The Purest of the Breed (The Community Book 2)

by Tracy Tappan

  “No. Just the opposite.” He looked up at her. “I’m trying to keep your head out of the clouds so you don’t get hurt.”

  “Well, it does hurt,” she hissed on a bitter breath. “I don’t want to be reminded about how wrong I am, Shọn. I don’t want to think it or feel it, ever. Okay? Thinking about it forces me to face that…that there’s no escape.” Anatomy is destiny, and all that crud. She was who she was, so she was stuck with herself for the rest of her whole stupid life.

  Shọn straightened off the window sill, something alarmingly predatory in the way he moved, his eyes fixed on her. He came toward her, his strides fluid with dangerous grace, and stopped right in front of her, heat and muscle and threat. “You shouldn’t feel wrong.” He grabbed her by the shoulder, his grip firm, and whisked a knife from the back of his belt.

  Her throat shut off. She’d said there was no escape, and maybe in some twisted part of Shọn’s mind he thought that murdering her would be a gallant gesture. Death was, after all, the ultimate escape. A shudder shook her to her bones. But she didn’t want to die. No matter how painful her loneliness and self-doubt, she always found pieces of life to enjoy.

  “Let me help you feel right.” Shọn’s knife flashed.

  She gasped, but… He didn’t cut her.

  He cut himself.

  From the edge of her vision, she saw blood bead like a string of seed rubies along the white flesh of his inner forearm. The scent struck her like a velvet punch to the face, a direct hit to the olfactory bulb. Her chin snapped up and a low moan pushed out of her throat. It didn’t matter that she’d fed just yesterday; that had been on stinky Limburger cheese donor blood. Unmated male was…was decadence. Saliva flooded her mouth, her gums throbbing with the elongation of her fangs. Every parched molecule in her body was suddenly starving.

  Shọn pressed her down onto the vanity stool, following her to crouch at her feet. “Lick it,” he ordered her quietly, moving his forearm closer.

  She shook her head.

  “Yes.” His eyes darkened like a trick of the light—how could black turn so much blacker? “Do it.” He sheathed his knife, freeing his hand to push up her long skirt, slowly sliding it from her ankles all the way to the tops of her knees.

  Her heart bounded into a wild rhythm.

  He bent his dark head to her knee and kissed the inside of it, just near the bend.

  Her lips parted as her stomach flapped nervously. “Shọn,” she protested softly.

  He nudged her skirt higher, nuzzling the inside of her thigh.

  She exhaled raggedly, an ache pulsing through her privates, thudding in time to the riotous beat of her heart.

  He kissed her inner thigh, and she jerked. Heavens, she’d had no idea the skin down there was so sensitive.

  “Lick my blood,” Shọn murmured against her flesh. “Then I can lick you.”

  She stopped breathing, oxygen hanging suspended halfway up her throat, as if waiting for her answer. Was she actually considering it? She turned her head toward Shọn’s forearm, watching a droplet of his blood ease down his skin, slick and shiny in invitation. She flared her nostrils and wetted her lips. To a human, that blood would appear no more than red. To her, it was the vermillion shade of a Greek god’s lips, the magenta of a sunrise after a month of darkness, the bloom of a scarlet rose in the middle of the Antarctic: a perfect delicious red.

  Her skirt was up around her waist now—when had that happened?—and Shọn’s broad shoulders were pushed between the V of her splayed legs, his eyes bright and focused on her panties.

  Heat drenched her face. Her plain cotton underwear was as ugly as the rest of her clothing.

  He made an excited snuffling sound. “You smell good.”

  Her pulse jumped and sweat collected along her spine. Gazing down at where Shọn was positioned, it was easy to imagine his head pushed deeply between her thighs, the silky spikes of his hair brushing her skin while his tongue explored her secret place. Would it be traumatizing and mortifying or…feel incredibly good? That was, if a Blood Ride worked and there wouldn’t be any pain.

  And she managed not to bite him.

  She couldn’t believe she was thinking this through.

  Shọn ran his fingers along the top edge of her panties, and her lids drooped, her skin warming where he touched her. Heaven help her, there was a part of her that didn’t want him to stop.

  She felt Shọn’s fingers tremble as he gently tugged at her panties, pulling the garment low, lower until—

  A door opened and closed at the end of the hall, and the clap-clap of Pettrila’s heeled slippers headed toward Luvera’s bedroom.

  Luvera’s mouth opened on a silent cry, and she shoved at Shọn’s shoulders.

  But he was already moving. Silent as a wraith, he rolled out of her window, the swift breath of his passage leaving behind a stirring of her curtains and nothing more.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Marissa had never wanted to have sex with a man so much in her life. Three months of dating studmuffin Dev Nichita, and she hadn’t had any action beyond a few kisses here and there. Why? was the question strobing in bright lights across the front of her brain. She’d run the gamut of confused, hurt, insecure, and angry, and still hadn’t come up with an answer. Because it didn’t make sense. Not to be conceited about it, but she was hot. So fricking hot that she’d never had trouble getting a guy. Keeping him was a different matter, but getting him had always been a breeze. Not that the why of it mattered anymore. No, come hell or high water, she was getting laid before the end of their date tonight—or in the middle of it, either way—and stuff Dev’s lame excuses.

  She was prepped for a do-or-die campaign. In the corner of her room she’d set up a small round table with a pristine white tablecloth, china plates, silver service, and long-stemmed wine goblets, the crystal reflecting the light of two burning votives. Her outfit was also designed to entice. A while back the cheerleader getup she’d danced around in for that football game had driven Dev insane, so tonight she was wearing a modified version of that: a pleated miniskirt that showed off her long, tanned legs, plus a blouse with a low, scooped neckline and a hem that barely reached the waistband of the skirt, the style highlighting both her small waist and some seriously plumped-up cleavage. If she wasn’t able to take him down with this, then she didn’t know what.

  A knock.

  Aha! She crossed her room and opened the door. “Hey!” She smiled at Dev, secretly squeezing the doorknob until her palm hurt to keep from flinging herself at him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms encircling his strong neck. The mere sight of him, as usual, was sending her belly into a crazy Roaring ’20’s shimmy. He was dressed simply in button-fly jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a pair of brown suede boots, but he was such a ridiculously good-looking and well-built son of a gun, it was all she could do not to perform an old-fashioned Victorian-age swoon.

  “Come on in,” she said.

  Dev stood frozen on her doorstep, a bottle of wine clutched in his hands. His eyes roamed over her body, and his silver irises heated to sterling.

  Was he picturing her naked? God, she hoped so.

  “What…here?” he asked. “In your bedroom?”

  “Sure, why not?” She had to fight the temptation to bat her eyelashes innocently. “It’s a nice place for a romantic dinner.” And I plan to use the bed around dessert time. She gestured toward her cozy setup. “See?”

  A panicky look flickered across his face. “Um…why don’t we get a drink at Garwald’s first?”

  She felt her smile narrowing at the corners. What’s your fricking problem, Dev?! “You might want to take a whiff of dinner before you say that.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder into her bedroom. “There’s some tasty food in here.”

  He still made no move to enter, standing like a chunk of stone, his eyes tight at the edges.

  She fought down the urge to bare her teeth at him. This wasn’t insulting at all, nuh uh. “Not hungry?�
�� she asked tartly. “That’s a first.”

  “Um, no. Sorry,” he murmured, crossing into her room. “You just look so beautiful tonight, and I’m…it’s making an idiot out of me.”

  That brought back her smile. Oh, well, in that case…forgiven and forgotten.

  “Here.” He handed her the bottle of wine he’d brought.

  “Oh, great.” It was a very nice Côtes de France Bordeaux. “I already have something breathing, though, so we can have this later, okay?”

  “That’s fine.”

  She set Dev’s bottle on the wet bar, then picked up the one she’d already opened. “Are you familiar with the Italian Amarone?”

  His expression brightened. “It’s one of my favorite reds.” He settled himself at the table.

  She moved to the back of his chair and studied him, lazily running her eyes over the brush of dark hair against his collar, a tiny razor nick at the place where his cheek met his jaw, the artful shape of his ear. She recognized what this fascination with the smallest parts of him meant. She was completely infatuated with this man. Three months of dating bliss had established roots out of the seeds of connection they’d planted the day of the rock-wall climb. Their time together had been the greatest; everywhere they went, they enjoyed themselves. They talked effortlessly and laughed with even more ease. The only thing she could find to grumble about was the lack of sex. And the complaint wasn’t even about missing out on a “fun lay,” the category she’d originally assigned for Dev. Now getting together with him was about far more than getting her orgasm on; from the foundation they’d built, she ached to deepen the intimacy between them.

  Inhaling a deep sigh, she leaned over him, reaching for his wine glass with a languorous movement that brushed her breast against his arm.

  He stiffened as if she’d just shoved an icy thermometer up his ass.

  She turned her head toward him, her lips next to his ear, caressing him with her breath as she said, “I made Osso Bucco for—”

  He crashed to his feet.

  She yelped as his hard shoulder knocked the wine bottle out of her hand. It flew and flipped, then hit the floor on its side and spun, spraying red wine around her room sprinkler-style.

  “Dammit, Devid!” She balled her hands into fists and glared at him through a sudden sheen of tears. “What’s your problem?!”

  “Nothing. I…” He jerked away from the table. “I just think maybe we should go to Garwald’s for a—”

  “Oh, I know, you forgot to take your vitamins this morning, didn’t you?” Swallowing back her tears, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and heated her glare to boiling.

  He released a fractured breath. “I’m…not sure what…?”

  “Or maybe you put on the wrong pair of underwear.”

  His eyebrows crashed together. “What are you talking about?”

  She flung out an arm. “I’m just trying to figure out what excuse you’re going to use tonight not to sleep with me.”

  “E-excuse?” His Adam’s apple moved up and down. “Why would I do that, Marissa? I’ve just been, you know…”

  “Oh, gimme a break,” she snapped back. “From that original groin injury, you’ve gone from ‘I feel like I’m catching a cold’ to ‘I’m kind of tired tonight’ and ‘I have to get up early tomorrow,’ onto incredibly drool-brain stuff like ‘I think we should get to know each other better first’—ha!—and ‘I want you to be sure that I respect you.’ Respect!” she spat the word. “Gee, thanks, Dev, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to have my knees pinned back to my ears and my ankles swinging while you pound me into the headboard rather than your non-orgasm-inspiring respect!” Which wasn’t entirely true, but she’d had it.

  His mouth fell open with a silent clang.

  She marched over to her bed and pointed a rigid finger at it. “You get in this bed right now and have sex with me, Devid, or we’re through with this date. I mean it. The only excuse I’ll accept this time is that you don’t have a penis.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you have a penis?”

  His face turned the shade of a Red Delicious apple.

  “Do you!?”

  “Yes, Jesus. Of course, I have a…a…” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just don’t want to.”

  “Don’t want to, what?” Wait. “Have sex?” she qualified in shock.

  His face, if possible, stained even redder. “Yeah.”

  Humiliation rose up to burn in her throat. Tight-lipped, she asked, “Are my boobs too small, is that it?”

  “What?” Dumbfounded, he transferred his gaze to the offending mammaries.

  Her voice came out small and hurt, she couldn’t help it. “Why don’t you want me?” God, this was like standing in front of him in her back brace.

  His attention shot up to her face, then his shoulders sagged. “Ah, shit,” he moaned, pressing his eyelids with thumb and forefinger. “I do, Riss. So much, you have no idea.”

  “You just said you didn’t.”

  “No. No. I meant… Hell.” His stared at the floor. “I just can’t.”

  The realization hit her, bottoming out her stomach. Why hadn’t she figured this out before? He didn’t have a penis, metaphorically speaking, at least. “Oh, crap,” she said in an undertone. “You’re impotent.”

  Anger flared across his expression. “No, dammit,” he growled. “Don’t say that word. I hate that fucking word. I’m not…that, not in the way you think. I can get it up, I just need certain conditions to be met first.”

  She paused, blinking. Then she exhaled a chafing breath. Oh, this was so much worse. He was a pervert. “You need me to…to…? Pee on you or something?”

  His eyes seemed to bug. “Wh-what?”

  Was it worse than that? Was it…? She lowered her voice to a private whisper. “Poo?” Her cheeks flamed. She couldn’t do that. No matter how bad she wanted him, she just—

  “All right, stop it.” He held both hands up, his face grim. “You need to quit saying stuff like that, Marissa, seriously.”

  She studied his face and worried her bottom lip, her mind helplessly racing over other possibilities. What was this special condition he required in order to bring himself to full salute? “Is it…?” God, she couldn’t even say it aloud. She stepped up to him, lifted on tiptoes, and whispered it into his ear.

  He yanked back from her, a tic twitching high on his cheek. “That’s it. I’m shutting down this pervy shit.” He pointed a stern finger at her. “Tomorrow.” And with that, he bolted from her room.

  * * *

  Dev ran like someone had stuck a firecracker in his ass-crack, his legs pumping furiously, his lungs working, the memory of Marissa’s appalled expression pushing him to his fastest speed.

  Just great. For three long months, he’d been suppressing every drive he’d had to sleep with that woman, fighting against the pull of her beauty, her smile, her laughter, her scent, his growing love for her. And for what? So she could accuse him of being some kind of sick fuck? How he’d managed not to latch onto her throat—when she’d ordered him into her bed!—and proceed to erase all thoughts of impotence with a little demo of blood-equals-boner, baby, he had no idea. Except for the minor inconvenience that she didn’t know he was a Vârcolac in possession of a set of fangs. Yeah. Just real fucking great.

  Thundering up the Bruns’ porch steps, he slammed to a halt and pounded on the door with his fist. Non-stop.

  The door swung open, revealing Jaċken in the jamb, one black slash of an eyebrow lifted. “What the hell, Dev?”

  “Where’s Tonĩ?” he gasped out, gulping for air. He couldn’t catch his damned breath.

  “I’m here.” Tonĩ stepped around her husband into the doorway, a glass of white wine in her hand. “Wow, what’s going on?”

  “I can’t do this anymore, Tonĩ.” He gestured sharply…or maybe like a nutjob because Jaċken held up a hand.

  “Hey, calm down,” he said.

  “Calm down? Calm dow
n?” His voice was rising into ninny-octaves. Shit! He whipped his eyes back and forth between Tonĩ and Jaċken. “Do people actually dump and whiz on each other during sex?”

  Jaċken’s brows bunched together.

  Tonĩ bowed her head, trying to hide a smile.

  It was true, then. Gross! “You have to tell the Dragons the truth, Tonĩ. Marissa thinks I’m a sexual deviant.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow. Please.”

  She nodded. “First thing, Dev.”

  “All right, then…all right…” Sucking in a fortifying breath, he plowed an unsteady hand through his sweaty hair. “One more thing.” He hesitated, his face flushing with warmth. He felt like a boy asking about his first woody. He swallowed once, then just shoved the question out of his mouth. “What the hell is pony play?”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Dev slammed the door behind him and stood just inside the locker room, his breath hissing between his teeth.

  Sedge, in front of an open locker in his birthday suit, put his hands on his hips, and Arc, bare-chested but with a towel wrapped around his waist, raised a single brow.

  Dev clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. Pain as acute as when his father had died ripped through him, making it feel like a Bătaie Blade had just exploded in his chest, leaving only a gaping, bloody hole where his heart should be. I lost her. With a savage yell, he whirled and punched the wall. Plaster crumbled beneath his knuckles, and he hit it again. Knuckles throbbing, Dev cocked back his arm for a third punch.

  “I take it the women freaked,” Arc said, his words tight and low.

  Dev swung around, nostrils flared. “I suppose that depends on your definition of freaked, Costache.”

  To their credit, the women had handled the beginning of the revelation meeting semi-okay, admirably forgoing throwing a bunch of hissy fits when they’d learned about the sack of lies they’d been handed over the last three months. Confession one: Ţărână wasn’t home to a research institute—those scientist working behind glass? All fake—but a refuge for people trying to live their lives in safety and happiness. Confession two: the main reason the women had been brought down here was to get to know the men with the hope that they’d fall in love with one and stay.