Blood Kiss

by J. R. Ward

  It was raw and it was honest, just between the two of them.

  And that made it . . . beautiful.

  Because it was real.

  Chapter Nineteen

  No wonder her name was Paradise.

  As Craeg took long draws off of the single most incredible blood source he'd ever had in his entire life, all he could think of was how apt her name was.

  Well . . . that wasn't all he was thinking of.

  His body reawakened with lightning speed thanks to the strength she provided him, that heady wine of hers flowing down the back of his throat and pooling in his gut before being sent out in all directions like a restorative fire: Beneath his battered skin, deep in his aching bones, he began to fill up with power.

  And with that power came a gnawing, grinding need.

  Under the thin covers, he popped an erection as hard as steel and as long as his leg--proof positive that her solid groin hit hadn't castrated him. And between his ears, his brain latched onto the idea of getting inside her with the same tenacity as his fangs were locked on her vein.

  He was slightly more decent than he would have guessed, however.

  Instead of ripping her pants in half and muscling her up and over his hips, he forced himself to stay right where he was--because that kept her where she was.

  His pelvis was not about to get the memo, however.

  With great, rolling thrusts, he worked himself against the sheet and blanket, each push up offering a tantalizing stroke that was too soft to do much more than drive him fucking insane, each retreat making him more desperate than the last.

  And then his hand started to itch to get involved.

  No-go. Even if Paradise wouldn't have admitted it unless she had a gun in her face, he knew she was already in way over her head. If he whipped himself out and started stroking one off? She was going to get one hell of a show to tell whoever her father was about--even if that hand job option was better than drilling her sex so hard she saw stars.

  Which was what he really wanted to do.

  Damn it, why did he have to be attracted to a nice girl?

  "You can . . ." she started. There was a pause and her eyes flicked over her shoulder like she was checking to make sure the door was still shut. "You can do what you want."

  He frowned through the bloodlust, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

  "I see where your hand is. I'm not stupid."

  Craeg tried to shake his head, but he didn't get anywhere with that, because his mouth was not interested in breaking the seal.

  Paradise nodded. "It's okay . . . do it. Take care of yourself."

  And that was when light dawned on Marblehead--shit, she wanted him to . . .

  For a split second, his conscience threw out a hell-no, but with her eyes so steady on his, and the scent of arousal coming off her, that didn't last longer than the formation of the words.

  Talk about your yes-ma'ams.

  Drunk on her taste, stretched on a rack of lust, body whacked out and mind blown up, he had enough left in him to will the locks into place on every door there was--including the closet. It wouldn't keep people out forever--but certainly long enough so that her virtue wouldn't be completely--

  Peyton.

  As the other male's name popped into his head, she frowned as if she had read his mind. "What did you say?"

  Guess he'd spoken it out loud--sort of.

  Craeg loosened his latch enough to say clearly, "Peyton."

  "I told you, there's nothing . . . God, no. Not ever. He's like my brother."

  Staring up at her, he decided she was either utterly guileless and talking the truth as she knew it--and in fact had no idea the guy wanted her--or she was the best actress outside of Hollywood and playing him.

  Breathing in, he caught no scent of subterfuge--and then he thought of Peyton's haughty act and his perfect accent and his expensive watch. He might actually be a true aristocrat--in which case, there was no way the male was going to hook up long term with a receptionist.

  And apparently the motherfucker was honorable enough not to lead her on. And successful enough that she'd bought the act, even if he had reacted as a possessive male back in the break room.

  Guess maybe Craeg didn't have to hate him quite so much.

  "There's nothing with Peyton and me," she repeated. "And there never will be."

  Good enough for his palm.

  Next thing he knew, he'd disappeared his free hand under the--

  Craeg groaned and arched up as he gripped himself. Slowing down on the feeding, he found himself wanting to prolong this moment between the two of them. He wanted the sex and the blood from her.

  And it looked like, for this brief moment, he was going to have some of both.

  It would be, however, the one and only time any of this happened.

  *

  There was something inevitable about it all.

  That was the thought that went through Paradise's mind again and again as she looked down and watched Craeg's hand move under the covers. He was stroking himself, his tremendous body torquing at strange angles as he rode waves of pleasure.

  And yet, as inevitable as this felt, there was so much that was unexpected, too.

  She hadn't anticipated feeling so . . . powerful: She got the very clear sense that as big as he was, as strong as he was, she was in charge--anything she wanted from him, needed from him, he would give her, do for her, find for her.

  After he was finished with the sex.

  Craeg's eyes were heavy lidded and violently hot as they stared up at her from his battered face. And the straining muscles in his neck and his chest seemed ready to break through his skin. And his scent had bloomed into a roar of something spicy and delicious.

  And then he started moaning.

  God, she wanted to be the one with her hand on him--she'd never done anything like this before, but come on, it wasn't like she couldn't go up and down like that . . . the trouble was, her good hand was by his face, and her bad one with its finger splint wasn't gripping anything at the moment--

  Without warning, Craeg released her wrist and let out a sound that was all animal, not even a little civilized. Then his free hand grabbed onto the sheets next to her hip and twisted them into a wad. His chest pumped once, twice . . . he arched again, this time with a groan . . . and then his hips jerked hard over and over, raw grunts coming out of his mouth as his eyes focused on her face.

  The stillness that eventually came was just as surprising as the rest of it: After what seemed like an eternity, his body went lax and he collapsed back onto the bed, eyes closing, breath sawing, sweat gleaming on his chest.

  "Lick . . ." he mumbled.

  "What?" God, her voice was hoarse. "What did you say?"

  "You're . . . bleeding. . . ."

  Paradise looked at her wrist. He was right. The multiple puncture wounds were only partially closed. Bringing her arm up, she sucked on the--

  The soft growl that rose up from him made her freeze.

  That hot stare of his was focused on her lips.

  Except then he turned away. "You need to go."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Go."

  Paradise exhaled as a surge of pissed-off ushered out all the lust she'd been enjoying with the efficiency of a bulldozer. "Why are you always dismissing me?"

  "Because I don't think you're going to like someone coming into this room as it is now."

  She glanced around. Okay, fine, there was a small amount of blood on the sheets by his mouth, but other than that, nothing was out of place. "There's nothing--"

  "It smells like sex in here," he muttered. "I just came all over the place--and if anybody walks through either of those doors, they're going to know you're the reason. Leave with a little virtue left in you, will you?"

  Paradise lowered her brows as her mouth fell open. "I beg your pardon."

  "We're done here." He shrugged. "You asked me to give myself a hand job. I did--and you got to watc
h what it looks like when a male orgasms. So we both got something out of this sesh. What did you expect, a mating proposal?"

  Pain lanced through her chest as she fell momentarily speechless. And then the only thing that went through her mind was something involving "Fuck" and "You."

  Pushing herself back, she squared her shoulders and walked away from him. When she came up to the door to the corridor, she was surprised to find the thing locked. She hadn't done that.

  Perhaps he had.

  Who the hell cared.

  As Paradise unlatched things, she glanced over her shoulder. "I can't pretend to be sophisticated, or worldly about sex, but I know damn well that the need to diminish others when one is threatened is the mark of a coward, not a hero. Have a good rest of the night. I'll see you tomorrow--if you decide to show up."

  Stepping out, she let the door close behind her and walked off a couple of feet, a couple of yards . . . halfway back to the gym.

  She intended to keep going.

  Her feet refused to cover the rest of the distance back to class.

  With a curse, she leaned against the concrete wall, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at the polished pavers that formed the corridor floor . . . then the inset fluorescent ceiling lights above her . . . then the doors, the many, many doors. Off in the distance, she heard shouts coming from where the sparring continued. There was also an ambient hum from the HVAC system. And after a moment, her stomach let out a growl, reminding her that the calories she'd taken in at the quick-stop First Meal she'd had were long gone.

  That had been her first sexual experience.

  And when it had been happening, it had been wondrous, exciting, beyond tantalizing.

  Craeg had just ruined all that, though. With only a couple of sentences, he had blown the whole thing up and made her feel ashamed of herself--

  "I'm sorry."

  Jerking her head around, she recoiled. "What are you doing out of bed?"

  Craeg shuffled out of his room, seeming to rely more on the IV pole than his own legs for ambulation. He was determined to come over to her, however--and God knew he'd already proven he would go until he dropped.

  Walking toward him, she put both palms out to stop him. "You need to get back in--"

  "Look, I . . ." He cleared his throat. Scratched under his nose even though there was nothing there. Rubbed his thumb across one eyebrow and then fiddled with his hospital johnny. "I can't be anyone other than who I am right now. Maybe in a different time, maybe if certain things hadn't happened . . . maybe I'd have the energy to try to file down these edges of mine. The problem is, I just don't have that extra effort in me at the moment--and there's not a lot of anything warm and fuzzy in here." He pointed to the center of his chest, his IV line draping across the front of him. "I'm not saying I'm right or that I'm proud of myself. I'm just telling you like it is. And that's all I can give you--tonight, tomorrow . . . next week. That's all I have to offer anybody."

  As he stared down at her, his eyes were steady and grave.

  And there was no doubting his somber voice or his carefully chosen words.

  In the silence that followed, she thought of the great human writer and orator Maya Angelou's statement about people: When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.

  Or something to that effect.

  "If you want a male, go hang out with your boy, Peyton," he continued. "You're so spectacular, there's a chance he'll end up overriding that dumb glymera stuff. And hey, you wouldn't have to be a receptionist for the rest of your life. I couldn't offer you anything close to what he can--even if my personality did a one-eighty."

  As he continued to speak, his words didn't sink in much. All she was thinking about was how unfair it was that she finally met a male she was attracted to at the precisely wrong time in the precisely wrong context for anything meaningful. And then there was his I-am-an-island stuff. Which she wanted to call bullshit on, but which might, actually, sadly, be the truth.

  "Okay," she said finally. "Thank you for being honest."

  There was an awkward pause--as if he'd expected some kind of protest from her, some indignant marching around, maybe some harsh words.

  Then his lids lowered as if he didn't want her to see what was behind his eyes.

  The hand that wasn't on his IV pole lifted toward her face. But then he dropped it back down and shook his head. "I have a lot of regrets in my life. Next time you wonder whether anyone cares about you . . . know that you're on that list."

  Craeg turned away and limped back down to his hospital room.

  She watched him until just before he opened the door and disappeared.

  Pride made it important for her to go her own way first.

  Bracing herself, Paradise headed for the gym, for class, for learning and self-discovery. After all, like him, her future was with the training center. Not some pipe dream with a male stranger that was never going to happen for so many reasons.

  Chapter Twenty

  Two hours later, Paradise rode a bus back out of the training center. There was only one leaving, as there were just the six of them, Craeg having not been medically cleared to go home.

  Looking across the aisle, she met Peyton's eyes. He had stretched out across a row of seats, his back on the bank of blackened windows, his legs fully extended and crossed at the ankles.

  It seemed like a lifetime since they had argued on the way in the night before.

  You okay, he mouthed.

  She nodded and mouthed back, You?

  He shrugged, grimaced as he rearranged himself and closed his lids.

  Nobody else was talking much, either.

  Several rows in front of them, Boone sat with his head bowed, a set of Beats helmeting his ears, shutting out the world. He didn't seem to be able to find a song he liked, his thumb hitting the screen of his iPhone every second or two, the covers of albums flashing briefly before they were rejected. Anslam was asleep sitting up across from him. Novo was closest to the driver, staring out the windows through which you could see nothing.

  Axe was all the way in the back, keeping to himself.

  From time to time, Paradise shifted her body, and found herself pulling a Peyton with the wincing. She was exhausted; she was aching all over; she was worried about what the next night would bring in terms of tests.

  She also kept thinking about what had gone down in Craeg's hospital room. And then what had been said between them out in the corridor.

  "Stop it," she murmured to herself.

  It wasn't like reliving the stuff was going to change the outcome, and if she was honest with herself, she did want that. It would have been amazing to be free to explore that kind of connection.

  Not in the cards, though.

  Hoping to distract herself, she looked down at the Bally leather satchel she'd checked with a doggen when she'd signed into the program. She remembered exactly what was in it: the protein bars, the extra socks, the change of clothes and underwear, her wallet, phone, a picture of her parents in an old gilt frame. She recalled quite vividly packing all of those things, too--the drawers she had opened in her walk-in closet, the choices she had agonized over, the stuff that she had wanted to bring but decided to leave home.

  The disturbing thing . . . was that none of what was in there felt like hers anymore.

  It was more like it was all owned by some kind of little sister or something, some younger relation who looked like her from a distance, but who, up close, was totally different.

  Peyton shifted his feet to the floor and shoved his body across the aisle. This time, when he sat next to her, she was grateful.

  "You don't look okay," he said softly.

  The concern threatened the dam that was holding back her emotions, but she kept that wall in place for fear of losing it in front of her fellow classmates.

  Primus, my ass, she thought.

  "I don't know." She shook her head when the words came out. Not what she had meant to reply. "Ac
tually, I'm all right."

  "Last night was a lot to go through."

  "We made it," she murmured. "Go, us."

  "Yeah."

  As her friend went quiet again and stared at the back of the headrest in front of him, she could only imagine what he was thinking of: throwing up, getting bagged over the head, the pool . . . the longest walk of their lives.

  That fight with Craeg.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked. "You seem better."

  "I'm going to need to feed."

  As he rubbed his face like he was trying to stop more memories of school, she felt a stab of guilt--because unlike Craeg, who she'd been in a big fat hurry to offer a vein to, helping her friend wasn't foremost in her mind.

  Plus also, she wasn't sure she could go through that with Peyton . . . if he had the same response Craeg had.

  Not that she was some sexpot to males, but because maybe that kind of lust was just a natural by-product of feeding and she didn't want to cross that line in her friendship.

  "I texted my dad." Peyton patted the front pocket of his coat. "He has someone waiting for me. Gonna be the first time I don't have sex when I take a vein." He frowned and glanced over at her. "Sorry. TMI."

  What was he talking about? Oh, right. "It's okay. I'm not offended."

  You want to cover the TMI bases? she thought. What was really TMI was what she and Craeg had done in that clinic. Or rather . . . what he had done to himself.

  She looked away just to be sure the blush that hit her face didn't get noticed.

  "You're different," he remarked.

  That brought her head back around quick. "How so?"

  "I don't know. Maybe it's because I remember how great you did."

  As he stared over at her, she knew he was saying sorry again, and without thinking, she leaned in and gave him a hug. "Thank you for that--"

  A series of bumps and then a noticeable decrease in speed made her break away. "Are we there already?"