Kiss Across Chains (Kiss Across Time Series)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  As soon as her hair was loose, she bent over from the waist, brushed it all forward and ran her fingers through it, straightening out the curls and waves as much as she could, and getting rid of any sign of fifth century styling.

  Then she stripped her belt and robe and jewelry and dropped them all on the embroidered gilt cover over her bed. Almost naked, she bent and unfastened the ties that kept her sandals wrapped around her ankles, and slipped out of them.

  Now she was completely naked.

  She picked up the cloth that lay over the table by the window, after shifting the little statues and candles that sat on it. The cloth itself was almost pure white, and apart from a simple border around the edges, completely free of Byzantine decoration.

  She wrapped the cloth around her body like a sarong, and tucked the corner in tight. Brody had seen her hundreds of times wearing a bath towel in a similar fashion, and more than a few times had untucked the corner and unwrapped the towel with a deep growl of appreciation. He would remember.

  Then she grabbed the small jar of scented almond oil and poured some into the palm of her hand. Kale had been forced to show Taylor how to remove the heavy accentuating eye makeup a high-born woman wore. Most of the make-up was kohl-based and impossible to remove if one didn’t know the trick. Taylor carefully dabbed her fingertips into the tiny pool of oil and quickly spread the oil over her eyes and face, the thinnest of layers. Then she carefully wiped away the oil with a cloth, bringing with it any makeup and dirt that has settled there. In four days of caring for her skin in this way, Taylor’s face had become softer, with the tiny lines she had noticed starting to show around her eyes disappearing. Her skin felt wonderful.

  “Taylor?” Brody called softly.

  “I’ll be right there,” she replied and dropped the cloth onto the now-bare table top.

  She walked back into the living room area. Brody stood by the coffee table, looking down at the food there. He wore the bath sheet around his hips, which meant that on his long legs it came down to his ankles.

  “Help yourself,” Taylor told him and slid onto the divan behind the table. She patted the cushions. “Why don’t you sit while you eat? It’s more…comfortable.” She had been about to say ‘civilized’, but here and now that word had too many connotations. Brody didn’t think of himself as civilized, not deep in his heart. He thought he was only pretending to be a reasonable man, despite everything she and Veris had tried to do to convince him civility wasn’t a genetic trait, but acquired through hard lessons, just as he had acquired it. This jump back to Constantinople would be bringing that belief into question once more for Brody.

  So she patted the cushion again and smiled at him encouragingly.

  Brody was studying her. “You look different,” he said flatly. He spoke English still, to her relief.

  “I cleaned off the gunk,” she said. “I wanted to get comfortable, too.”

  He circled around the coffee table and sank onto the cushions, then turned his attention to the big tray of food once more.

  Taylor picked up the glass of wine and held it out to him. “It’s very good,” she told him.

  Brody reached out for the glass, staring at it with a peculiar intensity. He curled his fingers around the thick base and took it, watching the dark red contents move inside.

  “You don’t want it?” she asked. “They don’t drink beer here, I’m afraid.”

  Brody let out an unsteady breath that sounded like a tiny laugh. “I’ve never tasted wine,” he said. He looked at the tray of food. “Or eaten meat like that.”

  Taylor rode out her shock and dismay as she coupled up Brody’s personal history with this astonishing fact. He had been ripped out of Britain when he was thirteen and shipped here to Constantinople, where he had lived the life of a slave until he had died at thirty years of age, and been made a vampire.

  It was entirely possible that he had failed to taste wine before he was thirteen, despite watered wine being considered a perfectly safe and nutritional drink for children. In all his long years as a slave, wine would have been a luxury denied him. Once he was made a vampire, the opportunity to taste or sip anything passed.

  Brody had spent his whole human life eating the poorest of food and that was his only memory.

  Taylor picked up an apricot from the tray, and the paring knife that sat beside it. “Oh, you’re in for a treat,” she told him, slicing it in half and removing the pit. “Here.” She held the apricot halves out to him on her palm. “Before you drink the wine and ruin your taste buds, try this.”

  He picked up one half and bit into it. Taylor watched, fascinated. Brody eating food seemed quite ordinary and human, but at the same time it felt strange.

  Brody’s brows lifted as he chewed. He swallowed and the corner of his mouth curled up. “Apricots. That’s what your mouth tastes like. Finally, I’ve figured it out.”

  Taylor’s heart squeezed. “I didn’t know you were trying to.”

  “Taste is a human memory that doesn’t last all that well,” Brody told her. He frowned. “It’s probably a good thing, too. We’d go mad with the knowledge that we could never taste richness like this ever again.”

  Taylor cut a slice of the hard, aged cheese. “If you think apricots are rich, you’re going to love this.” She held it out to him.

  Brody reached for the cheese with no hesitation this time. As he ate, Taylor sliced and prepared mouthfuls for him. In between he sipped the wine. His first mouthful made him grimace. “This is what people have spent centuries addicting themselves to? It’s…weird.”

  Taylor laughed. “Wine is a great drink. You have to drink it properly though.” She taught him how to let the wine settled on his tongue and the flavors seep into his taste buds, then draw in a breath over the top so the bouquet would hit the back of his throat.

  “I’ve heard all this before,” Brody told her. “From dozens of people, some of them wine freaks with cellars the size of our house in L.A. But it never really registered until now. I guess because I knew I was never going to taste wine I just didn’t take it in.” He took another sip as Taylor held out more lamb for him to eat, and a little absorbed frown appeared between his brows.

  It was the same look of concentration he had been wearing, driving the chariot.

  Taylor shuddered and dismissed the thought. Instead, she plied him with more food. “You’re not used to alcohol,” she told him. “And you haven’t eaten properly for four days at least. Eat more, then finish the glass, or you’ll be drunk before you know it.”

  “Or asleep,” Brody replied. “I haven’t had a lot of that lately, either.”

  Brody sleeping. It was another oddity. Taylor steered around the conversational minefield by handing him the knife and standing up. “I’m going to comb your hair out before it dries in those knots. You should keep eating.”

  She found the comb that Kale used to untangle her own hair, then settled herself on the divan behind Brody to comb his hair while he ate. The oil lamp was next to her and for the first time she saw what the shadows and darkness in the bathing area had hidden.

  Brody’s entire back was a mass of bruises, cuts and raw wounds. Most of them were long, straight marks running diagonally across his back. They ran from his shoulders down to where the bath sheet wrapped around his hips.

  Taylor covered her mouth with her hand, holding in any sound she might make, because she knew it would be a sound of horror or despair.

  Chapter Twelve

  Taylor’s silence and stillness gave her away. Brody swiveled to look at her and he instantly put down the wine and the handful of bread he held and turned back to her. “Don’t look like that,” he said softly.

  She removed her hand from her mouth. “Your back!”

  He gave a tiny shake of his head. “I don’t even feel it right now. It’s days old.”

  She moaned. “They did beat you for escaping the cavern, then. I’ll kill him, Brody. I’ll fucking kill him.”

  He f
rowned, puzzled. Then his frown cleared. “Who did you put the squeeze on to get me here?”

  “Oresme…who paid off Basilides.”

  Something flickered in his eyes and Taylor nodded. “Basilides, then. That’s who gets to answer for this.”

  Brody curled his hand around her neck and his fingers were warm against her flesh. She shuddered at the contact, because it was familiar and dear, yet strange to her because of the heat.

  “Don’t do anything. Those two schemers spent years arranging affairs to suit themselves. You’ll just make yourself their target if you push things more than you have. They let you have this night because it’s a feminine whim. They think it’s harmless. If you were to threaten them in anyway.…” He shook his head.

  “I’m not going to sit around and let someone get away with doing that to you,” she said flatly. “No one gets to do that to anyone, anymore.”

  Brody shook his head again, his gaze boring into hers. “Here in Constantinople at this time, they do.”

  “How can they do that to another human being?” she asked helplessly.

  “I’m a slave,” Brody said flatly. “I’m not human to them.”

  “You’re not a slave. Not anymore,” she said as firmly as she could.

  Brody tilted his head to look at her. Silently, he held up a hand and turned it so she could see the metal cuff properly.

  “This is temporary,” she replied flatly. “You know it comes to an end and soon, if I have anything to do with it.”

  Brody shifted on the divan so he was facing her properly instead of twisting to look at her. It brought his knee up to lie bent across the cushion. “I had forgotten that, somewhere in the last few days. We do get to jump out of this, don’t we?” And he smiled.

  Taylor drew in a shaky breath. That smile meant he had returned to the Brody she knew.

  She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Back to Marit and your music.”

  “Smog and clean sheets, traffic jams…Críost and showers…” He sighed, rolling his head and stretching his shoulders.

  “Spain kicking Ireland’s ass in the World Cup Finals,” Taylor added, hiding her grin, for Ireland’s national soccer team was one of Brody’s guy things. He followed international soccer with keen interest. But Ireland was not the strongest team in the league and he was constantly disappointed.

  Now his mouth and eyes opened in mild surprise. “Spain?” he replied with disdain. “That’ll be the day.” He lifted the damp ends of his hair from his shoulders, pulling it away with a twist of his wrist, winding it into a thick strand, then tossed it back over his shoulder and out of the way.

  The mannerism was so familiar, so Brody, that its appearance now made her eyes sting with weak tears of relief and happiness. She hid them, blinking furiously, and threw the challenge back at him. “Ha! The day Ireland wins against Spain, I’ll buy you that Tessler you were drooling over.” Sports cars were another of his passions. He had been thinking about trading in the Maserati for a while now and the Tessler had caught his eye.

  Brody grabbed a handful of the hem of the cloth tied around her and tugged. “Deal, mo bhean álainn.” His voice was abruptly deeper and thicker.

  The cloth unraveled and crumpled around her hips. Brody made a growling sound in his throat. “Most beautiful,” he repeated in English and pulled her toward him, his hands on her hips.

  Taylor’s heart skittered as he tossed the white cloth aside and pulled her so she was lying on the divan and half tucked under his body. He kicked his own sheet aside and leaned over her. In the low lamp light his eyes were very black. “You’re good for my soul, Maggie Taylor Yates.”

  “Tá tú go maith do mianach, freisin.” It was the Celtic version of ‘me, too.’ Taylor lifted her head and kissed him.

  The lingering traces of wine in his mouth and on his breath were almost shocking, but it was a minor thing. Brody passively accepted the kiss for a mere heartbeat, then he took control by pulling her up hard against him and driving his tongue into her mouth.

  It was an explosive kiss. A groundbreaking one. All the tightly held emotions Taylor had been storing inside her for the last four days, for lack of someone to share them with, all of them drove the kiss, making it one of the most intense moments in her life.

  Brody almost tore his mouth from hers. His chest was heaving. “My god!” he breathed. “Veris was right! Kissing you while I’m human is poetry and gourmet food all rolled into a single symphony.”

  Trust Brody to find an apt and unusual analogy for what he was feeling. Veris, the trained academic, had used statistics for comparison.

  Taylor stroked her forefinger along the line of Brody’s cheek. “Wait until you come. It’s even better.”

  He blinked, then chuckled. “Ye’re a wanton, Maggie,” he told her, letting himself revert back to his natural Irish accent.

  “And you just hate it, don’t you?”

  He smiled as he bent to kiss her again. “Uh-huh. Especially while I’m without the canines, my sweet one. I can kiss you as hard and as deep and as long as I want, and not have to worry about ripping your flesh apart as I do it.”

  “I noticed their absence,” she murmured against his lips. “Kiss me again.”

  His kiss was longer this time, and heady. Taylor blinked as he released her mouth and trailed his lips over her chin and down the length of her neck. She was breathing hard and aroused as hell. It had been four days without a single caress or kiss from either of them, and Taylor was used to multiple erotic encounters each day. One or both of them would find a way to raise her pulse, leave her trembling, or have her squirm and scream in ecstasy. They took pleasure in leaving her in a limp state at least once per day.

  Brody closed his mouth around her nipple and Taylor gasped and clutched at his head, her fingers sliding through his damp hair. Her clit and pussy were throbbing with urgent need. It had been far too long. She twisted on the divan, trying futilely to relieve the ache.

  Brody pinned her thigh down, his body heavy and hard on top of her. Even human, he was strong, directing her body where he wanted it so he could deliver the most devastating stimulation. The thigh he was not holding down he scooped up with one arm under her knee, spreading her open for him to toy with as he wanted.

  He nibbled his way down her belly, making her abs quiver. Taylor’s grip in his hair tightened convulsively as he neared her mound. “Brody…” she whispered desperately. “Don’t wait.”

  He gave a low growl. “You taste ambrosial,” he told her, his lips moving against her flesh, very low down on her abdomen. “Better than you’ve ever tasted before. One doesn’t hurry luxury.” He slid his tongue into the top of her crease, probing and finding the swollen nub of her clit.

  Taylor’s hips lifted in reaction and she closed her eyes, letting herself drop into the power of the climax building in her, instead of denying it or trying to hold it back. Her breathing hastened and hitched in her chest as Brody’s tongue stroked and his lips caressed her clit. He slid his hand under her ass and lifted her pelvis up higher. It also kept her mound steady, defeating any thrust or rise of her hips.

  She gripped the divan, a moan escaping her.

  Brody thrust his fingers deep into her pussy, spreading them so the knuckles would rub against the sensitive walls.

  Her climax hit her with an impact that stole her breath and made her sight fade for one shining moment. Taylor arched off the cushions, her fingers digging into the fabric, gritting her teeth together to stop the scream that was pushing from inside her. She couldn’t alert the household to her midnight visitor by screaming aloud.

  She dropped back onto the cushions, panting, and Brody surged over the top of her. He planted his hand next to her head and impaled her with his cock in a heavy single thrust that stilled all Taylor’s movements as she accepted him into her. She sucked in a breath, her body trembling around him. It had only been a few days, but it seemed much longer since they had shared this primary intimacy.

&nb
sp; “I love having you inside me,” she whispered, looking up at him.

  Brody paused, his cock lodged as deeply inside her as he could drive it, looking down at her with his dark eyes. “No man could ever tire of this, not with you. I’m glad I screwed with history just enough to bring you into our lives.” It wasn’t the first time Brody had made this confession to her—well out of the range of Veris’ hearing, for Veris would have an embolism if he heard that Brody considered the near-disaster he had created when they had first met one of his finest achievements.

  Brody eased from her body and thrust once more, slowly and deeply. Then again. He growled, the tendons in his neck and shoulders straining. “Íosa Críost. I can feel...everything.” His thrusts hastened and the little furrow appeared between his brows once more. “Too much...” he muttered.

  Taylor wrapped her leg over his hips. She could feel the orgasm take his control, making him quiver and thrust in shallow, quick movements. His eyes closed. “Aaaggh!” he growled, the sound pulling from deep inside his chest. His hot seed spilled in her and this time Taylor could feel it...the heat of his essence.

  Brody froze, staring down at her, his muscles straining. He swallowed.

  Taylor smiled at him. “That came from your toes,” she observed.

  He gripped her hip, shifting her on the cushions a few inches. “That was just the opening aria,” he assured her. “Then there’s the rest of the opera.”

  His cock was still a rigid shaft inside her.

  Taylor caught her breath as he began to thrust again, for the music analogy confirmed what his earlier gesture had told her.

  Brody was back. Now, she just had to keep him here.

  * * * * *

  Brody made love with a fierce relentlessness, taking her again and again. His need might have lingered for hours except for the fact that he was human in this here and now. Once his human body had been fed, watered and the first hot driving edge of his need had been satiated, the next most critical biological priority asserted itself: Sleep tried to claim him.