Damned by Blood fb-3

by Evie Byrne

  Her knees tightened against his ribs. “This is how I play. I call the shots.”

  He opened his hands. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do it.”

  “Anything at all? I find that hard to believe, knyaz.” She gave him a sardonic little smile that he found un spe akably sex y.

  Anything to be inside you again. “Try me.”

  She stood. “Get up and strip.”

  He knew she didn’t expect him to obey, but he was more than happy to be rid of his cold, wet clothes. It seemed she believed power resided in control. To him, it meant getting what he wanted.

  In a couple of quick movements he threw off his shirt and peeled off his clinging pants. He couldn’t remember ever being so hard, so heavy, so tight.

  Kicking his clothes aside, he met her gaze again, only to find her gaping at him, completely aghast. Was he that repulsive?

  Pointing at his chest, she said, “What have you done to yourself?”

  Ah, that.

  The monogram she’d cut into his chest should have faded quickly, but he’d made it permanent. Using a broken pen in his hotel room, he’d rubbed ink into the lines of the A, giving himself a prison tattoo.

  It was gratifying to see her in a state of complete shock. He just stood there, waiting, until she managed her next question. “But…why?”

  He shrugged. He couldn’t even explain it to himself very well. The A was an oath to himself that he would never retreat. A preparation for battle. A means to remember her touch.

  “You are seriously disturbed.”

  That made him smile. Smiling hurt his face, but it also helped wake him from his long stasis, just as kissing her did. She shook her head as if he were a hopeless case, but her lids lowered as her attention drifted downward—toward his cock. Just knowing it had her attention, it hardened by a few more excruciating degrees. She’d been the first person to touch it. And later, under the willows—

  Hell. He could come just thinking about it. It was time to move this along.

  She murmured, “This is such a bad idea.”

  But she wanted him. Out of practice as he was, there was no mistaking the gleam in her eye, or the quickness of her breath.

  Before she could change her mind, he said, “What do you want me to do?”

  She pointed at the sofa with her knife. He sat, and she stepped between his knees. Drawing her fingernail up the length of his shaft, she said, “Do you have a condom?”

  Mikhail stared at her, blank, rendered an idiot by her touch.

  She said, “I don’t. I haven’t fucked another vamp in a good ten years.”

  Her toys couldn’t impregnate her. He could.

  “I suppose you came here ready to start breeding.”

  He snorted. No. Mostly he’d been thinking about survival. But yes, breeding seemed…dandy. Breeding seemed like a fantastic idea. His cock seconded the motion.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t carry one? Or do you only do humans, too?”

  “I haven’t fucked anyone in ten years, vamp or human.”

  She went very still, wary as a prey animal.

  Maybe she thought he was lying, but it was true. After she’d left him, and the grey veil descended, he’d gone through the motions. He took a lover, and then another, but he had nothing to give them, except, ultimately, indifference. They learned to hate him, and rightfully so. Eventually he gave up maintaining any semblance of a relationship.

  When he needed sex, he’d find a female vamp in the park who had just hunted, and approach her. Feeding made the blood run hot, so they almost always agreed to take him. Those rough, anonymous couplings sustained him for a long time. But even they lost their thrill, eventually, and he became a monk.

  Alya recovered herself and crossed her arms. “So you come to me with my initial tattooed on your chest and ten years of seed stored up in your balls.”

  “I thought I’d make myself irresistible.”

  That almost made her smile. Almost.

  “Look at you, Mikhail. You say you’ll do whatever I want, but it’s not in your eyes. It’s not in your posture.”

  “I am a knyaz.”

  “See? You don’t even say knyaz. You purr it. You’re just like all the rest.”

  “I am not like them.” He’d glimpsed things he didn’t like in her blood. Images, memories, fears—he didn’t know what they were exactly––but he didn’t think her princely lovers had been kind to her. “There is no one else like me.”

  She put her hands to her head. “Ugh! They all say that. You are exactly like them.”

  He couldn’t talk any more, couldn’t understand all these barriers. Yes, he was a prince. Who else would be fit to mate a queen like her? He stood. She jumped back.

  Holding his hands in the air, he walked forward until the head of his cock grazed the thin, wet silk that clung to her belly. She didn’t move away. Carefully, he lowered his hands onto her smooth, cool arms. “Forget what I am. Tell me what would make you happy. Happy right now.”

  Flushed with anger, or something more than that, she spat out the answer. “I want to see you lose control. I want to see you beg.”

  He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and his cock slid an excruciating inch across her belly. “Believe me, I’m very near to losing control.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “I thought that was what you wanted.”

  She stepped backward, and as she did, she cooled. The hints of anger and fear he’d sensed in her vanished beneath a smooth veneer. It seemed she’d made a decision. “You’re going to do as I say.”

  Her words weren’t playful. They were sharp as a lash.

  No one spoke to him like that. Ever. He opened his mouth to snap back at her, but curiosity got the better of him, and he changed his mind.

  If he refused, they’d be back at zero. Fighting. At this point she was weak enough that he’d win, but as he’d already determined, a “win” like that would be hollow. If he wanted to understand her, he had to enter her world.

  He awaited orders.

  “Sit there.” She pointed to the low leather bench instead of the sofa. The one he’d used as a shield. The one she’d eviscerated. Foam protruded from its split hide. He righted it.

  “The other end.”

  He moved to the far end, and sat facing a mirror on the wall. One side of his face was scraped up, and the eye on that side was swelling shut. Hardly an inch of his body was not bruised, and the spidery letter A crowned his many other scars. His cock stood at the ready, flushed and ridiculous.

  She couldn’t possibly want him. This was some kind of trap.

  But she came to stand in front of him, unarmed and equally battered. With slow, deliberate movements she tore her nightgown down the center and peeled off the transparent scraps. Hard muscle defined the sinuous curves of her long torso. Her breasts were heavier than he remembered, the nipples high and dark. A white scar arced around her right breast. He longed to tongue it. She stepped out of her panties. Her long, strong legs were built for speed. Her pubic hair was shaved into a thin strip.

  Straightening, she studied him for a long moment, stern as a goddess. His pulse sped up while he waited for her next move. He tried to keep his breathing even. He tried to stay still when all he wanted to do was drag her to the floor and fuck her until there was nothing left of either of them.

  Slowly, she lowered herself into a crouch. In the mirror he could see her heart-shaped ass and the wet twist of her hair down her back.

  She put her hands on his knees and shoved them apart. His heart lurched.

  “How’s your self control?”

  “Perfect.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “Then you won’t come until I tell you to. Swear it.”

  His mouth went dry. “I swear.”

  Again, he surprised her. This time she controlled her response much better, but still he could see it. She couldn’t believe he’d agreed. He liked
keeping her off balance.

  She walked away. He swung around and watched her pull a small, black box from a Chinese cabinet. On her return, she walked with a serpentine twist of the hips that fascinated him, even while the black box worried him.

  Kneeling in front of him again, she put the box to one side and slipped her hand under his balls. His limbs locked and his mind emptied out. She may as well have Tasered him. Cupping them high, she breathed on his cock. Nothing more. First she opened her mouth wide and puffed a hot, wet breath of air over his shaft. Then she pursed her lips and blew on the damp skin. Her gorgeous, bruised mouth stretching wide, then closing, stretching wide, then closing, waking and teasing his flesh. He watched her, entranced. She reached for the box and pulled a feather from it.

  The feather she swiped up and down his shaft, and around the head. The sensation was tickling light, but his cock twitched and leapt in response. It ignited his senses, but did nothing to satisfy. He leaned back on his hands and took a big gulp of air.

  “What do you think of the feather?”

  “I don’t think I have to tell you anything.”

  She laughed. “You tell me plenty.”

  Tossing the feather aside, she tilted her head and licked him from base to tip, until his cock shone with her saliva. Faint tremors began in his thighs and forearms. He forced himself to relax.

  “What’s this?” She quirked an eyebrow at him over his cock. “Pre-come? Already? Please tell me your come won’t bind me to you.”

  “Not blood,” he gasped. “Safe.” Keep going. God in heaven please keep going.

  With a smile she stretched out her long, pointed tongue and neatly captured the drop. Mikhail closed his eyes.

  But he couldn’t block the sensations. Her hot, wet mouth dropped over the head and slid down his shaft. Her lips sealed and the suction began. He grabbed the sides of the bench and held tight.

  “Why so tense?” she said, pulling off him, playing the understanding wife. “You need to relax. Let go.”

  “Is that an order?”

  She winked and dropped her mouth over his head again. Meanwhile she took up his balls again, this time squeezing lightly. She flicked at his frenulum, her tongue fast as a snake’s. He’d forgotten pleasure altogether, he realized. Forgotten it could be exquisite torture.

  Sweat began to trickle down his temples. Again she pulled off him. The skin over his head was red and distended, and so tender he thought it would split.

  “Would you like to come now?”

  He nodded. The mere suggestion made his testicles tighten.

  “Will you beg me for it?”

  He shook his head, puffing through his nose.

  “Stubborn.”

  “Won’t beg.”

  “You said you want to please me. Begging would please me.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll lose control. You will break your oath.”

  He shook his head.

  The box came out again. From its depths she pulled a long string of pearls and a small jar. He took a deep breath.

  Leaving him to watch, and wonder, and suffer, she took her time untangling the string of pearls. Holding them high, she let them cascade over his cock, smooth and cool. Then she pulled them off, leaned over and took him in her mouth again to suck and let her hot saliva cascade down the sides. He grabbed hold of the bench again.

  When he was as wet as she wanted him to be, she wrapped his cock with the pearls, starting at the base and winding her way up. Cupping her hand around this sheath, she moved her hand up and down. The pearls rolled and slid against his wet skin like a hundred caressing fingers.

  “Agh!”

  It was an agonized sound, even to his own ears. And it gave him no relief. Still stroking him with the pearls, she bent low and began to kiss his inner thighs, supplementing her kisses with cruel scratches.

  He writhed, fighting the desire to pump his hips. Orgasm was a semi bearing down on him, horn blaring. He tried to scoot backward out of her reach.

  “Uh, uh.”

  “Ahhh!” He stamped his feet. He ducked his head and ground his teeth. “Errrr!”

  “Say please.” She leaned forward to taste his navel.

  The wood snapped under his hands. The bench went lopsided.

  Frantic, he dug his fingernails into the cut on his arm—the one he’d threatened her with in the pool— opening it wide. The pain pulled him back from the brink.

  The scent of his blood distracted her. She lifted her head, her nostrils flaring. Though he suspected he must look insane, she didn’t bat an eyelash, just said, “You’d better get down before the bench collapses.”

  Keeping hold of his cock, she guided him to the floor. He stretched out on the cold, hard tile, grateful for its brutality.

  Her hand still on him, stroking slowly up and down, she said, “How do you want to come, Mikhail?”

  “Inside you.” His lips retracted involuntarily, baring his teeth.

  Her purr turned to frost. “You’d like that. Thrusting into me over and over until we were both sweaty, until I was screaming for mercy, tight, hot, slippery. Or maybe you’re imagining taking me from behind—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “You’re going to come, Faustin. You can’t control it. Say please before you break your oath.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  She stripped the pearls off his cock and sent them sliding across the tile. Wearing a wicked expression, she straddled him backward, giving him a magnificent view of her ass and her gleaming wet sex. But she said, “Don’t touch that.”

  Hips high, she lowered her head over his cock and drew him inch by slow inch into her mouth. Her fingertips tickled his balls and she started to move her head up and down. His hips lifted off the floor. He heard grunting and realized it was his own.

  The sound of a lid being turned. The little jar from the box. Her warm, greasy finger slid back along his perineum and circled his anus.

  No one had ever touched him that way. He had no idea it could feel so good. Combined with the slow suction on his cock, it was unbearable. He heaved a breath, slapped his palms against the floor, and fought not to give in.

  Her finger pushed at him delicately, teasing him until he opened to her and the tip of her finger slid inside. Taking him. Meanwhile her head was bobbing, her suction relentless, her saliva hot and slick. His cock leapt in her mouth. Pulsing. Alive.

  “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!” He saw red. Nothing else. But he would not come. He’d implode first. He’d die.

  Her fingertip wiggled gently, stroking him deep inside. Tears started to pour from the corners of his eyes. She backed off his cock and said quietly, like the Mother of Mercy herself, “Come for me now, Mikhail.”

  The ejaculation was so immediate, so intense, he screamed. His hips jerked as jet after jet tore out of his body. Vaguely he knew her mouth was on him. Swallowing. Sucking. Vaguely he knew her finger was still massaging his prostate, demanding that he give more.

  He gave and gave, twitching and moaning, emptying into her mouth. For the first time in his life he let go. He didn’t try to control it, or come out of it. He rode it as long as it lasted, until she was finished with him, and he lay there, wet and exhausted, a shipwreck survivor washed up on the beach.

  Chapter Seven

  She thought he’d passed out. The transition from his screams echoing off the walls to total silence unnerved her. His body, which had been sweat soaked and corded with frustration, was now soft and pliant.

  Alya pushed her hair out of her eyes and wiped her mouth. No one had ever fought her so hard before. But she shouldn’t have expected anything else from him.

  And he hadn’t just surrendered, he’d surrendered over and over, allowing layer after layer of resistance—all his training, all his natural defenses––to fall away. He’d given himself to the moment and made himself vulnerable. It made her domineering heart go pitter pat.

  He could have struck out at her. Or made a joke o
f it. Or tried to change the rules. But he played her game with more heart than she’d ever seen. None of the princes she knew would have let it go so far. She couldn’t read his motivations.

  Mikhail Faustin had grown up fascinating.

  Leaving him there, she stepped over shotgun shells, broken glass, and hunks of plaster, making her way to the kitchen, where she grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses. When she returned, he was still sprawled next to the settee he’d demolished.

  While she was pouring the wine he stirred. “I figured you would kill me in some spectacular way.”

  She warmed with pride to hear how raspy his voice was, and how lazy, too.

  Nudging him with her toe, she said offered him a glass of wine.

  He scowled at the offering. She took a sip out of her own glass, wincing as it stung the cuts inside her mouth.

  “Purist.” She returned to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, remembering that his parents drank only blood, water and medicinal scotch.

  His voice followed her down the hall. “Why would I play human? Why would I pretend to be less than I am?”

  But even though Mikhail and his parents were old-fashioned, his brother Gregor ran a nightclub where vamps and humans mixed—and where no doubt many vamps drank unauthorized beverages. Alex Faustin, she heard, took it one step further. He cooked. She wondered if that was a source of tension in the family. Always searching for weakness, aren’t you, Alya?

  Returning, she handed him the water and he drank it down thirstily, still sitting on the floor. She perched on a chair nearby.

  The few swallows of wine she’d had were already going to her head. That meant she was dangerously weak.

  “I need to eat. I’m going to call in a couple of feeders for us.”

  He jerked his head her direction, a disapproving gleam in his eyes. “You shouldn’t use feeders. Hunting keeps you sharp.”

  “It’s okay to hunt in New York, but not in LA. You have to drive around to find victims. The traffic is horrible. Then you have to park…” She waved her hand. “It’s easier to order out.”

  “I’ll go. I’ll find someone and bring them to you.”