Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set

by Jennifer Ashley

  He pulled away to look into her eyes. “You’ve been near another. A man.”

  She tensed a bit. “Lord Harrington and I took a turn about the Stubblefields’ garden tonight.”

  “Am I to presume he is the fortunate gentleman to claim your hand?” Voss reached up to touch her head, unable to resist sliding his hand down her thick hair.

  Gorgeous, heavy, warm. He wanted to see her standing, dressed in only these tresses.

  “He’s calling on Corvindale tomorrow at noon.”

  “And he kissed you as well, I think, no?”

  “He did.”

  “Was he able to make you forget this?” And he moved in.

  Their lips met, hers so soft and sweet that he had to restrain himself from devouring hers. But the little moan, the little clutch of her fingers into his hair, the arch of her body from beneath the coverlet ruined that.

  He could think of nothing like restraint—only her, of the smooth slide of lips and the gentle click of teeth, the sleek dance of tongue and the gentle nibbling on top and bottom. His breath gone, his body ready, ready, after waiting for her for so long…her shoulders, delicate and soft, and her breasts pushing into him. He felt her legs shifting beneath, pulled aside the strap of her night rail, kissed along her neck, felt her shudder beneath his mouth.

  She tensed a bit then, and he pulled back to look down at her, knowing she was waiting for him to thrust into her…

  “Was he?” Voss asked.

  Angelica had to pull herself free from the sensual fog that came with him, and at first she didn’t understand. She looked up at the man looming above her, outlined by moonlight that tipped the waves of his hair silver, but shadowed his face…and then she remembered his question.

  “No,” she replied softly, reaching up to touch his jaw. “No, he wasn’t. I don’t believe anyone could.”

  “Angelica…I love you. I want…you.” He’d shifted and now she could see his eyes in the silvery light. They were dark and hungry and her breath caught.

  “I’m going to be engaged tomorrow,” she said, trying to keep her voice low and steady. “I—”

  “Angelica,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of everything tomorrow. With Corvindale. If…if you’ll have me. If you’ll trust me.”

  She didn’t know how he would, knew that Chas would never allow it short of them eloping…but she didn’t care. Not at this moment, this moment she didn’t think she’d ever have, with the deepest part of her craving him. “I’ll have you.” Any way I can. “I’ve trusted you all along, haven’t I?”

  On the little gust of a groan, he gathered her up again, crushing his mouth to hers as a hand slipped to curve around her breast. Her nipples had tightened as they’d kissed, but now, as his fingers found the hard, sensitive tip, she flushed warm everywhere. That surge between her legs, hot and sudden, made her arch up and slide herself against him. This…this.

  She wanted to touch his skin, had regretted not doing it enough in Paris. Never kissing him on that smooth, golden expanse, not ruffling her fingers through that fascinating patch of hair. He pulled back and tore off his coat and then his shirt, and she rose up to flatten her hands against his torso, riding them up over the smooth slabs of muscle dusted with rough hair, the flat nipples and curve of square shoulders.

  He was so solid and firm next to her softness, and before she knew it, he’d tugged the blankets away and was pulling her night rail up and over her head. It might even have torn, but she didn’t care.

  Angelica was naked, silvery moonlight striping over her belly as he knelt up, looking down at her. It occurred to her, absurdly, that she’d never sprawled on her bed in this condition before—nude and uncovered and bathed in natural light, a little breeze filtering over her sensitive, waiting skin. It felt delicious.

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he murmured, “in all my 148 years.”

  She wouldn’t think about that now…not that he was so old, that he had this affliction, that at any moment, he could tear into her and draw out all of her blood. He’d proven over and over he wouldn’t do that to her, and tonight…there was something different. A restraint. That wild glow was gone from his eyes; the heaving, gasping breaths were nowhere in evidence.

  “But,” she said, later wondering from where such bold words came, “you’re still clothed and I am quite curious to see what a 148-year-old man looks like without them.”

  He gave a choked sort of gasp. “I do hope,” he said, unbuttoning the flap of his trousers with practiced, unhurried motions, “that doesn’t mean you know what a twenty-eight-year-old man looks like and want to compare us.”

  She gave a nervous giggle that stopped in a short gasp when he slid his trousers and drawers down over lean hips. Angelica wasn’t naive or innocent about the workings of coitus—she and Maia had traded many conversations with the chambermaids about that very subject. But being confronted with the actual implement was enough to steal her breath.

  She reached to touch it and he stilled. She glanced at him and saw his eyes close, his breathing stop, and she pulled her hand away.

  His eyes flew open. “Angelica.”

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t know.”

  “No, no, that’s not it…” His smile wavered and he drew in a breath. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to touch me.”

  “Oh…” She closed her fingers around his erection, shocked by the rush of pleasure she felt at the taut, velvety skin. “My lord.”

  “Voss, blast it, Angelica. My name is Voss. Say it,” he said in a pained sigh.

  “Voss,” she replied. “I love you, Voss.”

  He moved quickly at that point, and the next thing she knew, they were skin to skin, length to length. His hands moved everywhere, and his mouth, soft and demanding, his tongue stroking and probing in places she hadn’t even known were sensitive: the hollow of her neck, the soft rise of her belly, the inside of her thigh.

  Angelica gasped at that, when he bent between her legs, gently spreading them. She couldn’t have moved if she’d tried, but when his sleek, wicked tongue began to stroke her, his lips nibbling and tasting, she had to pull a pillow over her face to stifle her sighs and groans.

  That luscious heat filled her to swelling, and as he taunted and teased, with long, slick strokes, then fast, short ones, she grasped blindly at his head, sliding her fingers through his hair until it all exploded and she fell into a shuddering, gasping mass of nothing.

  “Voss,” she whispered as he yanked the pillow away, and she saw the fierce expression on his face.

  He bent to her, his mouth musky and hot, and his hands sliding down between them. Their bodies, flesh to sleek flesh, curves sliding against firm muscle, slipped and shifted, and when he guided himself to her core, he raised his face from the ferocious kiss.

  “Angelica,” was all he managed, but she read the question in his eyes.

  “Yes,” she breathed, “I trust you.”

  His eyes closed momentarily, and then opened again. Looking down at her, something blazing there that had nothing to do with the devil and everything to do with purity, he shifted and pushed…and filled her.

  Angelica’s eyes widened at the pure shock of eroticism, a feeling she could never have imagined or described…then with a sharp movement, he went deeper. The pain was lost in a wave of pleasure, and then everything changed from gentle stillness to a hot, fast, building rhythm.

  He muffled her mouth with his, or perhaps she was stifling him with hers…she didn’t know, and simply gave herself over.

  And when he tensed and stopped, arched over her, his fingers sliding between them, she gave a little gasp of surprise, then tipped over once again, exploding into heat and light as he buried his face in her neck, shuddering above her.

  “That,” he murmured into her neck moments later, “was worth every bit of the wait, my love.”

  “Shall we do it again?” she asked, finding his lips, loving the taste of herself mingled with his
own damp flavor.

  Voss smiled against her. “Only if you promise to keep quiet. I don’t wish Corvindale to interrupt.”

  ***

  Voss considered remaining intertwined with Angelica until someone came in and found them in the morning.

  Then they’d have to be married. Then even Corvindale couldn’t find a way out of it…and all the explanations would be made.

  But in the end he decided there was a better way to do it. A bit more dramatic, and also, he confessed privately, deep in his heart, he wanted to stick one last pin into Corvindale simply to see the man squirm. To force him to show some emotion, something other than the cold bastard side he showed to the world.

  His soul might no longer be cracked and damaged, and he might have found everlasting love, but Voss was still imperfect. Just like every other man in the world.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE EARL OF CORVINDALE AWAITS HIS VISITOR

  The Earl of Corvindale was in his study the day after the musicale at the Stubblefield residence, awake at the inconvenient hour of noon. He had managed to avoid attending the event, although, unbeknownst to his wards, he and Cale had put in precautionary measures in the event Moldavi had already sent a more competent replacement for Belial back to London.

  Yet, in truth, neither he nor Woodmore expected Moldavi to act so expediently. Now that the bastard knew the Woodmore sisters wouldn’t be so easily plucked, he’d likely be planning some other way to have his revenge on Woodmore and get Narcise back rather than risking his life and those of his makes by pestering Dimitri.

  Nevertheless, Dimitri would be prepared in case of such an unlikely event. He was no fool.

  Woodmore had gone off again, presumably to ensure Narcise’s safety—or at least, that was the excuse he’d given, along with the fact that Blackmont Hall offered more protection for his sisters than their own home.

  That was a fact which Dimitri could not argue, to his dismay. If he didn’t appreciate Woodmore’s years of service and friendship, he would have protested much more loudly long before now.

  And now Dimitri had to contend with the flurry of activity around Miss Woodmore’s upcoming nuptials to the long-absent, and lately returned, Mr. Alexander Bradington. Dress patterns, menus, guest lists, seating arrangements, table dressings and decor, and flowers. On and on and on they babbled, his so-called sister Mirabella just as wide-eyed as the bride-to-be herself. He felt as if he was being driven out of his own home.

  If he weren’t expecting a visitor at noon, Dimitri would have retreated to his club rather than be about during the feminine planning and machinations that accompanied such events.

  He frowned, glancing at his watch. It appeared that, very shortly, he would be thrust into the midst of yet another battle plan for another wedding. He’d been informed late last evening that Lord Harrington wished to call on him today in regard to Angelica.

  But the man was late.

  Dimitri glanced over at the tall windows that lined the wall of his study and noted that, yet again, the curtains weren’t fully drawn. He knew on whom to blame that trespass, and his lips tightened. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon for Miss Woodmore to have her own household to disrupt.

  The sun, bright and hot and taunting, shone through the large gaps between the drapes. At least Miss Woodmore had learned to keep the drapes near his desk closed tightly.

  And to keep the flowers from the tables.

  A knock at his door had Dimitri glancing at his watch. A full ten minutes tardy, Lord Harrington. Just like every other fop in London—inconsiderate of a man’s time.

  “Enter,” he called, and stood behind his desk. Dimitri enjoyed projecting a stance of power, especially to mortals.

  “Good morning, Dimitri.”

  The man who strode confidently into the study was not Lord Harrington. In fact, it was a well-dressed, neatly groomed Voss.

  “What in the dark hell are you doing in this house?” Dimitri said, furious at the man’s effrontery. “You’re more of a fool than I’d thought. Woodmore has left word you’re to be staked on sight.”

  “I don’t see you reaching for your ash pike,” Voss replied lazily. “But don’t let me stop you.”

  Dimitri tamped down the annoyance. He was used to dealing with this bastard and his insouciance, and he wouldn’t allow the man to needle him. He was stronger, older and infinitely wiser. “I owe you more than an ash stake in your heart,” he said coolly. “After your games and salvi that night in Vienna.”

  Even now, nearly a century later, he couldn’t think of the night Lerina had died and his business had been destroyed without wanting to do something violent…to someone. Preferably the arse-licker in front of him. Yes, it had all started with him and his games and trickery. Moldavi would never have risked his own humiliation by daring to insult and challenge his host if Dimitri hadn’t already been sluggish and intoxicated from Voss’s ruse.

  To his surprise, chagrin colored Voss’s face. “Indeed, you do have cause for anger, Dimitri. I see it now. But I do hope that after our conversation, you’ll be a bit more…tolerant.”

  Dimitri made a show of glancing at his pocket watch, then glanced again at the windows. Full, hot sun, with nary a cloud in the sky showed from between a narrow opening in the far set of drapes. “In fact, I’m expecting another visitor momentarily. I’m afraid I haven’t the time nor the inclination to speak with you. Good day, Voss.” Burn in the sun.

  The other man smiled. “Lord Harrington won’t be calling today, I’m afraid. I’m here in his stead. To speak with you about my intentions toward Angelica.”

  At first Dimitri couldn’t react, and then he burst out in hard, derisive laughter. “You’re mad. If I don’t kill you, Woodmore will.”

  “May I speak, Dimitri? I hope that you’ll change your tack…but if not, please know I’m here because I love Angelica. And she loves me. We intend to wed, with or without Woodmore’s—or your—blessing. But I hope to gain your support. You of all people will understand, I believe.”

  There was something different about Voss, the least of which was his almost placating tone. Dimitri had never known the man to show deference to anyone, nor to speak in a tone without that hint of conceit.

  Curious now, yet just as wary, Dimitri scoffed. “I can understand my ward believing she loves you—isn’t that your forte, Voss? Wooing and coaxing and seducing? But you, love her? You love anyone besides yourself?”

  Voss didn’t rise to the bait. “I can certainly see how you might look at it from that perspective. You know even I would never have touched Lerina—or anyone else one of us was feeding and mating with, but—”

  “You fail to understand, Voss, that it wasn’t the infidelity or even the loss of Lerina that has created my antipathy toward you. I knew who and what she was, and that’s why Moldavi even had the opportunity with her. She was trying to gain my attention, poor wretch. Why do you think I was with her?” Dimitri closed his mouth and clenched down hard. He needn’t explain himself. Not to him.

  Not to anyone.

  But Voss looked surprised. “And all these years, I thought it was because you loved her.”

  Dimitri kept his face stony. He’d only loved one woman, and she’d left him long ago. “No, I never loved Lerina—just as you never loved the scores of women you’ve been with. Don’t misunderstand—I didn’t wish her to die, of course. As for you—it’s simple. I don’t trust you. I don’t like you. I have no interest in interacting with you, Voss, because you aspire only to trick and manipulate, and to take from others for your own gain.”

  Voss stared at him, and for the first time, Dimitri believed the man might have actually heard him. “Indeed,” he said. And nodded, as if accepting what Dimitri had just said.

  Voss took a breath and continued, “In spite of that, perhaps what I’m about to show you will change your mind.”

  “Show me?”

  “I mean to show you proof of my regard and intentions toward Angelica.” Voss drew
off his coat and folded it neatly onto a chair.

  Dimitri watched in morbid fascination as the other man then divested himself of a ridiculously tied neckcloth, which also joined the coat, and then untied the collar of his shirt. “Burning hell, Voss, what the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “Showing you this.” The man whipped off his crisp white shirt and turned away, giving Corvindale a full view of his back.

  For a moment, Dimitri couldn’t speak. “Satan’s dark soul,” he whispered at last.

  He stared at the smooth expanse of Voss’s back, stunned and disbelieving. A shaft of something dark and unfamiliar stabbed him in the belly.

  Impossible.

  “Your Mark is gone.”

  “You have an uncanny knack of speaking the obvious,” Voss said, but his voice was filled with warmth. Delight, even. He turned and pulled his shirt back on. “There’s nothing of the Draculia in me any longer—with the exception of the fact I still seem to have an enhanced sense of smell. And could still fling three men across the road should I have the mind to do so—so consider that a warning, Dimitri.”

  “Luce’s damned soul,” Dimitri said, still working on comprehension.

  Impossible.

  “I’ve studied and searched for decades… No one’s ever done it before…” He flapped his hand toward the shelves of books, the stacks of papers and manuscripts, the hollow, empty feeling growing in his chest. “How? How did you break the covenant?”

  Voss looked at him, pity and understanding in his face. “I changed.”

  EPILOGUE

  MIRACLES, SIBLINGS AND A FINAL REQUEST

  Voss turned his face up to the sun, drinking in the warmth from which he’d been banned for more than a century. The prickle of a tear stung the corner of his eye at the beauty of it, the knowledge that he was, again, his own man.

  With the woman he loved.

  “My greatest fear,” he said, clasping Angelica’s hand as they strolled through the gardens—in the daylight, when all the flowers were actually open!—at Dewhurst, “was that Moldavi would have made you Dracule. All the way to Paris, I couldn’t allow myself to think of anything about why I was going, what I needed to do…because if I did, I would think too hard. And then I would have weakened, and he would have found that weakness.”