by Ivie, Jackie
Words of poetry afflicted him again, sending his spirit upward to the round ocular above, while his feet remained earthbound. Or were they? He skimmed the surface of the floor, delivering blow after blow, mindlessly. Unceasingly. Going to a blizzard of motion only another vampire could match.
She tripped, going onto her buttocks, amid a flash of leg and black lace. That move was what saved her from the tip of his epee as it rested atop her heart, cutting more material from her gown with every heave of her breast.
Mon Dieu! He was the lowest idiot!
Jean-Pierre dropped back to the floor surface before backing, each step filled with anger at his own lack of control. His body shook at how close he’d come to losing the most precious thing he’d ever beheld. He didn’t dare look at her, so he glared at the floor. He was a fool to set up this contest. An arrogant, egotistical dunce of a fellow. Complete blackness owned his next moments, shielding her move to stand and arrange her clothing back into place. And then she brought him back to the present with words.
“Well? What do you want now?”
If only he could answer that the way he wished! Jean-Pierre lifted his head and met her gaze, immediately recognizing suppressed emotion. It appeared he might have angered her, as well. It was evident all over her, not just in the sharp way she’d spoken.
“The knife at your thigh. Leave the garter if you like. And the thing in your hair.”
“Two items?”
“Second loss,” he answered.
She pulled the pick, releasing the rest of her hair. Strands of ebony silk surrounded her, catching the available light. She’d probably have trouble seeing. It looked unfair of him. He wouldn’t have asked it, if that wooden spike wasn’t so dangerous. But she didn’t know that. She thought he was upping his odds. It was in the slight lift of her lip. Like a sneer. He watched with appreciation as she walked to the table, each step swaying not only her ass, but the waterfall of hair that ran to mid-back.
She put her epee on the table surface before fussing about beneath her attire. She wasn’t hiding her reluctance well. Her knuckles were white before she opened them, settling the knife next to the other items: her bracelet; his jacket; the hair pick. She then took her time working her hair into a long snake shape before shoving it down the back of her dress, picking up her sword, and finally turning back around, giving him a pleasant, albeit startling picture. Words immediately filtered through his mind, scattering his wits.
Women…the bane of existence. But no! They are the cornerstone. The foundation. The necessary frame. Encompassing joy. Light. Wonder. A woman centers a man’s existence. She is his world. His sanity. His heaven.
He licked his lips.
The inclusion of the wad of hair into her apparel tightened the fit, putting more definition where she didn’t need it. This view was bound to give him more trouble in reining back emotion and passion. And worlds more in difficulty. He lowered his chin and narrowed his eyes, watching her approach, until she stood close, just out of reach.
“Well?”
She went into the stance. Nothing on her looked beaten, or injured, or weak. Jean-Pierre smiled, stopping just before his fangs peeked out, before he mirrored her pose. Perhaps he wasn’t such a fool after all.
“En garde.”
The words hadn’t left his mouth before she was hammering at him, going on the attack this time, acting like she hadn’t taken two touché hits already, tired a bit, and gasped for breath. It took all his concentration and balance to meet her blows. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to change anything. She was not only amazingly talented, but she was proving to be an extremely adept pupil, her attack causing his steps to dance backward until he decided a spin or rotation would work better. Enjoyment flooded his veins, acting as the bubbles in champagne from his memory, making him almost giddy.
The ring of steel echoed and re-echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the glass walls and rising to the ceiling. She was panting again, her lips wide this time. She didn’t notice, and it didn’t seem to affect her blows, as they rained repeatedly at him. Even Jean-Pierre’s fancy moves, catching her thrusts with defensive moves over his shoulder, behind his back, and then a spin, failed to stop her attack. So, he went on the offensive, changing the tone of battle as each of her thrusts got shoved back at her. She backed, and came charging again, got maneuvered past him, and hammered right back.
Ceaselessly. Blow following blow, while her dress clung with moisture and what skin he could see glistened with an accompanying sheen. She should be exhausted. Her stamina amazed and excited and surprised him. He’d never come across such a competitor. But then she stopped, startling him with the abruptness of it. And before he could press an advantage, she turned and ran, circuiting the room. He gave chase, narrowing her circle until there wasn’t much space left. Jean-Pierre slowed his steps as he stalked her. She slammed her back against a portion of glass wall with a thud sound, and faced him, her chest heaving for breath. Her stance just made her more alluring. Dangerous. Feral. Menacing. A wild thing cornered.
He opened his arms wide, dangling the sword from his right hand, as if begging for attack; glanced away to give her time. He watched the faint reflection she cast on the wall to his left. Waiting. All his actions making it easy for her to renew an attack.
He’d forgotten her training.
She used the glass as a launching surface, both feet nailing him right in the chest with her kick. Jean-Pierre flew backward, landing with a boom that felt like it opened a crack in the floor between his shoulder blades. If he needed air, she’d have knocked it from him. And before he could think of a correct response, she was standing over him, her sword tip atop his chest, her legs spread slightly. Aggressively.
“Touché,” she told him.
“That…was an illegal move.”
“No. That was the importance of footwork. Those were your words. Weren’t they?”
Jean-Pierre narrowed his cheeks as if considering the merits of her argument, blinked slowly, swatted her blade aside, and flipped to his feet. The rasp of her breathing was even louder. Dank locks of her hair had come loose and clung to her cheeks. Her skin was flushed and rosy-shaded. Filled with blood. Ripe. Excruciatingly tempting. He tightened everything on his frame to resist her, looking aside as his fangs lengthened and cut into his lip.
“And now, I believe I require the shirt.”
“Shirt?” He didn’t comprehend it at first.
“Yes. Your shirt. And everything beneath it. On the table. Now.”
Jean-Pierre caught the reaction before he flew above the floor with it. She was claiming victory? And she wanted his clothing? He paced himself to take slow steps to the designated structure, doing his best to portray disgust and aggravation when elation and intrigue filled every portion of him. She wanted to see him? Look over a form that, despite his efforts at education and refinement, proclaimed his lowborn status, even before he opened his mouth? It hadn’t been until the middle of last century that a man with his physical stature gained acceptance and interest. Prior to that, a muscled frame meant manual labor, and that meant low societal status. His physique had been a curse, especially as muscled and tanned as he’d made it. No matter the clothing style or the money involved, his frame was impossible to hide.
And she wanted to see him?
It wasn’t punishment. It was more a supreme wish. Why would he quibble? He could barely halt the thrill. His mind filled with images. Naked flesh. His. Matched to hers. Rosy from physical exertion and moist with desire. Astride him. He tossed the sword to the table and yanked the shirt off as though angered. The undershirt came off the same way. Then he picked up his epee, surprised at how the handle slid in his grasp. His palms were slick with sweat? Real…physical sweat?
Jean-Pierre looked at his sword hand in wonder. Never before had that happened. He hadn’t thought it possible. And if such a thing as perspiration could occur, might he also be capable of the physical joys of love?
His hand wasn’t just shaking as he pondered it. The epee was swaying with it.
He turned around, and found her right behind him. Her gaze traveled up his nakedness, causing everywhere she looked to tighten as if preening just for her. Her eyes met his. Her epee hit the floor, followed by his.
“Oh my,” she said, and reached for him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Takaiya melded to him, a lunge connecting their mouths. Her lips sucked at his, stirring and then igniting a cauldron of fire. She felt his teeth slide along her lower lip, a minute sting of pain as if he’d cut her, and then such a sensation of bliss her body vibrated to it. Joy filled her. Enticement owned her. Her hands sought his hair, pulled it loose from his queue, her fingers separating the silky strands before changing to a grip. That way she could hold him, keep him exactly where she needed so she could learn every bit of his kiss. Experience every nuance of this emotion. Revel in the fervor of passion with never before experienced openness and absolute freedom.
She heard ripping as her dress seam split, as she climbed to straddle his waist, gaining her a position to conquer and detain. Realms of fantasy and vision filled her mind, so bright it punished her eyes, causing her to scrunch them shut against the glory of it. Hammers of yearning throbbed into place within her, taking her pulse with them. It became her heartbeat, and then it transferred to him. Rivulets of liquid seemed to flow next, drowning her in the ecstasy of their passage, while everything about her quested for more. More. She had to have more. And she needed it hard, and fast, and powerful. And somehow he needed to understand that.
She felt his hands sliding down from entrapment of her waist to her thighs, gripping about them with bands of iron-like strength; holding her. Fastening her. Keeping her apex tightly affixed to his lower abdomen, while his growing and enlarging rod caressed lower still. Her palms slid from the wealth of muscle at his shoulders to his chest, before dropping to the rope-like texture of his abdomen, her finger pads gliding along the bumps of it. Takaiya’s moans filtered through the prolonged kiss, gaining volume and depth with the cadence of them. She’d never felt such abandonment. Such massive passion. Unadulterated need. It was heady, it was heated, and it was especially vivid.
The old Takaiya Silva shivered and collapsed, altered in the melding of their lips, the collusion of their spirits, the dizzying height of her hunger. Her history was just that: history. Gone. Muted. Filed away. Forgotten. The withdrawal to the Hisushu village. The loss of her childhood. Her orphan status. The shock. Shame. Her disdain of all things Western. The constant training. Pain from injury. Embarrassment at defeat. The capacity to stifle emotion.
The guilt at finding they’d used all of it to control her.
Takaiya received her mother’s journal when she turned twenty. That’s when she learned the truth. Her father hadn’t left. He’d died in the quake that shattered her life. That was the knowledge she hid from. The real shame she carried. And just like that, those emotions evaporated. Everything that had created her core seemed to scatter about her, annihilated by the feel of Jean-Pierre…
Against her.
And she needed more! Primal need overtook caution, yearning underscored carefulness, reckless abandon obliterated apprehension. Her entire being craved the completeness that would come from joining with him, and everything on her knew it.
“I want you,” she whimpered, squirming against him, reveling in the tremors scoring his frame, raising gooseflesh all along his nakedness.
“I know, Mon Cherie. I know.”
His voice was guttural. Rough. Belying the poetic cadence of the words with the coarse texture of the sound.
“I need you.” Her hands moved faster along him, creating friction beneath her palms.
“You’ve got me.”
“Now, Jean-Pierre. Please?”
“Ah…love. You have no—”
She caught the rest of his sentence against her mouth, sliding her teeth against his lip flesh as he’d done to her. She felt him shake, and then lean back, separating their mouths in order to send the deepest, most intense groan into the room about them. Reverberations throbbed out and went dead against the glass walls. Then he lowered his head and spoke, sending trills of shivers all over her with the words.
“I want you, my love…my one love. Only love. Want. Need. Desire. Crave. Beyond any measure of the words. Far more than I dreamt possible. But…it must be of your own volition.”
“It is.”
“Given freely.”
“It is.”
“Without any doubt.”
“It is!”
“Without reservations, recriminations, fear, and—”
“It is, damn it!”
Her back met the table, arriving there with a move too quick to comprehend. The lace tablecloth took the brunt of her arrival as it wadded beneath her, pillowing her. He slammed both hands to the sides of her head, rocking the structure, and then stopped; glaring at her with what she immediately assigned as a crazed combination of fire and ice. Dark and light. Liquid and rock. His entire body wavered and then went motionless. Amber eyes drilled into hers while everything on him went taut; pulled like a bowstring to the point of the arrow release. Striations formed in his pecs, vascular definition framed the sinew of his arms, shadows of dents and valleys caressed his abs. And yet nothing moved. He stayed poised, statue-still, unmoving. Waiting. Just waiting.
“Jean-Pierre…”
Her upper body heaved toward him, seeking a connection he denied. Her hands slid from everywhere she sent them. Sliding. Gripping. Begging. She arched in a soundless plea, and then added words to it. “Please? Jean-Pierre, please?”
“I have one chance, Cherie. One.”
“Okay.”
“It must be given of your free will. No coercion. No forfeit. Anything else, and—”
“Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes! How many times must I say it?”
He snarled, light glinted off sharp-looking fangs, and then he lowered his chin to glower at her, projecting a look that electrified, heat that burned, light that flared. That look did more than thrill. It consumed. Branded. Imprinted.
Her hands moved up her own body, sliding from her waist, over her breasts, causing his eyes to darken. She reached the neckline of her dress and scrambled to the back of her throat, searching for the buttons that fastened it. And then it was him, reaching to help her. He placing both hands at her throat and yanked the material apart, giving her more proof of his strength. Vitality. Prowess.
The silk split with a ripping sound, releasing her to his gaze. Takaiya shimmied in place before arching her back, assuming a seemingly impossible bowed form, everything on her silently begging for what only he could give. His eyes moved from hers, the amber darkened to the shade of old gold as he looked down at her breasts, and then he lowered his head to a nipple, licked, and then suckled.
Takaiya screamed, grabbed handfuls of his hair, wrapped tendrils about her fingers, and then screamed again. Intensity surged through her, sending pulse after pulse of wonderment. Ecstasy. Release. She was sobbing before he moved to the other breast, and then screaming again. This time with shock as he bit her nipple, wrapped his tongue about it, licked…and then sucked, his action sending absolute delight flooding through her.
Takaiya became a wild thing, thrashing about the table surface with each motion he made. She was in another world. One filled with endless horizons. Rushing water. She careened through it, cascaded over a fall. Landed beneath leagues of liquid with a surge of spray. Choked. Fought. Struggled. Broke the surface. Filled her lungs with the sweetness of air. Her back pounded against the table, keeping time with the throes of ecstasy. And once it dissipated, she immediately began begging for more.
“Jean-Pierre…”
“Easy, Mon Cherie.”
Easy? She didn’t want to go easy! She needed to go massive, and huge, and hard. And now.
Takaiya’s arms went around his neck, lifting her from the table, matching her nakedness ag
ainst his, glorying in the chill of his flesh to her heat. He wouldn’t leave her…would he? He couldn’t. The hands at her thighs tightened, pulling them apart, releasing him from the constriction she placed about him. No! Her hands locked together behind his neck, gluing her to him. Still, he backed a fraction, his motion lifting her.
“Don’t leave me! Please?”
“Leave you? Ah Cherie. Please. I’d as soon cleave my own heart out. I just—. If you’ll grant me a moment. Non. A mere span of time. For unfastening—. Trousers must be the bane of existence, I swear. Oh for the love of—.”
Ripping noise accompanied him, trailed by a sigh of sound that must be satin-piped trousers dropping to the floor. And that was followed by what he wore beneath.
“Merde!”
The curse came through set lips, spliced on both sides by the wicked glint of spiked teeth. Takaiya’s eyes narrowed as she saw them, factoring in what they might mean…evaluating the ramifications. And then ignored them. Her eyes were seeing things that weren’t; putting visions in place that didn’t exist. It was better to simply sense, and exist…and feel.
She closed her eyes, felt movement beneath her buttocks, and then the slow glide of his fingers along each leg, reaching behind him to unlatch her ankles, slipping each shoe off, before placing her feet solidly against his shoulders, bending her legs in the process. Takaiya didn’t dare open her eyes. She’d never felt so wanton. Vulnerable. Exposed. Nor as thrilled, excited, and aroused.
His weight descended onto one side, and then fingers touched her apex, stimulating and vibrating, turning her into a creature of such glory, it was impossible to contain. Takaiya stretched upward and back, her mouth open and wide, pushing a continual cry of pleasure and fulfillment into the room.
“Ah…love. Such loveliness! Such beauty! It’s almost too much. It’s—. Are you…a maid?”
Takaiya slit her eyes open. He’d turned his head, placing his nose against her knee, looking somewhere over his shoulder. At nothing.
“Would it matter so much?”