Watch Me, Desire Me
Striking beauty Saxby Darling weds Lord Milo DeCapri and has all the world to do with as she pleases until one foolish action leaves her life in shambles. When she tries to kill her husband, he dispatches word to his brother, Juden Van Zandt-DeCapri, to come to his aid, and Juden arrives like the eye of a storm. Saxby has reason to fear Juden. She knows he didn’t come for revenge. He came for blood.
Juden is a variant, human and vampire, with an unforgiving and dangerous countenance. He immediately turns on Saxby. Unsettled by his appearance and actions, Saxby distrusts Juden right away and tries to keep him at arm’s length. The idea is impossible, however, as she is thrust into a world of twisted plots where she fears for her life and unwillingly is forced to side with Juden to save herself. What terrifies her most? Saxby can’t decide if she is fighting with or against Juden.
Genre: Interracial, Paranormal, Vampires/Werewolves
Length: 104,036 words
WATCH ME, DESIRE ME
Carolina Barbour
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
WATCH ME, DESIRE ME
Copyright © 2010 by Carolina Barbour
E-book ISBN: 1-60601-375-0
First E-book Publication: September 2010
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2010 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
Dear Readers,
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Regarding E-book Piracy
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DEDICATION
To my readers and husband for their continuous support.
WATCH ME, DESIRE ME
CAROLINA BARBOUR
Copyright © 2010
Chapter 1
Saxby stared into the windowpane that separated one chamber from another, lowered her eyes half-mast, and met the stare of the man who watched her.
Dragging her eyes forward, fixated on the monitor, she obeyed his silent command. She said the words he insisted on hearing, she murmured, “Watch me. Desire me.”
She hooded her eyes, wanting to disconnect emotionally from the watcher’s penetrating hold, and physically separate from the man beneath her. Every craving inside her body ached to disassociate, shift her attention, but she knew not to. Non-compliance no longer an option, this was something she must do.
She continued to hold the spectator’s gaze, even when the powerful grip of the man’s hands, sure propulsion of potent hips, beckoned her attention as he repeatedly pumped between her thighs in one compelling thrust after the other. His next stroke sent his cock soaring, and hips flexed and up thrust the length of his shaft to the depths. His next hard forge forced Saxby to pay attention as the stranger strained and moved beneath her.
Saxby tore her eyes away to look at the man beneath her when his grip firmed on her waist. At his prompting, she pressed her thighs into his flanks, fingernails scraped over the muscular chest, she rocked her hips forward—driven—coerced by the man’s insistent command.
She no longer saw the man who watched her nor could he her. She attempted to ignore the niggling thought that surfaced. The observer would be disappointed. He enjoyed seeing every nuance of her features while she gave herself to the stranger.
She closed her eyes unable to bring herself to face the foreigner, because she felt no inner connection to him except the giving of her flesh. That was superficial, easily dismissed.
She couldn’t face the man who observed, because the guilt of her actions tore at the root of conscience with each wanton act as she allowed her body’s possession by another while her husband watched.
* * * *
Saxby remained hidden in the alcove and waited for Milo to finish his discussion with the messenger, the man responsible for bringing outsiders to her bed.
She balanced her palms against the doorframe, turned her head until her ear faced toward the room, not daring to breath for fear the escape of air sound would make her miss a word of conversation, and she listened.
The stranger concentrated on counting the coins the messenger handed him, while saying, “It was my intent to leave the area, but if you require my services again I could remain.”
Saxby’s heart slammed against her chest, thumped wildly, pushed at her ribcage, as she waited to hear her husband’s reply.
“That won’t be necessary,” Milo said.
The messenger escorted the man from the chamber.
Milo turned and beckoned her to join him. Saxby gathered her skirts to keep the hem from sweeping over the stone floor, as she hurried to her husband. She stopped beside the four-poster bed, folded her hands together, and laid them demurely against her gown at the waist. She refused to look at her husband. There was no need. She knew what expression Milo wore, all too well, as it always remained passive, indescribable. Unaware she cried until the moisture rolled down her cheek, she angrily swiped the teardrops away with the back of her hand.
Milo’s tone was comforting, cajoling. “Why do you weep?”
After each interlude with another, the culpability she experienced heightened until it became almost unbea
rable. “Oh Milo—” Saxby cried, her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed, taking in air until she felt calm enough to continue. “Perhaps things went too far this time?”
“Come to me.” Milo beckoned her to move closer. Saxby sat on the side of the bed and laid her head against his chest. She listened to the labored breaths, the tune shallow sounding and distant, but a steady beat, reached her ears. “You always fear my reprisal, Saxby. Why is this?”
Her voice was low, barely above a whisper. She said, “You have watched me lay with another man. How can you not be disappointed to see?” Again, her voice faltered with emotion.
Milo stroked her hair. His even tone soothed her. “Though you were a virgin on our wedding night, you were vibrant and receptive. I wed you because you are spirited, full of flare, and have a thirst for adventure unlike I have ever witnessed in a woman. Do you think I wish to see this desire die inside you because you are stuck with a measure of a man who cannot fulfill your every need?”
Saxby jerked her head back. She clutched his lapels, searched his face to see if he was serious. Her eyes widened in alarm, as emotions strummed hard and made her tone firm with conviction, when she realized Milo believed his words. “Do not say such. You believe the nonsense you speak?”
She noticed he raised his arm with effort and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Come now, Saxby, I have not looked in the mirror in a long time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what you see. Can you deny I’m not the same man you wed?”
At one time, Milo had been a formidable height and weight. Now, the expansive chest, broad shoulders, and solid frame faded into a shell of structure, which appeared fragile and easily broken by the slightest touch that sometimes she feared to hold him tightly would cause bruises.
His chest caved in when he inhaled, and bloated on an exhale outlining his ribcage. There was no pity, but sorrow as she watched him take arduous breathes. When he moved his hand, it drew her attention to how large they were and boney the fingers appeared.
Milo smiled at her. The brilliant blue eyes always captivated her, still reminded her of the sky, but the hue dulled and appeared hazy as an overcast day.
Saxby felt the moisture slip from her eyelids and roll down her cheeks once again.
“There there, the tears aren’t necessary. Do not torture yourself at my expense. You give your body to others because I ask this of you. It shows your unselfishness and willingness to please me. Why do I request what you must think is preposterous? Is that what you want to know?”
“I do wonder, Milo?”
“Ah, because I know my wife is afraid to ask for what I know you miss. The strength of a man’s thrust.”
“‘Tis enough to be in your arms,” she said quietly.
“So you say. Now, let us not continue to discuss why we have this unorthodox arrangement.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant by the last statement “so you say” but held her tongue. It was not right to question her husband. He was Lord Milo DeCapri, ruler of Dandelion, and deserved her respect. Though it was his idea, and insistence, for her to take men to her bed and play the harlot, she bit back the need to remind him of this and insist he explain the insult.
“He seemed hearty and eager to please you. Were you fulfilled?” Milo asked blandly.
By now, she should have been used to the inquisition, but she still felt so mortified it left her cheeks burning. Milo always insisted on details after each interlude, while she preferred not to think about the encounters. As far as she was concerned, the occurrences were an out of body experience, hard to believe, as a ghostly appearance.
She knew not to deny Milo. Lying was a sin. Saxby prayed to Oslei the God for forgiveness. She chose her words carefully to be subjective. She said, “Aye, he aimed to please. He was a man intent to give pleasure.” Milo nodded, and she was relieved he seemed satisfied with her answer. If he believed she meant the man gave her any pleasure, which he did not, that was not her concern.
There was no fulfillment found in the arms of strangers. To please her husband, she pretended otherwise. For Milo’s benefit, without rancor, unselfishly she gave her flesh and acted the whore. That she would burn in the Oslei’s internal flames for her sins seemed inconsequential at the moment. Did she deserve less? The end justified the means as far as she was concerned. What she did to Milo, Saxby believed eternal suffering was a small price to pay.
Lost in a reverie of thought, Milo startled Saxby when he spoke. She shifted her attention to her husband.
“The DeCapri lineage needs a heir,” Milo announced casually, as if he just commented on something common as the weather.
Saxby stiffened as if a wood plank supported her spine. The implications of words were clear in her mind, and the fear of what he meant made tiny bumps pop out on her arms. She set her teeth to maintain her composure. She pleaded, saying, “Please don’t ask this of me, Milo. I beg of you.”
Milo arched a fair brow and looked at her dejected. “You believe ‘tis too much to protect what is your own?”
She bent her head in servitude to keep from screaming out in defiance. “By Oslei, he is your brother. Surely there is another—”
“No, it has to be Juden!”
Milo never raised his voice to her, so his sudden outburst made Saxby flinch.
His normal demeanor reclaimed, Saxby noticed Milo slipped back into calmness. He spoke in monotone, void of emotion, and detailed the orders for her to obey. “Juden is not pure DeCapri blood, but he is the only choice available to us. He must be the one who fills you with seed and fulfills the legacy of Dandelion since I am unable to do this chore.”
She wished he chose his words more carefully. The term “chore” sounded emotionless, as if he felt obligated to give her a child instead of having the desire. While she welcomed the idea of children with Milo, she couldn’t help think how detached he sounded about the notion. She scrutinized his face intensely. He did not appear disgusted by the possibility one day she might birth a son, but he could not. Reasoning through Milo’s unemotional reference made her feel better. She told herself to be patient with Milo, to understand, and accept the accident could have adversely affected his temperament when the pain was heavy upon him.
Saxby proceeded with caution, understanding the delicacy of the topic. “Can you not give me more time to consider what you ask?”
Milo stare was unflinching. “‘Tis not a request, Saxby, but what must be. I have already sent a messenger to Juden’s home and requested his presence at Dandelion.”
It took everything she had not to jump from the bed and race to her room. Instead, struggling against the overwhelming need to purge her stomach, as gracefully as possible, Saxby stood. She nodded, bid her husband goodnight, and left his chambers.
Halfway down the corridor, she paused to catch her breath. She fought to ease the grumbling of her stomach as the finality of Milo’s words replayed inside her head.
Milo summoned Juden VanZandt. He was coming.
She hurried to her room, entered, and barely made it to the basin before she emptied her stomach. She shivered, hugged herself, as the revelation drummed inside her head.
She would bed Juden VanZandt.
Chapter 2
Wraith Woodlands
Those who listened to the tales about Juden VanZandt believed no one who wielded a sword as if it were an extension of his hand could be human. To acquire such skill, accomplish such feats on the battlefield, defied what seemed humanly possible. He must have sold his soul in return for the ability to have unnatural strength that made him a force feared equally by man and beast.
The stories of VanZandt’s battles against rival clans were legendry. Those who had the misfortune of crossing his path knew his sense of justice came at the point of his blade. Without conscience, he meted punishment first and reasoned through his decision later, if at all. If VanZandt brought a man low, he had a damned good reason. That it was solely his own didn’t matter to him.
His byname “Black Bastard” whispered and trailed in his wake each time he appeared after a battle seemingly unscathed. The name had nothing to do with his cocoa, swarthy complexion, darkness and mystery shrouded him like descending night, or it was rumored ice ran through his veins.
The mere mention of Juden VanZandt’s name sent shivers coursing through a man. As tall tales went, on the warmest day if Juden stood on the edge of the River Gorge a fierce breeze would rise and send a chilling wind throughout the land. When he moved, he stormed through an area like an eye of turbulence leaving everyone in his path dizzy and gawking in awe. The sheer magnitude of his presence was enough to leave even the most daring quivering. It was said during battle when Juden appeared, gave the command to charge, his enemies would drop to their knees and die of fear rather than face VanZandt and his liege of warriors.
Juden VanZandt was an enigma: man and vampire. His mother Tanzenth VanZandt was a Vampress and mistress to Lord Winslet DeCapri. All knew even though the lord had a wife, he fawned over his mistress more than his betrothed. The lord openly adored Tanzenth as much as she loved him, and before the lord’s premature death, she proved the depths of her commitment by birthing him a son.
Juden’s towering length exuded strength and power in a frame, which seemed mammoth. His height made him rise above his warriors who were of no small size themselves. It wasn’t his formidable appearance that ignited fear in his opponents. The cold countenance of his eyes, silver as a wolf with hints of sulfur in the irises, structured jaw line, and hard planes of his face completed the overt masculinity he wore like armor. To others, Juden appeared stoic, impenetrable, and the effects unnerving if he locked his intense gaze on you.
Being a variant meant people possessed preconceived ideas about Juden. He knew this and didn’t try to thwart or convince others he wasn’t iconic, but a mere man. No outsiders’ wagging tongues concerned him. He didn’t bother with wading through the facts from fiction about who he was or what people considered him to be, but focused on things more important to him.
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