Exalted and awed, he looked down at her, stunned that he was joined to this woman.
"Taylor," he murmured.
"Yes, love."
He kissed her lips as he began to move, focused on her and the wonderfully erotic sensation of his shaft moving in and out of her.
He wanted to hold back. But the feelings were too intense and too unfamiliar.
His penis jerked inside her. And as he climaxed, he felt her inner muscles contract around him.
She cried out her pleasure, following him over the edge into a free fall of rapture that was so unique for him and so unexpected that he could only gasp out a wordless sob.
Chapter Nine
« ^ »
Sunlight filtered in around the edges of the curtains when Taylor woke in her own bed. After their glorious lovemaking, she had wanted to spend the whole night with Jules, but he had taken her home just before dawn, then left.
Closing her eyes, she lay in bed, smiling as she savored every detail of the night before. They'd had intercourse three times. And she could recall every glorious, sexually fulfilling moment with him. Making love last night had been magical. But as she thought about the night of lovemaking, a feeling of uneasiness began to steal over her.
She could remember last night in vivid color, like a movie in her mind. The way an idea for a painting came to her.
No other night with Jules came to her with that kind of clarity. Not in detail. Every other time, she could picture him stimulating her. She remembered the glorious climaxes, the sense of fulfillment. But she couldn't recall any of the actual things they'd done when she'd been most aroused.
A shiver went over her skin. Except for last night, the details of their lovemaking were a blank. If she was honest with herself, last night was the only time she could be sure she'd actually had intercourse with him.
And there was so much she didn't know about him. He'd hardly talked about his background. She didn't know any of his friends or the people he did business with—whoever they were. She'd only met him at night. And she'd never spent the whole night with him because he'd locked himself in his own house before dawn.
Throwing back the covers, she stood and found her legs were shaky. Stiffening her knees, she marched into the bathroom. Not wanting to look, yet feeling compelled, she studied the place on her neck where she'd thought the insects had bitten her. The place was bruised and the wounds were healing. But she found similar places on her body. One on the other shoulder. Another on her inner thigh. And a third at the top of her right breast.
She stared at the spots. Maybe there were some kind of insects living in her bed, biting her while she slept. But why did the marks always come in twos?
She didn't want to think about the answer. But she knew that she'd been drifting along for too long in a sensual fog-created by Jules DeMario. She'd let him run her life.
No, that wasn't fair, she corrected herself. But she'd certainly fit herself into his strange schedule.
He'd met her for drinks that first time at the bar in the Jax Brewery building. But they'd never gone there for lunch when the view from the balcony would have been spectacular.
A shiver went through her. Back in her room, she pulled on a robe, then went into the small bedroom where she'd set up her computer.
She sat for a long time staring at the screen, feeling her heart pound. Finally she booted it up, connected to the Web and brought up a search engine.
Again she hesitated before typing "vampire" into the find box.
With one exception, her nights with Jules had been a blur. The night after her computer search was the worst of all, because she was so nervous and scared that she could barely function normally.
But she couldn't condemn Jules on the basis of her own wild speculations. So she greeted him enthusiastically and tried to say the right things to him, tried to act like she was eager to make love with him again after the joy of the night before. And it must have worked. Because they did make love again. This time in her bed.
And when she woke the next morning, it was the way it had always been in their relationship. She could remember him turning her on. She could remember vibrating to the orgasm he gave her. But she couldn't remember the details.
Of course, now she didn't have to.
Getting out of bed on shaky legs, she went to the ornate basket she'd set on her dresser and took out the small, very expensive video camera that she'd hidden there.
With hands that she couldn't keep steady, she rewound the tape, then brought it down to the den, where she put it into the VCR.
"Do you really want to see this?" she asked herself.
The answer was no.
But she knew that she had to see what had transpired between herself and her lover the night before.
So she sat rigidly in an easy chair with her pulse pounding in her ears as she fast-forwarded to the moment when they'd walked into the bedroom.
Everything started off normally, and she breathed out a little sigh as she watched them kiss, watched herself slowly unbutton his shirt, take it off and stroke his chest the way she had the night before.
She remembered that. She remembered him slowly, tenderly undressing her as they stood beside the bed. But when she had tried to clasp his penis, he'd grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away.
Her heart began to drum so hard in her chest that she thought she might have a heart attack. But she kept watching.
She didn't recall him grabbing her hand. She didn't remember him laying her on the bed naked and coming down beside her, still wearing his slacks.
She watched him kiss and caress her, murmuring soft endearments, watched his knowing fingers slip into her vagina, stroke her clit.
Then he spoke again, and the words made her blood run cold. "Forgive me, love. Forgive me, but I can't get enough of you."
As she watched, he bent his head to her shoulder, pressing his mouth against her flesh.
Thank God she couldn't see much of what he was doing because his face was pressed against her. But she saw his fingers stroke her sex, saw her own hips rise and fall as she strove to reach climax. And as the shuddering spasms took her, she saw his body vibrate with hers as he shared her ecstasy.
When he lifted his head, his mouth was bloody, and she gasped. She saw him lick his lips, then lick the blood from her shoulder while she lay on the bed with her eyes closed, unmoving.
Then he got up and took off his clothing, climbed into bed and gathered her close as though they'd both been naked the whole time. She could see his penis now. It was flaccid. Probably it had been flaccid the whole time, because that wasn't the way he usually got his sexual gratification.
"So now you know," a voice said from behind her.
She screamed and jerked around. Jules was standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his middle, as though he had a terrible pain in his stomach.
"How… how?" she gasped out.
"I usually sleep during the day. As you may know, sunshine is poisonous to my skin. But the sunblock they make these days is amazing. If I put it on carefully, it protects me for short periods of time. Of course, it's an effort to stay awake in the daylight. But I did it today."
"Why?"
"Because you were acting nervous last night. You weren't yourself. And when I thought about it, I remembered the basket on your dresser. It hadn't been there before."
"Then why did you go ahead with what you were doing?"
"At the time, I wanted you too badly to think straight."
"And now what?" she asked in a quivery voice.
He gave a small shrug. "That's up to you."
"Are you going to kill me?"
He didn't move from the doorway. "You mean, murder you because you've found out my secret?"
"Yes, that," she said, feeling frightened and at the same time strangely detached.
"If I want, I could make you forget anything disturbing about me. You know, like your friend Evelyn."
"Yes. She wouldn
't tell me any details of your relationship. At the time, I thought she was being coy. Now I know why." She raised her chin. "You broke it off with her."
"I always do," he said, his voice low and edged with pain.
She knit her hands together and squeezed hard, fighting to ignore her emotions. She didn't want to feel sorry for him. She didn't want to feel anything. Coldly she asked, "If you kept taking blood from me the way you've been doing, would that kill me?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's refreshingly honest. Do you usually kill your victims?"
He winced. "I never kill my… victims. Well, three hundred years ago after John Randolph saved my life by turning me, I killed a few people. It was my inexperience. I had to learn how to control what I do. I only take enough blood to live."
"Except with your lovers," she said, pressing him because he was finally telling her the truth about himself.
"I need blood to survive. But I need sexual gratification too. I try to go without that. But eventually the need becomes too great for me to ignore. You came along at the end of a long, dry spell."
"What a flattering way to put it!"
"That might be why it started. It changed pretty quickly. You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. I…" He stopped, and she saw his Adam's apple bob. "I couldn't give you up. I tried."
"How did you manage to have intercourse with me—that one time?"
"I left you at my house and went out. I took blood from a dozen men. I was in a hurry to get back to you, and I was reckless."
She winced. He was silent for several moments, then went on. "But our relationship has sorted itself out, hasn't it."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry I took advantage of you. I won't bother you again," he said stiffly. "You should go back to San Francisco."
"Don't you dare tell me what to do. If I want to stay here, I will."
He gave a tight nod. "Of course. I shouldn't presume to tell you what to do."
The look of sadness on his face tore at her. She had cared about this man on some deep, hidden level, but she turned her head away. "I think there's no point in continuing this conversation," she said.
"As you wish," he answered stiffly.
She listened as he walked down the hall and out the door.
Would the sun hurt him? Had he taken sufficient precautions? Why should she care? As he said, he had used her. In the worst possible way. He had taken blood from her. He had risked her life. And now she was safe.
She should feel angry. She should feel relieved. But all she could feel was sad.
Chapter Ten
« ^ »
He should be angry. She had made that video recording without his permission. But all he could feel was sad and lost. He was the one who had lied to her from the beginning. She had only been trying to protect herself. And he couldn't blame her for that.
He had told her to go back to San Francisco because he couldn't stand the idea of knowing she was just a few miles away.
Maybe he should be the one to leave. He had spent eighteen years making himself comfortable in his house. But he could sell it. He could move back to England. Or he could pick some other location entirely.
He had made elaborate arrangements in the past. But doing any of that now seemed like too much trouble. He was tired. Maybe it was time to end his own life. All he'd have to do is drive out into the countryside where there was no shelter and wait for the sunrise. But he couldn't even work up the energy to do that.
He was so weary that he slept long hours, then went out briefly when hunger drove him to take enough blood to sustain his miserable existence.
Sometimes he wasn't even sure why he was doing that.
Other times he knew that he was living to watch Taylor work as he lingered outside her windows.
She was still in the house she had rented. And she was painting late into the night. Her work wasn't joyful. It was dark and disturbing. Now she painted lovers surrounded by shadows. And the man in the pictures was often pale and almost transparent, like a ghost.
He saw sadness and anger. And a new maturity that made him so proud of her.
He hadn't destroyed her ability to work—just her trust. He hated that. But he knew he would never let his own selfish needs rule him again.
He dragged himself out of bed one evening and went through the motions of getting dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He hadn't bothered with coffee in weeks. It no longer gave him pleasure to take a few sips. But he was still drawn to the garden.
After switching on the small lights, he wandered onto the patio. As soon as he set foot on the old bricks, he knew that the aroma of the flowers was mingled with another familiar scent.
His gaze darted to the wrought-iron patio set. Taylor was sitting rigidly in one of the chairs, her gaze fixed in his direction.
His mind stopped working. Without thinking about what he was doing, he surged across the patio, dragged her out of the chair and into his arms, holding tight, stroking his hands up and down her back and across her shoulders, his lips pressing into her hair as he said her name.
It took several moments for him to realize that she was standing rigid and unmoving in his embrace.
"I'm sorry." Carefully he turned her loose and took a step back. His heart was pounding, but he managed to say, "Why did you come here?"
He watched her take her lower lip between her teeth. "I had trouble staying away."
He could only nod.
He ached to reach for her again. Instead, he pressed his palms against his thighs, watching the play of emotions on her face.
She clenched and unclenched her hands. "I came back to see how I'd feel if I saw you again."
"And how is that?" he managed to ask.
She sucked in a breath and let it out. "I feel guilty."
"About what?" he asked, hardly able to believe what she'd said.
"I was angry about your using me. But you're not the only one. I called you up because I had come to a point in my artistic life where I couldn't work. And I felt like I needed new experiences. You provided them. I used you to spark my creativity. And it was a success. It still is, actually."
"I know," he whispered. "The paintings you're doing now take my breath away."
"You've been outside my house at night, haven't you?"
"Yes. I keep coming back, because I can't help myself. If you want to stay in the city, I'll move away."
Her hands clenched and unclenched. "That's not what I want," she said in a barely audible voice.
He managed to ask, "Then what?"
"I want…" She stopped and cleared her throat. "I want us to try again."
"How?" he asked, hardly daring to believe that he'd heard her correctly.
He saw her swallow convulsively. "We have to be totally honest with each other. I mean we have to make the sexual relationship honest." She paused again and dragged in a breath, before letting it out. "I want to make love with you. But I have to know I can handle what you're really doing. So you have to promise that you won't put me into a trance. I have to know what's going on."
She had handed him hope. Now she snatched it away. "You think you can deal with that?" he asked in a low voice.
She raised her chin. "I don't know. Can you?" she challenged.
He knew then that his greatest enemy might be his own fear. A cold chill came over him when he tried to imagine what it would be like taking blood from her while she watched him do it.
Could he? He didn't know.
Hearing the thickness in his own voice, he asked, "When would you want to try that?"
"Now."
Not now, a terrified voice inside him screamed. Not yet. But he refused to play the coward.
Instead, he closed the distance between them, folding her close. When she trembled in his arms, he couldn't stop himself from thinking this might be his one last time with her. Her words had been bold. But did she really know what she was asking?
Still, he was helpless to deny hi
mself what she had so recklessly offered. His eyes closed as he stroked his lips against hers, entranced by the sensation. It was remarkable how such a light touch could start up a buzzing in his brain. But he had always known this woman's power over him was beyond anything else in his experience.
He savored every nuance of the kiss, starting with that light touch, then gradually deepening the contact. Her tongue met his, and he was intoxicated all over again by the taste of her and the feel of her in his arms.
Yet some part of him couldn't quite relax into the pleasure of being with her again. Trying to ignore his doubts, he slid his lips against her cheek, then nibbled at her ear.
Her fingers winnowed through his hair. As though she knew what he was feeling, she whispered against his jaw, "It's all right. Don't hold anything back. See what you're doing to me. Right from the first I knew we would be wonderful together."
She took his hand and carried it to her breast, and he felt the hard pebble of her nipple pressing into his palm.
Raising her face toward his, she murmured, "We're not going to do anything I haven't asked for."
"Yes," he answered above the roaring in his ears, because he still couldn't imagine the crucial moment. The moment when she felt him sink his teeth into her tender flesh and begin to draw her blood.
She strung kisses over his cheeks, his chin, his nose, and those sweet tokens made him bold. Captive to the heady pleasure of the moment, he knit her hand with his and led her inside.
When hesitation caught up with him again, he found she wasn't going to allow his second thoughts. Taking charge, she led him to the comfortable den off the living room. Yet when she began to open the buttons down the front of her blouse, he saw her hand tremble. Gravely, he reached to help her, their fingers getting tangled up together as they opened the placket. She raised her face to his as she pulled the blouse off and reached to open the catch at the back of her bra.
Then she was standing naked to the waist in front of him.
Immortal Bad Boys Page 6