Wicked as She Wants

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I volunteered. And it’s getting easier, isn’t it?”

  “I feel strange. Not weak, like I did before.” His voice was ragged and deeper than it had been. He swallowed hard and went still, and I knew that he had noticed the vein in my neck, thumping so close that there was no way he could avoid smelling it, no way he could stop the hunger.

  “When will I want blood? Instead of you?”

  “I can’t say. What do you want now?”

  “Only you.”

  “Then have me.”

  29

  He sighed, a long and heartbreaking sound. His lips found my neck, kissing first, almost nibbling, as if he didn’t quite know how to break the skin or was trying to fight the beast within. Then, as I had, he nipped just the tiniest bit. I jerked in his arms, surprised by the feeling it woke in me. His lips, the bite. The way he was sucking gently. It felt . . . good.

  There was a primal rhythm to it, to the warm, wet pull of his mouth. I was still in his lap. One of his hands was splayed across my lower back, his other cupping my jaw and holding me in place. He moaned and shifted underneath me, and I realized that he felt it, too. He felt it and liked it . . . very much. Tingles shot down my spine, and I let my head fall back a little more. The blud he was taking—it made me feel lightheaded and weightless, as if I were floating. When he pulled away, a whimper escaped me. Before I could even open my eyes, his lips were sealed over mine.

  His mouth tasted of home and hunger and wine and the spice of lingering magic. I kissed him back, my body uncaring whether I craved his blood or his blud or his hot, probing tongue. He tasted me, drank me in, growled into my mouth as if upset that he couldn’t eat me in one big bite. I could feel the sharpness of his fangs with the tip of my tongue, and I reveled in the fact that he was no longer some weak prey animal, waiting for a tragedy or a stupid mistake to take him away, possibly at my hands. He was more substantial now, more real, more solid, tethering me to my body and the moment with the surety of the moon acting on the tides.

  I felt him pulling away from me, and I sucked on his lip as he left, reluctant to be without him.

  “Ahna, I feel so . . .” He trailed off, and I nipped his lip again.

  “You feel?”

  “Strange. Hungry but full. Powerful.”

  His arms held me loosely, and I liked how light I felt, how empty and malleable and open. Carefree and drunk on what little blud I had left, I swooned a little, and he caught me tighter against his bare chest, his skin so hot it felt like liquid flame.

  “Kiss me, Casper.”

  “I can’t kiss you. You need blood. And I can’t control myself.”

  “Don’t. You don’t have to. I don’t want you to.” My voice slurred a little.

  “The things I want to do . . . they scare me. It’s like everything’s washed over in red.”

  “Give in to it, Maestro.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  I tried to kiss him again, but he held back as if afraid he might break me. The beast in me rose to the surface, furious at being denied. With that extra burst of ferocity, I pulled myself to his neck and latched on to the same place where I’d bitten him before. He was almost bludded but not quite finished, and he hadn’t healed yet. I sucked hard, blissful at the heated rush of satisfaction, of blud and blood perfectly mixed. Old Verusha had never hinted that it would be anything like this. Bloody and messy and hideously painful for us both, yes, but delicious and sweet? I could not have imagined it. The charm was strong, the spell well cast. Whoever that Criminy fellow was, we had cause to thank him.

  As I drank, savoring the rhythm of his heartbeat, his wide palm made circles on the small of my back. I couldn’t escape knowing that he was enjoying it, too, his body’s readiness apparent under the tangle of my dress. But it wasn’t enough, being gathered in his lap like a child or a favorite dog. I had told him to give in to it, and bit by bit, as his hand inched around to caress the curve of my hip, I found that I couldn’t escape giving in myself. With one last swallow, I pulled myself away from the blud, its call dampened by new urges. I licked my way up his neck, found his lips, and kissed him the way I wanted to be kissed. When his hands fastened around my waist, I turned to straddle him, my knees on either side of his legs.

  “You need more,” he murmured into my mouth, and I answered, “I’ll take what I need.”

  When he tried to pull back again, I settled my hips against him, rocking from side to side as I kissed him, hard and demanding. His grip on my waist slid down, settling possessively on my hipbones. He jerked me closer and pulled up his knees behind my back. We were lined up in the most primal way, and I found that in this sense, at least, I liked being trapped.

  “I need more,” he whispered in my ear, and I turned my neck for him, anxious for the sharp pain that preceded the strange euphoria of him feeding on me.

  He bit down harder this time, as if testing his fangs. I gasped as he latched on, and he moved against me, hip to hip, rubbing sensuously through the layers of fabric to reach the most secret part of me. Tentatively at first, then more pointedly, I moved with him, his thrusts matching the pulse of his lips sucking at my neck. It all moved together like the waves I’d seen at the ocean and never, ever dared touch. They were dangerous, those swells and crests, and I knew that they held the power to destroy me instantly. But this—these waves—they felt right, and if there was any threat of me flying apart, it was from pleasure.

  The rhythm was timeless, and I caught on fast, my breathing and heartbeat a high counterpoint. I wanted something, something more, something I couldn’t describe. My hands found his bare shoulders, broad and muscled and warm, my nails digging in with urgency. I began to understand what could inevitably unfold between two people, but at the same time, I was somewhere else entirely, floating again. And hungry, so hungry. For him.

  With one last, wild lick, he pulled back from me, his hips still moving, his mouth wet with my blud.

  “Do you need more?”

  “I’m . . . I need . . . I don’t know.” And I didn’t.

  “Do you want me, Ahnastasia?”

  “I don’t know what I want, but if I don’t get it, I’m going to rip you to shreds.”

  “No,” he barked, and when he stopped moving against me, I hissed and focused on him, our eyes but inches away. He chuckled and drew back, holding my face in both hands as if daring me to look away, his smile kind and dimpled but his eyes stern. “No, darlin’. No. We’re way past that adorable little vicious act of yours. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it as equals. I’m not your pet anymore.”

  I whimpered and tried to kiss him, but he was stronger than he had been and kept me at arm’s length.

  “Why does it matter?” I said. “Don’t you need it, too?”

  “I need you, not it. And I’m done being used. If you’re going to take from me, you’re going to start giving back, and I’ll start with your heart.”

  For that second, I swear my heart stopped beating. All the want and hunger and desperation faded in the face of his demand. Could it be possible that Casper . . . loved me?

  I had been raised in wealth and coldness, receiving more warmth from Verusha than from my own family. Personal greetings were mannerly and swift, a polite peck on the cheek. Hugs were almost unknown, for how could my mother draw me close when her dress was encrusted with diamonds and weighed more than she did? Love and affection were things you felt for your country, for your favorite hat, for the wolfhound that greeted you without fail at the door. But to expect love from a royal match—it was laughable. Almost unheard of. I had never considered, in all my life, if my parents loved each other. I knew for a fact that they didn’t.

  And here we were, tangled up and blood-spattered on the floor of a Moravian inn, and this man, this Stranger, wanted my heart. He wanted my mouth to say words I had never heard spoken. He wanted me to declare myself just for the privile
ge of rutting with him as I’d seen the passengers of the Maybuck meet, flesh to flesh. The day before my final stand, before I planned to murder a dictator at a holy rite in front of my people, he wanted me to make a commitment that no princess, no Tsarina, could make. A Tsarina’s heart belonged to her country.

  The feelings he had awakened in me were tempting, and I was curious. But those feelings, that satisfaction—they weren’t worth lying to him, making promises I couldn’t keep. Maybe the intimacy I felt was part of the bludding process, part of the powder’s magic. Maybe I had to admit to myself that my beast had desires, and blood was apparently not the only one.

  Or maybe . . .

  I swallowed hard and sought my answer in his eyes.

  It hit me like an arrow, thudding in my chest. In Casper’s eyes, I saw more than pleas and lust. I found recognition, acceptance, and dedication. It was all written there for me to read, in the shadows dancing against the blue. This man, this new Bludman, had feelings for me. Fierce ones that couldn’t be denied. And he was no longer confused, lost within himself. He was strong like me, powerful like me. And he wanted me, he loved me, as sure as his blood beat in my veins.

  In that moment, it went from impossible to simple.

  He hadn’t asked for a commitment, hadn’t asked me to love him or marry him or pledge myself to him eternally. He wanted my heart, but he hadn’t demanded it. He had asked me, quite simply, if I wanted him. And that was an easy question to answer.

  “I want you,” I said, and a wicked smile lit his face.

  In one smooth swoop, he stood, holding me tight against his bare chest, his hands under my thighs. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he carried me as if I weighed nothing. Before I knew what had happened, he had shoved through the door into the next room and spread me out on the bed. It swung under me slightly, the ropes that tied it to the ceiling creaking. I felt more weightless, more pure and groundless and free, than ever. Even though it was past the last rays of sunset, the lantern light from outside was bright enough to shimmer through the stained-glass window and paint me in a rainbow of colors.

  Casper walked around the bed. Stalking me. I stretched and arched my back for him, lifting one leg to let the silk dress slide up one calf.

  “Everything about you is just so . . . delicious.”

  I grinned, showing him my teeth. “Taste me, then.”

  He wrapped long fingers around the rope, his eyes tracing it to the ceiling in curiosity. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, he leaped lightly onto the bed, which barely swayed, thanks to his newfound dexterity, the balance and litheness of a predator already taking root. With the same care I’d seen Tommy Pain use when the cat walked a ledge, Casper prowled around the outside of the bed, drinking in every inch of me. When he wound around the ropes and stepped over my feet, his shadow blocked the window, and for just a moment, he looked rampant and wild as a timber wolf, his eyes glowing in the darkness.

  There was a new confidence there, too, whether because of my admission or the fundamental change in his body. He appeared by my side on his knees, so quick and smooth that it seemed as if he’d melted, the bed barely swaying. The squares of light flowed over his bare shoulders like liquid, lighting his hair like the halos I’d seen in old-fashioned Pinky paintings of saints and angels.

  “I have wanted you since the first moment I saw you. Even half-dead, you were more alive than any woman I’ve ever met.” He stretched out, half beside me, half on me, one hand tugging my curls. “And that hair. It’s like I can still see it sometimes, the color of butter. Like I can feel it pulling through my fingers when I’m asleep and dreaming of you.”

  “It’ll grow back,” I said, almost apologetically, and he chuckled.

  “Hush, sugarplum,” he said, his accent strange and mellow.

  He kissed me, long and slow, taking his time. The anticipation built, my body crying for his touch and rabid for satisfaction as he refused to hurry. The wine had made it easy the first time. Sharing blud had made it even easier, the excuse of feeding and hunger melding with the physical desire for the body around the need for sustenance. But now there was only him and me and the knowledge that we wanted each other, whatever that meant.

  “It’s easier to kiss you now that I don’t want to eat you,” I murmured.

  “For me, it’s harder. Because now I want to eat you, too.”

  I gasped as he kissed down my jaw, tracing a line along the vulnerable skin there, the veins close to the surface where he’d already bitten. When he found the hollow of my throat, I moaned and ran my nails down the back of his neck, his hair soft on my wrist. He kept going, sliding his tongue along my collarbones and into the V of my silk dress. With a growl of frustration, he grasped the sides of the bodice as if to rip it in half, and I covered his hands with my own.

  “Patience, Maestro.” I slid his hands to my hips. “You’ve waited this long.”

  “If you insist.”

  I rolled over onto my stomach, and he gently bit the nape of my neck. Kissing down my spine, he unbuttoned the dress, one flick of fabric at a time. His lips followed his fingers, and I quivered as he hit the spot that was usually covered in corset. I had left it with Verusha, knowing that we were in for a messy and painful business. But now its absence gave me cause to purr, feeling the soft heat of Casper’s lips trailing on skin tender with unaccustomed freedom. He undid the final button and ran his tongue all the way up my back, and something inside me melted, heavy and sweet as puddled wax.

  He rolled me onto my back again, rough and slightly playful, the bed swaying. One after the other, he slid my arms from the fitted sleeves, kissing the curves of my shoulders, the tender insides of my elbows, and the pale white dip of each wrist. I closed my eyes, savoring the anticipation, wanting him to get back to kissing me or feeding on me or something less ticklish, more real, more demanding.

  “I will never get used to all this damn fabric,” he murmured into the curve of my neck.

  He kissed me hard as his hands slid the gown down to my waist, and I pressed against him, skin to skin and hotter than the sun. When he pushed it down farther, past my hips, I arched up against him, glad to be free of the blood-soaked silk. My foamy petticoats and his breeches were the only things left between us once he tossed my dress onto the floor, and I wanted more than ever to be completely unfettered.

  The bed creaked and swayed as he rolled onto his side, taking me with him. One hand traced the swoops and valleys down my side, which had matured while I slept in the suitcase and filled out further with a week of good blood. When he found the swell of my hip, he groaned and pulled me closer, right up against him.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. I growled, slipping out of my petticoats and tossing them off the bed, finally free.

  His hands were suddenly everywhere, hot and greedy and grasping. On my hips, pulling me closer against the swell in his breeches. Scratching lightly up my spine, making me squirm and bare my teeth. Cupping my breasts, teasing the nipples with his thumbs, squeezing and gently pinching. Eyes closed, I felt everything, my entire body awake and open and willing.

  He rolled me onto my back, his cheek rasping as his lips found my nipple and sucked. I moaned, unprepared for the hunger it would raise in me. My back arched, my other breast crying out to be touched, and his hand obliged, the fingers as nimble and skilled as I had imagined. Every time I’d watched him play the harpsichord, whether I knew it or not, I had thought of this, or something like it, of cunning fingers and warmth and that same cocky ease applied to coaxing music from my body.

  The way his hands and mouth roved over me—it was intoxicating, better than the bludwine. I couldn’t tell where one hand touched and another stroked, where his mouth would go next with wet tongue and clever lips. He kissed between my breasts and licked a line down my ribs, dipping briefly into my navel and making me quiver. When he went farther down, I thought about stopping him, asking what, exactly, he was doing. Because surely he wasn’t going to . . .


  Oh, holy mother. He was.

  Tongue wide and wet, he licked a long swath right where I wanted it most, right where I’d been aching for his touch, and I bucked and moaned as he found other ways to lick and taste. He seemed to savor it, and as I had no basis for comparison, I just closed my eyes, arched my back, and loved every second of it. The sweetest, warmest feeling started to bloom deep in my middle, and when he slid one finger in gently, moving it in time with his tongue, I thought I was going to die on the spot.

  This feeling was better than the blud, better than anything I’d ever known. I didn’t know how his harpsichord kept from bursting into flames under his hands. The loveliest sensation was building in me, and I could barely breathe, barely stop myself from screaming. One hand twisted in the bed sheets, one caught in his hair, I was riding a wave that I could barely contain.

  With one last, deep taste, he pulled away. I wanted to rip his neck open in frustrated fury. He caught my open mouth with his before I could protest, all but swallowing my tongue with the same rhythm he’d used far below. One finger continued rubbing me, gentle and unceasing, and he kissed me deeply and unsnapped his breeches with his other hand. Somewhere far off, I heard his pants hit the ground, and then his body pressed against me from shoulder to foot, hot silk that smelled of pride and hunger and triumphant alpha male.

  Aztarte help me, I purred and rubbed against him, shameless to resist my own nature.

  His—I didn’t even know what to call it, and I wasn’t about to stop kissing him to look down—pressed against me, rubbing in the wetness he’d created and all but driving me into madness.

  “Go on,” I whimpered.

  He pressed tighter, just the tip inside, one finger circling my flesh just above.