Blood Red Kiss

by Kresley Cole

  She shivered. General Wroth had a wicked streak.

  He wanted her to dress for him, and she didn’t have a problem with that; finally someone—besides herself—would enjoy her fabulous lingerie. And it made a huge difference that he’d asked when he could have commanded.

  But would he always? As she soaked in a bath, she realized her precarious position: she was dependent on his goodwill.

  Which was intolerable for a creature like her.

  Damn it, where were her sisters? She’d half-expected them to show by now—Nïx could often find her. With no sign of them, Myst decided she’d use her own tools and talents to win her freedom.

  Wroth had said he’d return the chain when he was confident she’d never leave. Acting as if she wanted to stay forever wouldn’t be that difficult.

  After drying off, she surveyed the lingerie. Why not seduce him into thinking she desired him above all others? Play at love, and act at surrender. As she smoothed the hose up her legs, she wondered if deception had ever sounded so delicious.

  She trembled when she donned the bustier, the fringe skimming her stiff nipples so sweetly. She was already wet with anticipation.

  Dressed, she lay on the bed and fantasized about him. She pictured him railing her as his big hands kneaded her breasts. Would he drink her? She imagined him driving into her from behind, the length of his body stretched over hers to take her neck.

  Her fingers found their way down her belly and into her panties. Wroth was supposed to be back soon, but did she care if he caught her masturbating? She’d already done it for his pleasure.

  A stroke on her clitoris made her eyes slide closed. Had she ever been so slick? No, not until she’d fingered herself in a vampire’s lair, waiting to seduce a warlord.

  Her legs fell wide as she ran her finger lower. When she opened her heavy-lidded eyes, she found Wroth staring at her from the foot of the bed.

  “Couldn’t wait, then?”

  Nikolai had known his Myst was a pagan, but she’d never truly looked it—until he’d found her pleasuring herself with her legs spread in abandon.

  Her glorious red hair fanned out over his pillow, and her delicate hand was in her panties, stroking.

  She hadn’t stopped at his arrival.

  “I couldn’t have dreamed you’d be like this, Myst.” The lush scent of her arousal made his head swim. “I believe I’m dreaming now.”

  She arched her back.

  “Were you fantasizing about me?” Say yes. . . . He didn’t think he’d ever wanted to hear anything so badly.

  “Yes, Wroth.”

  He groaned. “What were you imagining?”

  “You drinking my blood while you fucked me hard,” she said, moaning the last.

  Craving his bite too? “A dream.”

  She licked her lips. “In your dream, do you make me wait much longer?” Her whiskey voice dripped with need.

  “You want this freely?” He fumbled with his belt buckle, then simply tore the leather apart.

  Her hips rolled in reaction. “Yes.”

  “No games?”

  “No,” she panted, “just need you inside me.”

  “Your body wants to be fucked?”

  Her fingers moved faster. “Yes!”

  “By me?”

  “Yes,” she moaned.

  He’d anticipated months of wearing her down until she truly wanted him—until they wouldn’t have to play at commands and power.

  Yet here she was, fingering herself in his bed. Waiting for him to return. He grew suspicious. “Convince me.”

  She sensuously drew her fingers from her panties. Rising from the bed, she sauntered to face the closest wall.

  What would she do?

  She dragged her flimsy thong down to her garters. Without a word, she spread her legs and leaned forward to rest her forearms against the wall.

  When the position raised her ass and parted her glistening lips, he rasped, “You make a compelling argument.” He kicked off his boots, ripped his clothing away, then traced behind her. He slipped his thumb into her tightness, briefly closing his eyes to find her so slick. Her body trembled with need, which affected him so much.

  He replaced his thumb with one, then two fingers. Thrusting them, he said, “In my dream, I do fuck you. But I start slowly, feeding my cock into you inch by inch. When you’re dripping wet and ready, I fuck you with all the strength in my body.”

  She raised her ass even higher. “What do I do?” she breathed.

  “You come again and again from no command, just from pleasure.” With a last plunge of his fingers, he withdrew them.

  He grasped himself, aiming for her entrance. When his cockhead kissed her wet heat, he fought not to shove into her. Easy, Nikolai! Inch by inch . . . He shuddered violently from the battle, but he wouldn’t repay this gift from her by hurting her tight little sheath.

  Yet the crown was barely inside her when lightning exploded outside—because she was already coming. “Wroth!” She clawed furrows into the wall. “Now!”

  “I am . . .” he groaned, straining his every muscle to enter her slowly, to make this good for her—

  His eyes widened when her claws sank into his ass to yank him into her.

  “Hard!” she demanded in a throaty voice.

  He choked out, “Don’t hurt.” He forced his cock through the squeezing spasms of her climax—as if through a clenched fist. “Ah, God, Myst!” Even when he was seated deeply, she continued to come around him. He could have stilled and let her body milk him.

  But he wanted to fuck her. To brand her as his own. To take her so fiercely she would forget other men. He palmed the curves of her ass, withdrew, then surged into her, hitting the end of her sex.

  “More!” she cried.

  “Can you know what this does to me?” he rasped, grinding his hips, stirring her. She moaned, hanging on to the wall. “To see you finger yourself to thoughts of me?” He pulled out completely, then impaled her with another brutal thrust.

  “Drink!” She was panting. “Please, please drink from me.”

  “You truly crave my bite?” He ripped the bustier clean from her body, then pulled her back against him. His hands covered her bare breasts, his grip possessive. He almost came just from fondling her plump flesh.

  “Yes!”

  He pinched and tugged her nipples. “As much as you crave my cock?” His voice was ragged with lust.

  “Put everything in me, yes, yes, yes.” She shoved her hips back, circling them.

  “Uhn! Myst!” He lowered his head to her neck. His aching fangs pierced her luscious skin just as he thrust.

  “Ah, Wroth . . . YES!” She came again, lightning shaking the manor.

  He felt her screams as he drank, felt her sheath pulsating around his swollen cock. His balls tightened. Can’t hold back!

  Squeezing her heavy breasts, he mindlessly fucked.

  When he began to ejaculate, he snarled against her skin. While her blood scorched his veins, he flooded her with his hot seed.

  Wave after wave after wave of it . . .

  Thought gradually returned. He released his bite and kissed her neck in thanks. As he slowly withdrew, he clutched her close. She was unsteady, but then so was he.

  When he scooped her into his arms, her eyes were silver, her lips curling. He stared, still disbelieving. “Liked that, did you?”

  She nodded.

  “Want more?” He tossed her on the bed.

  In answer, she went to her knees and pulled aside her hair, offering him the unbitten side of her neck.

  He sucked in a breath. “That wasn’t quite what I meant, but we can work something out. . . .”

  In the hours toward dawn, they exchanged mind-boggling pleasure, licking, fucking, and both of them biting. He marveled that his Bride was happily—no, aggressively—partaking.

  At the end of the night, he gazed down at her in puzzlement. He didn’t know which facet of her he liked better.

  The siren in
black satin who made his cock and fangs ache.

  Or this angel with her bright red hair spread across his pillow—who made his chest ache.

  She brushed the backs of her fingers along his jawline. “I want you to let this grow naturally between us, without using the chain. If you vow you’ll return it in two weeks’ time, I vow to give us a fair chance.”

  He wanted to believe in her—and in himself, that he could convince her to stay. In fourteen nights, he would command her to close her eyes and raise her cupped palms. He wanted to see her face when he poured the chain into them.

  Two weeks to win her. “Yes, milaya, I vow it.”

  13

  Nothing in Nikolai’s human life or his vampire existence had prepared him for living with a Valkyrie.

  Myst had boundless energy and strength, and she exuded an otherworldly sensuality that set his blood on fire.

  Each night, he traced her to different locations to make love to her. He’d taken her against the foot of a pyramid. He’d gazed in awe as she rode him on a moonlit beach in Greece. He’d licked her sex beneath a redwood until she’d begged for mercy. . . .

  Once he and Myst had worked the edge off their need, they’d talked for hours. Little by little, he was learning more about her and her kind.

  When he’d made a surprise gift of his jeweled cross, she’d seemed to go into a trance. Once she’d shaken herself, she’d admitted, “We all inherited Freya’s acquisitiveness. Shining things, jewels and gems . . . we can’t tear our gaze away without training for years, and sudden glittering is sometimes irresistible.”

  Nikolai had inwardly cursed this vulnerability. While her immortal species had distinct advantages—no need to eat, strengthening with age—he’d learned they were one of the few species in the Lore that could die of sorrow. And if one Valkyrie was weakened, the others suffered, because they were all connected through a collective power.

  He couldn’t always be there to protect her. Though he’d tried to use the chain as little as possible, he’d whispered to her as she slept that she would no longer have these weaknesses. . . .

  In their talks, she’d been surprisingly curious about him and his past. He’d found himself revealing things he never had to anyone and feeling unburdened.

  He’d told her of the night he and Murdoch returned home to find their six other siblings and their father on the verge of death. Myst’s eyes had watered as he’d spoken of the gut-wrenching decision to make them drink. Then had come the agonizing vigil as he’d wondered if his family would be reborn, any of them. In the end, he’d lost his father and sisters, but regained two brothers.

  The night he himself had “died” fascinated her, especially since he’d made demands of Kristoff.

  She’d told Nikolai how proud she was of him—which made him uneasy. These days, he didn’t have much to be proud about.

  Though he traced to Oblak for duty, he avoided his brother and his king, telling Kristoff little when they did meet. Worse, Nikolai was coercing his Bride to stay. And if she chose to leave him at the end of the two weeks, he suspected he’d break his vow to her in a heartbeat’s time.

  What would she decide? He constantly searched for clues. At times, he was optimistic. When they fought mock battles with a game based on military strategy, she seemed to enjoy herself with him—and to like the fact that he always beat her. She wasn’t a strategist, she’d explained. She was “frontline badassness,” but she appreciated his talent.

  One night, she’d sidled over to straddle him, placing his hands on her breasts. As she slid down his shaft, she’d whispered in his ear, “My wise warlord. You make my toes curl, you’re so good.” He’d struggled not to come instantly.

  In fact, she seemed to delight in every reminder that he’d warred. Her eyes had widened when she hefted the considerable weight of his sword, only to narrow on him and grow silver with want. If her eyes even flickered silver, he went as hard as that sword.

  And last night, as they lay spent in bed, he’d asked her, “What do you find attractive about me?” That could possibly compete against a demigod with a “mind-shattering” kiss.

  Without hesitation, she’d answered, “Your scars.”

  He’d frowned. “Why?”

  “They’re evidence of the pain you’ve survived. Pain survived builds strength.” She’d traced down his stomach. “This is the one that killed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I admire this one the most.” She’d brushed her lips so tenderly over it. “It brought you to me. . . .”

  But his contentment was never complete—because his dreams reminded him of her sordid past. He’d never been in love—didn’t believe he’d even slept with the same woman twice—yet now he craved everything from this pagan immortal, was sick with wanting her.

  He needed to strip her soul bare and make her give all of herself—all of what she’d been in the beginning before time twisted her.

  Though he’d never actually seen her bedding another in those dreams, thank God, he drove himself mad with the mere idea of her past lovers. How did he compare to them?

  Whenever she did some wicked thing to him, he’d stare at the ceiling in an agony of pleasure and shock—and later, wonder where she’d learned it.

  How many had she been with? She was nearly two thousand years old. One bedmate a year? Two a year? One lover a month . . . ?

  And how could he compete with gods for her? She was so beautiful, she’d clearly been made to be loved by them alone.

  The dreams kept him from falling into the life they could share—the life he would gladly do murder for.

  Though her blood built his muscle, making him physically stronger than he’d ever imagined, he dreaded sleep and took no comfort from it. His exhaustion mounted. Each time they awakened, he treated her coldly, so she asked about his dreams.

  But he lied.

  She would accept his reassurance, smiling over at him from her window seat. Her smile could bring down an army. Probably had.

  How had he thought he was a match for it?

  My apologies, Myst thought as she gazed down at Wroth, but I’m enjoying the hell out of this vampire.

  His gray eyes were so fierce, his gorgeous body taut beneath her claws as she rolled her hips on him. They were both on the verge of orgasm, had been edging themselves for an hour.

  His sweating muscles quaked; she’d never been wetter.

  Panting, she leaned forward to cup her breast to his mouth. He suckled with a desperate groan, tension stealing over him as his release passed the point of no return.

  “Wroth . . . I’m about—”

  He bit her nipple, wrenching a scream from her lips and an orgasm from her body. Her sheath demanded his hot come; he was helpless not to give it. . . .

  When she fell limp on top of him, he clenched her against his heaving chest, holding her through his after-shudders.

  Eventually, they disentangled themselves, and he rose to shower.

  She frowned when he returned dressed for work. Heading off to Oblak again? “I’m down with being your dirty little secret out here—for now,” she told him. “But I can’t just sit in this room with nothing to do while you’re gone.”

  He sat beside her. “What do you need, love?” he asked, piling her curls atop her head. He seemed fascinated by her hair, always touching it.

  Wait, he’d called her love? Cool. “Do you know what video-gaming is? No? Well, your Bride has a teeny little addiction to it.”

  “Write down whatever you need.”

  She jotted a note with the model of the console and the games she wanted. Just before he traced, she took his hands and gazed up at him solemnly. “Bring this back and you might as well have slayed a dragon for me.”

  “I’ll return directly.”

  She painted her toenails as she waited—Valkyries loved painting their nails, since most aspects of their appearance were unchanging—and reflected on how easily she’d settled in here.

  In fa
ct, only three things prevented her from being truly comfortable. The first? Though they traveled most nights, Wroth wouldn’t take her to meet his friends and family—or let her see hers either. He’d explained that he wanted her undivided attention for these two weeks.

  She suspected he was waiting until their relationship was cemented, which he believed would be in three days—the end of her two-week vampire demo. Had it resulted in a sale?

  Accepting him as her husband would mean pariah-hood in the Lore and having to give up her family. She could just imagine bringing Wroth to the coven. Her sisters would thank her for the surprise, then pounce on him with swords and claws bared.

  As twin sister to Furie, Cara for one would fight him to the death simply for what he was. Part fury, she had thousands of years more fighting experience—and the boiling hatred of a separated twin.

  Wroth versus Cara would be like Godzilla versus Mothra, or some serious epic shit.

  Myst’s second concern was her worry for him. Each time he was out in the world, she feared he would face some Lore faction bent on killing all vampires. Because he knew so little about immortals, he’d always be at a disadvantage.

  She believed Kristoff’s agenda—and saw no conflict of interest with her coven—so she’d turned informant, teaching Wroth how to protect himself.

  Her third beef? Each sunset when they woke, he was surly and curt with her. She suspected he was seeing her memories of flirting, or even making love. But Nïx had once told her that recipients of visions usually witnessed only major, life-changing events. And Wroth had assured her again and again it was nothing. . . .

  Yet she could tolerate his moods because he spent the rest of the night treating her like a queen.

  As promised, Wroth returned directly, with . . .

  The slain dragon and its attendant games.

  He looked at her with his brows drawn as if he’d missed her, and her heart did twisty things in her chest. The impulse came to jump him, so she did.

  Only after he’d squeezed her up in his arms did she realize she’d run to get within them.

  14