Carver examines my eyes more closely, that hint of silver still in them. “You haven’t fed enough.”
“No. I’m starving.” I graze my fangs over his chin and move to the hollow of his throat by his collar bone. My most feral instincts are taking over now, and I can’t stop myself from laving at the delectable skin there. No blood pours through his veins anymore, no heartbeat pats out a desperate tattoo beneath his skin, but the blood there is still rich. It’s the sustenance I need. “Need you, Carver. I’ll always need you.”
“And I’ll protect you, give you everything you need. No matter what.”
“Don’t die for me.”
He chuckles, and his voice is warm again, like velvet for the ears. “I don’t intend to. If I do, I won’t be able to spend an eternity making love to you, ma belle, and that would be tragic.”
Carver steps back from me, and I mewl a little. It’s a funny sound to escape from my throat but when my vampire side works through me and takes control, I hiss too. It’s like I’ve become an entire effing animal kingdom. He yanks off his jacket, and then reaches for his buttons. At first, he’s slow and deliberate with his undressing, but I feel my eyes flash silver. Then, I yank up the slit in my skirt and give him an eyeful of the expanse of my thigh. Whatever control Carver has been trying to maintain shatters like a glass knocked to a tile floor, and he practically tears off his shirt.
Licking my lips, I eye the broad expanse of his chest. When I first met him, I knew he had a physique honed by methodical work, not by gym rat excess and meathead fanaticism. A voice in the back of my head reminds me that his lean musculature and tapered shoulders come from centuries of being an assassin, of hunting both human and inhuman prey. He’s killed before, and I assume to keep his cover for Morana that, for a little longer, he’ll have to keep killing. But now’s not the time for that. I push the worries about tomorrow, about the prophecy and the long, impossible shadow Morana casts aside.
Tonight, we need each other and my thirst for blood has the least to do with it.
“You’re beautiful, ma belle,” he purrs as one hand reaches out to grip my thigh.
I shudder in his grasp and already my clit is throbbing. We haven’t had time for each other lately and, ideally, I’d want everything to last. If Carver wants to take hours teasing me, then I’m usually inclined to let him. But not now. I need everything; the desire burns through my veins like a four-alarm fire.
“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” I promise.
Carver pulls me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. With my strength, I can support myself with just my thighs pressed tightly around him, but Carver doesn’t move his arms away. One hand is firmly planted on my ass, and the other runs over my breast. My nipple is pebbled under the thin fabric of the silk and I don’t regret going braless. Not at all. Of course, the cut of the dress with the deep V in the back would have prevented anything else, but now the extra access Carver has makes it that much more worth it as a choice.
My mouth is back on his, hungry and demanding. This time, our lips crash together and our tongues dance for dominance, a tangle of want and lust that can’t be controlled. My fangs are down and, in my haste, I nick his lips. Blood, hot and rich, flows onto my tongue. The heady sensation isn’t enough, not when it’s just a drop. Lapping at his cut lip, I work through my silver-sighted haze. When I first changed, Carver described it as gaining a second soul. I’m still not sure if that’s a metaphor or more metaphysical. Either way, it’s as good a way to explain what becoming a vampire is like, at least for me. When I feed, when the need surges through me, it’s like a wild animal surges to the surface, something uncivilized and ravenous.
My tongue laps at his chin, tickled and teased by the stubble there. But I’m far from done. Sucking and licking my way down the spicy skin of his neck, I finally find my way back to his pulse point. There’s no need for him to guide me anymore. I know how to feed, even if stopping before I overrun the balance is continuing to be a challenge. Rearing my head back, I make sure my fangs are fully descended. Then, I strike. It’s like a cobra digging its fangs into a mouse; I move with lightning speed. Instantly, I’m rewarded with the rich, coppery reward I’ve been craving.
Blood.
The liquid vitality flows into me even as rivulets of crimson also slide down the sides of my mouth. The utter ecstasy of the drink fills me with warmth from the inside out, and I’ve gone from feeling like a four-alarm fire in my veins to the roaring lava of an unleashed volcano. Everything is sizzling inside; my heart would be thudding if it still could. My clit does throb, whatever magic animates it sends that sensation swirling through my cunt.
That’ll come soon enough.
Fucking hell, I’ve been so hungry. In Morana’s court, I was too nervous to notice the wild hunger raging through me. Now, it’s like Carver doesn’t have enough blood to satiate me, as if I could drain him dry.
But I won’t.
As much wild abandon is surging through me, as strong as the silver haze is around me, I know there must be balance. I have to stop. Taking two more deep draughts, I let the rich nectar slide down my throat. It’ll be several days before I can feed from Carver as deeply again. It’s not enough---it’s never enough---but it’s satisfying for now.
Reluctantly, I force my fangs to retract. Sticking out my tongue, I lap at the wound. It’s slightly puckered, but by tomorrow it’ll hardly be noticeable. Just one of the many gifts and advantages of vampiric healing. Pulling away is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do because the cravings are still so strong. They reach deeply into my gut and make my core pulse with need.
But there are other things I want, and the last thing I could ever bear to do is drain too much and hurt Carver. He’s strong and ancient compared to me, but balance is tricky, and I need to keep him healthy. Especially if Harlow’s vision will come to pass soon. If he’s headed for torment, he needs to be at one hundred percent to fight it.
Hell, he needs to be at one hundred and ten percent.
His glacial eyes regard me. They’re half-lidded and not quite focused. I can’t blame him. Whenever he sucks on me, it’s orgasmic, as good as sex. Eventually, a deliberate intensity pours into his cerulean gaze and he grins back me, as content as a cat that’s lapped up a saucer of cream.
“Still hungry, ma belle?”
Laughing, I toss my long, golden hair over my shoulder. “Not for blood.” A small lie, but at least there’s some truth in it too. I need him. “I want you, crave you.”
Carver nods and reaches down. It takes a bit of shimmying, but with a clink his fancy trousers hit the floor beneath his feet. My dress has been rucked up to my waist, and the scrap of lace that had once been my panties lays ripped and discarded on the balcony’s tile below. The head of his cock is nudges against my soft folds, as warm and eager for me as I am for it. Adjusting the angle of our bodies, I line my pussy up with his dick, and he slides in expertly, the ridges of his shaft teasing every muscle of my inner channel. Carver gives me just hints of the pleasure to come, but I want more.
With him, a little is never enough.
Effing hell, with Carver extreme overdoses are never enough either.
He rocks his hips steadily, a slow in and out at first. It’s the best form of torture to be teased with just the slightest friction from his massive cock. My clit’s still pounding, and I dig my fingernails into his shoulders. Pressing my hips harder against his, I beg, my voice a throaty moan. “I need more, Carver.”
“What do you need, ma belle. I want to hear you say it.”
“Need your cock but need you too. Your souls, your blood…your everything.”
This time it’s his eyes that go silver. Any control Carver’s been clinging to is gone now, and he pounds into me with everything he has, gripping me hard to hold me against him. If I were mortal, I’d be crushed by the force. I’m not. Not anymore. I’m Kresova, and even if I’m young, I can withstand more than most people have ever imagine
d. I grind down on him, raising my hips with all the force I can muster, then slamming down with every bit of energy I have. My most sensitive bundle of nerves is throbbing now and the delicious heat and girth of him is filling me.
Just as surely as his blood had earlier.
His pace hits a crescendo---a speed and force no human man could ever hope to attempt—and I detonate around him. The lava in my veins bursts forth, and I’m swept away with the heat and passion of a heat so searing no mortal could survive it.
Throwing back my head, I let out a scream. It’s more feral than human, but, then again, so am I right now. Even though I don’t have to breathe anymore, old habits are hard to break. When I exerted myself as a human, I took in huge gulps of air. After a marathon sex session like that, I can’t help by taking in huge breaths again.
Will it always be like this? Will I gasp like that in a hundred years? Carver doesn’t breathe much except to talk. Maybe as I grow older, I’ll stop all the mannerisms, those little things that still make me feel human.
Sobering thought.
A scary thought.
Carver quirks his head at me. “Are you all right?” He kisses my face, watching me closely.
I nod and then gesture for him to set me down. He slides out of me and helps ease me to my feet. The hem of my skirt slides to my ankles, and I then place my hands on either side of his wide shoulders.
“Everything’s perfect.”
“Even with prophecies looming and Morana’s centennial party for the royal courts of all the races?”
I kiss him, letting my tongue linger over his. Then, I speak again. “When it’s with you, it’s always perfect.”
Chapter 11
At first, I don’t think I realize I’m dreaming.
I’m not sure where I am. There’s the frantic pace of traffic behind me, the furious beeping of the cabs and a speech pattern I’m not used to. I think it’s Romanian, but I’m not completely sure. I don’t know every single attraction or street there. It’s not like I’ve ever been, but the huge fountain before me screams “not American.”
A little girl behind me with dark brown hair and luminous eyes drops a coin into the fountain.
Confused, I turn to her and ask the obvious. “Where are we?”
She rattles off a fast litany of what can only be an eastern European language, but I make out a few words even in the rush: “Unirii fântână” and “Parlament.” I’m no expert, but I can guess it’s the parliament building in Bucharest and one of the Unirii Square Fountain. The large, billowy dress that flows around me reminds me of pictures of my grandmother at Woodstock. It’s very California, that’s true, but unfortunately, it’s also very 1969. Stark white too, and that chills me more than it should. It’s like I’m dressed for ritual sacrifice.
I hope to God or whoever watches over vampires that I’m not.
My hands search for the pockets at either side of my hips. I shove my hands in and yank out a handful of coins. Tossing them into the fountain in the middle of the square I’m standing in, I wish as hard as I can for what I need most – a clue.
The scene spins around me, and I’m nowhere near Bucharest. I might still be in Romania. And with the beautiful architecture, rolling hills, and cooler weather, it’s likely I actually am. But the grounds of the estate I’m wondering through now is far from the hustle and bustle of a city. Instead, it’s evergreen trees and bubbling streams everywhere I look. I look up, and see mountains in the distance. Unsure of what to do, I wander the grounds, slipping past the cascades and the labyrinthine hedges. Eventually, like something out of Alice in Wonderland, I wander past a myriad of stone faces, swollen cheeks heavy even in the rock. From their mouths spew more of the water from the fountains. At least six monstrous, throaty water spouts regard me, spitting their water out in languid streams.
Turning from the grotesque sight, I run through the grounds. The scenery changes around me again, and I’m in a tower, something narrow and decrepit, nothing like the wide turret on Carver’s property. The figure before me stands tall, towers above me and must be close to seven feet. I know instinctively the man---it must be a man, right---is taller than either Carver or even Lucian. A wrinkled, pruney hand roughly the color of mold reaches up and pushes down the hood.
I recoil.
It’s just an easy assumption that the face underneath will be as monstrous as the malformed hand. Instead, eyes as black as obsidian regard me from a well-lined face. A long beard falls from the man’s chin, but it’s not an unpleasant expression or a warped visage. No. The man, no the vampire before me, looks healthy and whole. There’s no mistaking the power that radiates from him like excess energy from a reactor’s core. I’ve only felt a fraction of anything like this before.
With Morana.
I bow my head. “Abehartach.”
“Find me.”
“I’m trying, but it’s hard! Morana’s cruel, but she’s smart. You have to give me more, Abe.”
He offers a smile. “I always hated that nick name, yet all my children insist upon it.”
I snort. “Your name is a mouthful.”
“Perhaps.”
“No, for sure, buddy.” I rock on my heels as the dress flows around my legs. “I don’t know how long this dream will last. Please, there has to be a way to help you.”
“I can only show you what I’ve seen, what I’ve caught glimpses of, but I don’t understand them yet more than you.”
“Visions?”
Suddenly a searing pain assaults my eyes and I blink them shut. A quick panoply of images blurs past my vision: a heavy silver ring with a signet crest and a blood red ruby set in it, a pale, elven girl with white hair overlooking the banks of a desolate river at night, and a castle. Not the types you see in Paris or England, but instead one with sharp turrets that shoot up into the sky like lances. The floor is littered with bones as well as rotting flesh. Skulls of long dead vampires cover the blood-stained dirt, their fangs sun bleached to a pearlescent alabaster.
I force my eyes open and Abehartach frowns. “I didn’t mean you pain, Dria, but I cannot shield you from what I see coming.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You must figure it out. It’s your destiny.”
Another flash and I scream as pain blasts through my temples. There’s Lavinia before me and the Daks, but they’re chained to stone walls. Their clothes are shredded around them and their skin is sunken and their cheeks hollow from lack of feeding.
It’s too much. I back away from Abe, my voice no longer my own. My back hits the cold brick of the tower wall behind me and I scream and scream, a long, never-ending howl into the night.
Carver’s strong arms are around me, and I shudder in his grasp. He brings me tight to his chest and I rock against him. The silk sheets and large mahogany bedposts bring me back to my actual world. I’m here in Versailles, safe on my lover’s estate, and nowhere near Abe. Or Romania for that matter. But it felt real, and I know now that there’s a bridge formed between the ancient king and me. He’s reaching out to me, and his ability to do so is getting stronger.
Fuck if the visions aren’t more terrifying than last time.
“Chérie, what’s wrong? You sounded as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
“I was howling louder than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” I reply, slightly amused and even grateful for his English quirks. Like the sheets, that slip grounds me to this reality and not to the nightmare I’ve just survived.
“Same thing.”
“Hey!” Row and Reina skid into the room, and I groan.
Granted, I’m at least dressed in an old t-shirt of mine and, before we passed out after another round of loving making, Carter slipped on some boxers.
“I mean, hello, knock much?” I snark. “Wait. What are you guys even doing here?” I ask, considering my bestie and her beau were supposed to be in Nice. Also, did I mention that my t-shirt only covers just enough.
The first rays of the early morning sun are creeping through the curtains as Reina looks at her feet and Row sighs.
“We drove all night to get back.” Reina’s the first to blurt the answer out, and I’m not surprised. Reina, like me, is gifted at talking too much and sharing all the TMI. “After Carver received that text from Harlow, he knew that Rowland had to be here for extra protection for you. Lucian’s been contacted too. He’ll be at the centennial tonight for sure.”
“What?” My eyes widen at the mention of Lucian. I hope that interest isn’t obvious. Lucian isn’t mine to have because of his other ties, but we’re all thrown into this bizarre alliance---this love---between me, Carver, and Lucian. Carver may not like Lucian and, okay, understatement of the year, but the jealous bullshit won’t get us anywhere. Lucian and I are destined too, and the power of the harem matters if we’re going to stop Morana.
“You heard her,” Row says, trying to keep things short. “Lucian is on his way and the cavalry is here. Now, why were you screaming like a banshee on a bender?”
Blushing, I gesture down at the bed. “Look, we can meet in the east wing’s main parlor in about ten minutes, but can a girl get some pants on first?”
Rowland waggles his eyebrows at Carver. “Carvell has a lot left to teach you. Vampires don’t care much for human mores and nudity isn’t discouraged.”
Carver practically growls at Row and tosses a pillow at his head. “Everyone out. We’ll see you in a few.”
Once they’re gone, I hop out of bed, slip into my room and grab the nearest pair of jeans, bra, and a plum v-neck t-shirt. Then I hurry to my bureau and rake a brush through my hopelessly disheveled hair. Back in the hall, I bump into Mr. Sex on a Stick, himself. Carver’s put on a pair of jeans that hang dangerously low on his hips and a white t-shirt that is tight enough to show off the curves of his pecs and abs. I lick my lips and have to remind myself there’s already been pleasure. Now that I’ve had a scary-ass vision from the big guy, I need to get my ass in gear.
Tempt (The Kresova Vampire Harems: Aurora Book 2) Page 8