Must Love Lycans

by Michele Bardsley

  Jeff whined and snuffled closer to me.

  “Aw. He’s hungry.”

  “Come. We will feed him and then we will rest.”

  “It’s less than a week until the Solstice,” I said.

  “Plenty of time to find the chalice,” he said as he guided me past room after sumptuous room. After a few twists and turns, we found ourselves in a modernized kitchen updated with stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. It still had an old-world feel, though, with the huge hearth and the cauldron hitched inside it by a big, iron bar. Copper pots and pans hung from a dangling rack while another held drying herbs and flowers. It smelled divine. It also felt charming and cozy, despite its size.

  “Is anyone else here?” I asked.

  “Yes. Tomorrow you will meet Hilda and Arnold. They are the caretakers, and are in charge of the staff.”

  “And how many employees are there?”

  He shrugged.

  “Soooo . . . a lot.”

  “Ja.”

  After Jeff lapped some water and chomped down minced steak and carrots, Damian led me up a back staircase, through another wide, twisty hallway, until we arrived in a room that was bigger than my entire apartment at the Dante Clinic.

  Of course, there was a hearth—oversized stone in an arched pattern. A stack of fresh logs sat within the cavernous opening. Two big, wingback leather chairs were angled to face the fireplace, and a small antique table sat between them.

  There was a separate sitting room, a bathroom with a hot tub, steam shower, and sauna. “You need a map for this place,” I said as I wandered through what amounted to a personal spa.

  Damian followed, studying the features. “This was done in my absence. I suppose the hope has always been that I would one day return home.” He paused, and touched my shoulder. “Does this please you?”

  “Are you kidding? I could live in this bathroom paradise.”

  “Really? Perhaps after you see the bedroom, you might rescind that statement.”

  He was right. It was the biggest four-poster bed I’d ever seen. It was dark wood, an antique, and so tall that when I stood next to it, my hip didn’t even hit the top mattress. There was a little wood staircase nearby, and Damian pushed it to the bed, and I used it to climb up.

  Jeff was eager to explore. He sprung out of my arms and loped around the thick, patchwork comforter, yipping happily.

  I fell into the mountain of pillows and sighed contentedly. Damian joined me, rolling me so that we lay facing each other.

  “What do you think, Schätzchen?” he asked.

  “I think this is where I want to live,” I said. “But only if there’s room service.”

  “You will have a dedicated servant to see to your every need,” he promised, his tone going smoky.

  “Oh, really? Breakfast in bed? Foot massages? Neck rubs?”

  He nodded.

  “Hmm. And just who is this wonderful new servant of mine?”

  “Me,” he whispered, swooping down to conquer my mouth. “Only me.”

  My whole body went molten. I slid my leg along his, wrapping myself closer. One hand coasted over my hip to cup my buttock, and he gave a little growl. My stomach twisted with excitement. I let my shields down, and opened myself up to his. And let myself feel everything: his need, mine, the lust that broke over us like a waterfall.

  God, we could drown.

  He stopped tormenting my lips, but only so he could torture my neck with soft kisses and little hot flicks of his tongue. He pushed on my shoulder and I took the hint, lying fully on my back.

  While his hands snuck under my shirt and cupped my breasts, I dragged his T-shirt up and touched the warm, solid muscle of his stomach. Through the bra, his fingers tweaked my nipples and I sucked in a startled breath.

  “Wow. Whoa,” I said. He did it again, and I moaned, my hands digging at the waistband of his jeans.

  “Now, that’s what a man likes to hear. And feel,” he said thickly as I managed to unhook the button and jerk on the zipper.

  “I hate underwear,” I muttered as his boxers blocked my immediate target.

  He laughed, and sat up, shucking his boots and socks, and then wiggling out of his pants and boxers.

  “Shirt, too,” I demanded.

  He took it off, and it joined the rest of the clothing on the floor.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “I think you should walk around naked all the time,” I said. “It would make it easier for you to serve me.”

  “I don’t think Hilda would forgive me if I showed up to dinner wearing nothing but a smile.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Hmm.” He settled next to me, him leaning on his side and me still on my back, feasting on his beautiful body. Then with two fingers he grabbed the top of the very nice blouse and riiiiip . . . he turned it into scraps.

  “I kinda liked this one.”

  “I’ll buy you a replacement.” He unbuttoned my pants and then stripped them off efficiently along with my socks and shoes.

  He gazed down at me, one blunt fingertip tracing an erratic line over my stomach. I was wearing a black bra and panties fringed in delicate lace and ribbon, another set from the insanely expensive collection of lingerie he’d bought for me.

  His eyes went dark as he traced the top of the panties, and my heart stuttered as a wave of hot need flowed over me. That belonged to him, but it echoed my own. I was wild for him. No matter how many times or how many ways we made love, it was thrilling.

  I gripped his cock and started stroking. He was already hard, but he seemed to swell even more under my touch. He groaned, his eyes closing briefly as he enjoyed my attention. Feminine satisfaction curled through me.

  Then we heard a happy bark, and tiny gray blur leapt onto my stomach.

  “Oof!” I let go of Damian as our new doggie planted himself between my breasts and leaned forward to lick my chin.

  “That’s my woman, runt,” said Damian. He picked Jeff up by the scruff. The little dog twirled around. Damian misjudged the distance between him and the puppy. Jeff was in tongue range, and he slobbered all over Damian’s cheek with enthusiasm.

  “This isn’t a threesome,” he told Jeff. He eyed me. “You find this funny?”

  My lips quivered and I mashed them together. Jeff yipped, his tongue lolling as he split his bug-eyed gaze between the two of us. “Ohmygod,” I wailed. “He’s soooo cute. And he lurves you.” Then I laughed so hard my body shook and tears leaked from my eyes.

  “Ah, romance,” said Damian dolefully.

  He scooted off the bed, obviously too much a man to use the staircase. He turned and scooped up my torn blouse, and then he stalked toward the bathroom. He returned a few minutes later.

  “He’s in that gargantuan tub, nesting in your shirt.”

  “Glad to know it went for a good cause. Do you think he’ll be okay in there?”

  “We had a talk. He said he would sleep while I made you very, very happy.”

  “Oh?”

  “And then I promised to retrieve him for long-term snuggling.”

  “You are the best servant ever.”

  He bent over me and kissed the humor right out of me. It didn’t hurt that his lust was easily renewed, and he sent wave after wave of red-beauty-passion to me, through me, until I was ruled by it. By him.

  I ached for him to take me, to fill me.

  But he wasn’t in a rush.

  One of his hands clamped my hip, to pin me securely while he nuzzled my breasts. I clawed at the bedcovers, my toes curling as he sucked one nipple into sweet agony. He was definitely taking the lead on this, and I was okay with that (more than okay, really), but I had limited access to his body.

  One of my hands was around his neck, my fingers threaded into his hair, convulsively tugging as he continued to bedevil my breasts with that tongue of his. The other was pressed against his rib cage, just underneath his fiercely pounding heart. I was undone by his attention, and I wasn’t do
ing a good job at returning the favor.

  It’s like he heard my thoughts, or maybe he just read my emotions.

  “Let me love you, Kelsey,” he murmured.

  I relaxed, and stopping trying to figure out the who-was-touching-who-and-how-much ratio. I enjoyed. I tingled. I ached.

  Breathing? Not so much. Who could breathe? Pant. Gasp. Huff. Yep. I had those down, but drawing a full breath was impossible. This intoxicating man was like my new drug. I was addicted to Damian. And it seemed he was addicted to me as well.

  “We’ll burn each other up,” I whispered.

  “Every time.” Then he lightly nipped one turgid peak, and I nearly launched off the bed.

  So he did it again. Electricity jolted straight into my womb. My panties were soaked, and my thighs trembled.

  He reached behind me and unsnapped the bra, then oh-so-slowly pulled the straps down my shoulders. He revealed each breast like it was a newly discovered treasure, and then, because he obviously wanted me to spontaneously combust, he renewed his torments.

  Erotic heat poured through me. My skin was so sensitized that the lace fabric of my panties brushing against my agitated clit—which Damian had not even touched—offered tiny trills of pleasure.

  Damian kissed the center of my cleavage and then wove of spell of want, of need, as he dragged lips over my skin, tasting me as his hands worked off my panties. Then he knelt between my thighs and lowered his mouth toward my sweet spot.

  His lips grazed the quivering flesh of my inner thigh.

  “You bastard,” I gasped.

  He repeated the mouth torture on the other thigh.

  “If you want to live,” I gritted out, “you will get busy.”

  He chuckled; then he pressed one light, unsatisfying kiss against my clit. He gazed up at me. “What do you want?”

  “You. Inside me. Now.”

  He kissed my flesh from the hollow at the base of my throat to the undersides of my ankles. He took his time, but the quivering of his hands, and the need that threaded into his desire, betrayed his slipping control. His hands coasted over my stomach, drifted across my ribs, then paused to once again torment my breasts. Fingers rolled my nipples into tight buds.

  Then fingers dipped through my curls to tease my clit.

  I shuddered, and gasped, and moaned.

  He covered me fully, and dragged his lips over my neck, and I felt the rasp of his tongue tasting a sensitive spot under my ear. Then he was kissing me, his need filling me. He let his emotions go, all of them, and I felt his passion for me, his worry that he would lose me, the regret he harbored for not trusting his parents, for disappointing his people, and tying it all together, beat the warm, sweet pulse of his love for me.

  Oh, my God.

  Damian loved me.

  I tried to squeeze back the tears, but he noticed.

  “Schätzchen,” he murmured.

  “I need you,” I said. “I need you.”

  I stroked the strong contours of his back. His tight buttocks flexed under my palms. Sweet mamma jamma. He was big and muscled, his hair so long it tickled my arms.

  His cock nestled against my wet heat, nudging my entrance.

  “Damian,” I begged. “Please.”

  His cock inched inside. The velvety-smooth penetration of his cock offered a new kind of torment. When he was sheathed fully, I wrapped my legs around his waist and we stared at each other, the connection of our bodies and the connections of our emotions seemed to arrest us, just for a moment in pure splendor.

  I loved him, too.

  And I sent it into him. Fully. Without doubt. We might not have many tomorrows, but we had now, we had this moment. And it would be enough.

  His eyes widened, and he sucked in a breath. “Kelsey.”

  “Love me,” I said.

  “I do,” he said helplessly. “I do.”

  I clung to him and met his slow, measured thrusts.

  Delicious, sensual fire rolled over both of us. I wasn’t sure who was feeling what now, but did it matter? It was the same. It was scary and beautiful and overwhelming.

  I tightened my legs, urging him deeper. His hands curled under my shoulders as he thrust harder, faster. Sweat slicked our bodies as we strained toward mutual satisfaction.

  His teeth scraped my neck. His groan was a low rumble that became a growl. I surprised myself by answering with one of my own.

  He thrust deeply, stilling, panting harshly and, as he spilled his seed inside me, I flew over the edge with him.

  For a wondrous moment, the world sparkled, and all I knew, all I found, was absolute pleasure, and within it, the shining grandeur of love.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning . . . er, afternoon, I awoke to puppy kisses and muttered curses. I looked sleepily up at Damian, who was wiping drool off his cheek.

  I laughed.

  Then we heard a faint ringing.

  “My cell,” said Damian. He scrambled out of the covers and hopped off the bed. Jeff thought that was a fine idea, and because he didn’t realize the bed was fortyseven million feet off the ground my death-wish doggie made a flying leap.

  By the time I’d opened my mouth to yell, Damian whirled around, caught him with one hand, and then leaned down to scoop his BlackBerry from his jeans pocket. He was back on the bed with phone and puppy in hand before I uttered a strangled squeak.

  Damian answered his phone, dumped Jeff into my lap, gave my breasts a lascivious stare, and then leaned against the pillows as he listened to the caller. I petted my poor, half-brained pooch and slowly, my heart rate returned to normal.

  A minute later, Damian ended the call. He did not look happy. “Dante escaped—minutes after I joined you at Margaret’s house. My brothers and Adulfo have been searching for him, but they’ve found no trace.”

  It didn’t sound like the opening salvo to a conversation either of us wanted to have, so I threw myself on top of him and made him forget about Jarred, and everything else. We even managed to ignore Jeff, who got bored and went to nap on a nearby pile of pillows.

  Afterward, Damian took a quick shower and went off to check in with Hilda and Arnold. Then Jeff and I took advantage of the steam shower, and got dressed (me, not the dog. Oh, but wouldn’t he look cute in a teeny shirt that said STUD MUFFIN?). Damian had managed to ship all my clothes and lingerie (of course) from Broken Heart. It was amazing what he could accomplish with willpower and wealth.

  When Damian returned, he walked me down the hall to another huge room.

  It was mostly empty except for a couple of chairs, a table, and all the boxes we’d packed from my father’s study.

  “I can’t believe you managed to get it all here.” I paused. “Wait. Yes, I can. Because you’re you, and nothing’s impossible for you.”

  “Almost nothing,” he said, the whisper of sadness cut me like a thin blade. Then he smiled at me, and I melted into a puddle of love goo. “I’ll go get us something to eat while you get started.” He kissed me. I grabbed his shirt and kissed him back. He staggered out of my grip and shook his head. “Nein,” he said with a laugh. “We will never get any work done.”

  “That’s true,” I said crankily. “So maybe you should start looking around for the chalice, and I’ll look for clues about my mother.”

  “And get to know your father.”

  “Yes,” I said, my heart tripping over in my chest. In those boxes were there remnants of a man I hadn’t known—and would never know except through what he’d left behind. I was saddened by this thought, but not devastated. It was difficult to miss what I’d never really had.

  Damian offered me another smile, and then he scooped up the pug. “Come, runt. I will introduce you to the gardens, so you can water them.”

  “Shouldn’t we get him a leash?” I asked worriedly.

  Damian looked at me, arrogance etching his features. “I am the crown prince of all lycans, Schätzchen. I can command one tiny puppy.”

  “Does Jeff know that?”<
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  He sent me a haughty glance, which he softened with a half grin. Then he and Jeff left, and I turned to the boxes.

  And to the unmasking of my true past.

  Three days later, I knew my father had been a sucker for foreign films, deep-dish pizza, and nature walks. At the beginning of his marriage to Margaret, he was a producer for a local radio station; after she hit it big, he turned to managing her career.

  To my great disappointment, my father’s journals held all kinds of information about plants and birds, as well as some observations about nature, all random notations with the occasional crude drawing of a cardinal or flower. But there were no mentions about me, or his mistress, or his actual life. After a while, I began to realize how much was missing, all carefully removed by his enraged wife.

  I went through every letter, every ledger, every book, every goddamned piece of paper. I found an elementaryschool drawing done by my brother, one of my sister’s high school report cards, and a postcard from Ireland that Margaret had mailed to him twenty years ago.

  By the end of day three, I reached the conclusion that I would never know Bert, or my mother, or their story together.

  None of the photographs included me. They were all pictures of Bert and Margaret together, Bert alone, usually in some nature setting, or with them with their two children. Throughout the years, I’d been part of the Morningstone photographic history. But she’d erased me. She didn’t want me to exist, and so she did everything possible to make sure I disappeared.

  That level of hatred was difficult for me to comprehend. She’d been tough on me, but even my older siblings had admitted she’d always been a stern disciplinarian. She never hit me, and while her criticisms wounded, she didn’t call me names, and she never made me do any Mommy Dearest–type things. Of course, she was under the public microscope. If she stepped one toe out of line, she risked losing everything. Who would believe her “firm but fair” child-raising tactics if it was found out she’d been secretly abusing her own daughter? Or rather, the orphaned child of her late husband’s paramour?

  Why had she snapped? Could she have truly bided her time, twenty-eight long years, while she waited for the opportunity to finally exorcise me from her world? It didn’t make sense. But insanity rarely did.