.
He chuckled and rested his head on her leg, settling himself for a long bout of simply making love with no urgency to find orgasm.
Damn, how he enjoyed feeling her breath pass through her belly to tease his chest, the changing rise and fall against his nipples. He shifted, wrapping his free arm over her hip to stroke her back, enjoying the tactile perfection of the long, lovely curve of her ass and spine, even when he couldn’t see it.
Damn, the delight of hearing her catch her breath if he used his teeth instead of his tongue, or if he licked her to make her skin more sensitive then blew on her, exciting those newly awakened nerves. The sheer bliss of knowing she was here and she was his, every beat of her heart, every flex of her body as she rose to welcome his touch. Just as he groaned under her mouth’s enticement, her tongue’s delicate flicks and probes, her fingers’ spiraling grip.
He wrapped his hands around her thighs, gathering the rich curves of her ass into his hand, opening her. She was curved very sweetly like this, her rump fitting his fingertips perfectly—and comfortably. Delectably.
They matched rhythms almost immediately, at first very simply—a swirl of his tongue over her clit was exactly matched by her hand twisting his cock. They had time to explore, to add more complicated movements—an extra caress here, or a swirl and a stab of the tongue there—but always, always the beat of their lovemaking remained in sync. Passed from one to another like the sound of their breathing, like the musk in the air, the joy in their hearts at simply being together.
His blood began to beat faster, drumming through his veins with her every twitch, every convulsive flex. He stroked her mound, pressing down on it in gentle circular motions to put delicate pressure on her highly swollen clit. Even as fast as a vampira healed, Hélène had to be more alive than usual to a man’s attentions.
Her hips rolled to greet his hand. Musk clouded the air, blinding their senses.
He slid his hand forward and down, his thumb caressing her pubis, parting her curls. He circled the little bud, using her flesh to delicately caress it.
She moaned again and again, writhing under his mouth, sucking him down more and more strongly. Vision faded before the need to focus only on their hunger.
Ah, the broken little cries she was making, how her hips rolled and bucked under his hand, the trembling in her thighs that told of oncoming orgasm…
The hard pressure of seed building up in his balls as if he hadn’t come in days, the heady throb of blood through his cock…
To know they’d been together long enough, were sated enough he could take his time and enjoy her without rutting like a beast…
Her throat tightened around him, pulling him down deeper and deeper.
He thrust three fingers deep inside her eager flesh, finding the sensitive spot he knew—and loved—so well. She convulsed immediately, her thighs locking around his head in rapture’s joyous paroxysm.
Her throat tightened around him and pulled him deep, while she simultaneously pressed the sensitive spot between his legs. He bucked hard and came, falling over the precipice into climax so easily that thought meant nothing—and only sensation existed.
He was melting with pleasure, orgasm floating both around and through him, while supple fingers stretched him wide, drilling a pleasure point hidden inside. He rocked back and forth, unable to say where rapture began and ended. But the joy of taking her lover’s cock very deep, welcoming it into moist caverns…
He fell onto the pillows beside Hélène afterward, with barely enough strength to draw her onto his stomach. Conversation took longer to arrive.
“Did you feel that?” he asked cautiously. What words could he use for describing how it felt to embrace a man?
“Finger fucking me—or being deep-throated?” She drew a tiny circle on his chest before looking up at him, her green eyes wide with wonder. “Who’ll say it first, you or me?”
“Cónyuge.” He rolled the word over on his tongue and began to grin. Hell, he’d always known he adored her, no matter what it would take to claim her.
“My cónyuge,” she echoed and leaned down to kiss him. He immediately hungered for her again, his tongue surging into her to discover the tastes and shapes of her mouth. Their lips melded, allowed them to savor the sheer delight of finding and holding their perfect match. His dearest love in his arms.
Hélène came up for air finally, her head pillowed on his shoulder. After all the dreary centuries of being alone, of being regarded with fear and tolerated only because she was a necessary weapon—it was pure bliss to have Jean-Marie as her cónyuge.
To feel his contentment at holding her continuously for so long, the joy of his release drumming through her, the shattering tumult of his seed when it bored up through his cock in a white-hot fervor…To know all of his sensations, his emotions just as surely as she knew hers in the same instant when she was vaulted to the stars.
Perfection. Especially when thought returned, bringing the realization that they were cónyuges, a pair who could share every thought, every emotion, every physical sensation. Who wouldn’t want such joy every minute of every day?
Delightful as lying in his arms was, she couldn’t resist an intellectual puzzle. “I didn’t share your sensations in the kiss. Why not?”
“You were trying too hard.” He hugged her reassuringly. “The conyugal bond only happens when you completely relax, since it can never be forced.”
“Well, that’s useless. How can we practice it?” Shit, how the hell could they depend on it in a duel?
“It’s why it’s so rare,” he corrected, sounding abominably calm. “Sometimes it grows stronger during stressful situations.”
She snorted in derision and sat up. “That’s damn chancy unless we get the SAS or your SEALs to design the training course.”
“Hey, I’m the one whose esfera has two pairs of conyugal duelists, remember?” He gently tapped her cheek. “That gives me some claim to expertise.”
She brightened, reminded of her hopes for the future. “Three pairs of conyugal duelists, please: Don Rafael and his patrona, your adelantado mayor and his geologist, and now the two of us. Since Don Rafael and Doña Grania killed the Russian assassin a week ago, he should readily accept another male and female team. That duel’s the talk of the European esferas.”
“Two pairs, my love.” Jean-Marie’s face darkened, and he rose to his feet. “There are only two pairs of conyugal duelists in Texas.”
What was h
e worried about? She was free from obligations to Britain, and she’d come openly and in peace. She’d fully satisfied vampiro travel customs. All she had to do now was be introduced to Don Rafael and become part of his comitiva, hopefully part of his mesnaderos. Plus give him the photo of that long-ago Mardi Gras, as a token of her goodwill.
After all, she was a firestarter, someone who patrones had been trying to recruit for years—contract with Great Britain or no contract.
“I’ll swear fealty to Don Rafael as soon as we’re introduced.” Her voice died away.
Her beloved was shaking his head. “It will make no difference. Only Don Rafael’s hijos live in Texas.”
“That’s insane. No patrón is that narrow-minded!” Jean-Marie shot her a barbed glance, wordlessly reminding her Texas had its own laws. But surely even his patrón wouldn’t overlook basic military facts. “Wouldn’t he want to have a firestarter serving him?”
“You know how often esferas usually change hands. A firestarter who wasn’t completely loyal to him would be too great of a threat.”
She stared at him, opened her mouth to argue—and met blue-steel eyes above a square-set jaw. Ouch.
Jean-Marie was reporting someone else’s logic, which he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—change. It made sense, in its own brutally harsh fashion—and she shuddered to think of the experiences which had made its owner so inflexible.
Perhaps another approach might persuade her beloved to act. “What about women?”
If anything, the grooves around Jean-Marie’s mouth deepened. “Especially not them, given their small chance of surviving La Lujuria.” He held up a finger, forestalling her lunge into speech. “And before you ask about his patrona—Doña Grania was forced by the Russian assassin, who planned to use her against Don Rafael.”
“Forced into El Abrazo?” Hélène crossed herself, her stomach knotting itself in a dozen different directions. When she remembered the mental horrors she personally had endured during those mad days and compared them to what Doña Grania must have gone through…“The poor lady.”
She began to look for a robe, rather than relive all of her own memories.
“Don Rafael rescued her, since he was her vampiro primero, and she’s his late wife’s reincarnation. Thankfully, their conyugal bond survived and they destroyed Beau, the assassin.”
“So that ends the war with Celeste, right?” Hélène said hopefully, ignoring Whitehall’s veiled warnings about her sister’s greed. She pulled on the silk kimono Jean-Marie tossed her and belted it. At least something good had come of that horror, if the Texas and New Orleans esferas were reconciled. Dear Lord, if everyone could be as happy as she and Jean-Marie were.
He snorted bitterly and shook his head. “I wish it had ended the conflict, but it has not. If anything, matters have grown worse. I cannot leave my family while this continues, Hélène.” He shrugged, silhouetted against the beautiful gardens and a stone staircase. “After that, I will leave Texas to be with you.”
“If we can’t live here, where will we go? What will you do?” Her heart turned over and she stared at Jean-Marie, all her fine plans for their future falling into ash.
Dear God, she’d hoped for so much but how could she ask him to give up everything? At least she could ease him by ending the war. “I’ll go to New Orleans tomorrow and talk to Celeste. I’m sure if we speak face-to-face, I can find a settlement.”
“Why would Madame Celeste talk to you?” Jean-Marie whirled to face her. “She’s never shown the slightest interest in negotiating with anyone before, unless there was serious money in it for her.”
Hélène swallowed a curse at his words, which had the uncomfortable ring of truth, and tried to sound composed. “She is my sister—Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne.”
“Your sister?” Shock washed across his face, before he looked back at scenes she couldn’t envisage. Finally he studied her again, his expression guarded. “How long has it been since you’ve met each other in person?”
“November 1808, the day before you and I met in Madrid. She was part of my team, but we were accidentally separated.”
“Ah.” He made the single syllable sound incredibly significant, and a chill ran through her skin. “The day you nearly died in Madrid.”
“That has nothing to do with her.” She stared at him, stunned by the disgusting overtones creeping through his words.
“The same team whose prosaico was killed by French cavalry, patrolling far beyond their normal range?” His eyebrows went up. “The same French troop who you thought killed your sister.” He was watching her very closely.
“Are you telling me she was a double agent?” Hélène raised her hand to slap him but he caught it easily, holding her arm to make her look him in the eye.
“No, I’m not saying that—but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was true either.”
“Jean-Marie!” Hélène shrieked and wrenched herself away from him. To gain a cónyuge but have her sister’s honor besmirched in the same hour was a situation no woman should have to live through.
She stormed into the big living room and began to pace, ignoring the massive stone fireplace and the comfortable mix of carved wood and leather-covered furniture. At another time, she might have asked him where he’d found such superb brass sculptures, or the paintings of horses. But not now.
Not when la petite was at risk. She could remember all those long years when Papa and Maman had prayed to have another living child. She’d wept so many times when Maman was delivered of a child, only to see it gathered to heaven a few days or weeks later.
But then la petite was born after they’d almost given up hope. La petite, dark-haired and squalling her appetite for life from the moment she came into this world. They’d all loved her so very dearly and they’d vied to make her happy.
How could they be talking about the same woman?
Jean-Marie followed after a moment, clad in jeans, and started making coffee in the well-equipped kitchen.
When she thought she had her temper under control enough to talk, she followed him.
“My sister has always loved me.” She faced him from the door, arms akimbo, daring him to contradict her.
He nodded, his expression carefully neutral, and popped the switch to turn the coffeemaker on. “So why didn’t she contact you in England all these years?”
“Because she was ashamed of having made a deal for her life, after the cavalry captured her,” Hélène hurled back at him.
“It’s one possibility.” Sympathy, mixed with a bitter knowledge of grief, washed over his face. He took a step, lifting his hand to her.
She instinctively bristled at his unsought sympathy. She’d fought her battles alone for too long to accept help easily. His mouth tightened, and his hand fell back to his side. His gaze returned to its earlier, relentless clarity.
“Still, two centuries of guilt with no word for a loving sister? I’d call it unlikely.”
Hélène flinched at the logic in his words. But loyalty kept her stubbornly arguing the same point. “Jean-Marie, she is my only living relative. I cannot believe ill of her.”
“Hélène, I have seen her try to kill my family.” He looked straight at her, truth naked as a saber in his gaze. “Do not ask me to believe she is entirely good.”
Hélène stared back at him, colder than she could recall on any mission. Must she choose between her little sister and her cónyuge, between her family and her one true love?
Celeste’s “guest” bedroom had never been more beautiful—or more frustrating. Two centuries later, she still enjoyed reminders of Josephine Bonaparte, the great courtesan who’d risen to become an empress. Her bed was an enormous four-poster in the pseudo-Egyptian style Bonaparte had popularized, draped in yards of red silk to hide its many opportunities for tying a man up. Silk wallpaper gleamed behind furniture carved with lions and sphinxes, in a veiled warning to tattlers. Enormous gilded mirrors offered views of whichever prosaicos she was enjoying, while t
he heavy carpets and hidden paneling concealed the men’s shouts. Usually of pleasure, of course.
Not one to waste money, she’d also chosen to use its heavy soundproofing for her private videoconferencing center. It was therefore blessed with an enormous monitor and superb sound system, both normally hidden behind a sliding panel. Tonight the monitor was in the open, bleating a plea to buy used vehicles.
Celeste shot a fulminating glare at it and started donning a new dress to distract herself. Versace this time, not Chanel or Armani. Daring, not staid for a patrona. Red to make those prosaicos know who they should crawl to, despite the damn TV crews stirring them up.
“If that overconfident ass, Beau, hadn’t celebrated too soon and turned his back on Don Rafael,” she hissed, continuing her previous maledictions against the dead, while she yanked the dress’s silk down her arms.
“The Texas cretin would have been butchered,” Georges agreed and started carefully hooking her into the exceptionally miniscule example of haute couture.
“We’d be sitting high atop his hills, dining on his arrogant, holier-than-thou men.” She tapped her foot impatiently, reviewing all the lovely plans she’d had for breaking those oh-so-superior vampiros. Beginning with Jean-Marie, he of the always perfectly composed expression. Merde, but she’d have enjoyed seeing him beg for mercy.
“At least they’ve made enough enemies that bandolerismo have flocked to us from around the world, begging to help take over Texas,” Georges reminded her.
“Locusts.” She curled her lip.
“But very useful—and totally under my thumb.”
“True.” She dragged her nail down his cheek affectionately, making his eyes close in momentary pleasure.
She stepped away and poured herself another glass of champagne, debating whether to punish her sommelier for the second-rate vintage. Probably not, since she didn’t give a damn about the stuff, and Georges only drank it for the bubbles. Just another sign of the increasing economies Don Rafael’s attacks were forcing on her. Damn, damn, damn!
Bond of Fire Page 28