by Tamara Hogan
He’d have to get out of the pool to reach it.
His gaze flicked to the towel, then back to her face. His thoughts were well-guarded, locked down tight, but his gaze wandered over her breasts then dropped to her hips, hidden under the clingy yoga pants she’d put on before reading to Valerian. He muttered something under his breath—brat?—but then he took a deep breath. Moving slowly, he walked toward the pool’s ladder. He met her eyes again as he grasped the silver rungs, pausing before he hauled his body out of the water with a whoosh and an impressive flex of muscle. Water sheeted off his body.
Valerian was right; Wyland wanted her. He was half hard, his cock jutting from a patch of water-darkened blond hair. Dragging her eyes away from his penis, she gave the rest of his body an admiring up-and-down, pursing her lips around a silent wolf-whistle. “Who knew the Vampire Second looked so great naked?”
His penis gave a kick as he padded toward her, leaving wet footprints in his wake. When he reached her, he didn’t reach for the towel. No, instead he stood before her, wet and dripping, his eyes turbulent, looking like a vengeful sea god forced to come onto land. “Why.”
She almost smiled. He’d asked so many impossible questions in a single, annoyed syllable. How many people ever noticed the volcano seething under his icy, placid surface? Despite the room’s heat, she shivered. All that pent-up steam, looking for a way to escape.
She didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, she slung the towel around his butt, grasped both ends, and yanked, bringing their bodies together. Opening her mouth, she showed him her fangs, her desire. Nicked her own lip, drawing a rich bead of blood.
And then she kissed him.
Tia flicked her tongue over the tip of his fang, a silky caress that nearly unmanned him. Wrapping his arms around her, he opened his mouth and let her inside. The towel dropped unheeded to the floor.
Her blood. He closed his eyes at its ecstatic zing, groaning at the lush flavor. Her mouth was hot and hungry, eating him alive, and he ran his hands over her body, anywhere he could touch, palming and kneading her luscious frame. She was soft and curved, not whittled down to muscle and sinew like so many women of this era. Her hands were as busy as his, trailing heat over his water-chilled skin.
Tia was no shy miss who’d let a glimpse of a man’s erect penis send her to a fainting couch. The ravenous way she’d looked at his body as he’d climbed out of the pool had been the final nail in the coffin of his control.
She pulled his hair out of its queue, wet strands slapping against his upper back. She speared her hands through it, tugging him closer, and he hissed as his cock pressed into her soft stomach. Her busy mouth dropped, trailing kisses along his jawline, down his neck and over his collarbones, sipping the dripping water. When she rubbed her nose and cheek against his chest hair, the gesture pierced his brain stem.
It was like she was marking herself with his scent.
She wants me as much as I want her. The thought brought both relief and torment. Valerian was right; Tia was an adult woman, fully capable of making her own decisions, and it appeared she’d decided on him—but she’d inevitably move on with her life, leaving him behind.
But he needed this moment, needed it with a wild, hot fury. Now was not the time to ask why, not when her clever hands were mapping his abdomen and slowly traveling south. He held his breath as she trailed her fingers down his body. A groan escaped when she threaded them through his pubic hair, combing with soft, diabolical tugs. He nearly whimpered when she removed her hands.
She met his gaze. “Are you sure you want this?”
A strangled laugh escaped. “How can you doubt it?” His cock, standing upright between them, was hard enough to drive spikes.
Tia acknowledged the point with a smile. “Your body does, but do you?”
He searched her eyes, her face. It suddenly hit him: consent. She was asking him to consent, to enter into this…this experience, with his brain as well as his body. To make a conscious decision, not just let his body carry him away.
What man with functioning brain cells wouldn’t choose this? He might regret it later, but damn it, he wanted. He wanted her with a violence he barely recognized, barely remembered, and though her own motivations weren’t entirely clear, her desire for him was. For some inexplicable reason, she wanted him, too. Just this once, he was going to take something for himself. “Yes.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Yes, I want this.”
I want you.
She covered his hands with hers, then stroked up his arms to his biceps. She gave them a testing squeeze, humming her approval. Suddenly, her fingernails bit in, hard enough to sting. “It took you long enough to decide.”
Waves of weakness washed over him. “You’re the one who asked me to think.” He glanced down to where his penis bobbed between them. “It took some doing. My blood’s pooled elsewhere.”
“True.” And with that, she took his cock in both hands.
He gritted his teeth and locked his knees, trying to steady himself against the barrage of forgotten sensations. Time whirled away as she stroked, cupped, and measured his need with a thoroughness he could better appreciate if it hadn’t been over a century since a woman had touched his todge. When her fingers danced over the particularly sensitive patch of skin behind his bollocks, he bit back a curse and pulled away. “Any more of that and I’ll spill where we stand.”
She flicked her tongue against the corner of his mouth. “And why is that a problem?”
A frisson shot down his spine, snarling in his pelvis. “I appreciate your confidence in my recuperative powers, but that’s not how I envisioned this.”
“You’ve envisioned this? Us?”
Endlessly. Relentlessly. In his deepest death-sleep fantasies, he’d held her. Caressed her. Covered her body with his, losing himself in her wet, clinging heat for hours on end. Instead of answering, he captured her tongue, drew it into his mouth and suckled. The tiny, self-inflicted slice had almost healed, but the maddening taste of blood lingered. He delved into her mouth, exploring its contours, gathering as much of the dark essence as he could. His hands wandered down her back, over her waist, over her hips, finally making their way to her deliciously rounded arse. He palmed the voluptuous globes, flexing his fingers against her firm, resilient flesh. She was doing the same thing to him, her small hands roving his body with an explorer’s gusto. When she scratched her nails over his buttocks, an involuntary grunt escaped. He couldn’t stop his hips from rolling against the heat between her legs, still covered by the clingy fabric of her yoga pants.
She held him there, then grabbed his hands and pressed them to her breasts.
He bit back a groan as their tender weight filled his hands, as her hard nipples pressed into his palms. He buried his face in her cleavage, absorbing her intoxicating scent. His knees weakened along with his resolve. “I need to see you.” He reached for the hem of her camisole, but she stepped back and peeled it off before he could touch it.
He’d complain about that later, because such beautiful orbs deserved a slow and theatrical unveiling. They were a sumptuous feast for the eyes—art, really—with delicate, shadowy veins just visible under her pale, pale skin, and topped by saucy pinkish-tan nipples.
She put her thumbs under the elastic waistband of the clingy black pants and drew them down. When she bent over to remove them, his heart gave an extra kick. A slim strip of shiny black fabric disappeared in the crease between her buttocks, leaving the glorious globes completely bare.
Her pale, plump arse was the Eighth Bloody Wonder of the World.
She stripped off the garment, threw it on top of his suit pants, then drew herself upright, proud as a princess.
Oh, she had reason to be proud. Her frame had the classic hourglass shape that artists had celebrated for centuries, with full breasts, a narrow waist, and soft, rounded hips, and her skin was unmarked by any corset or attempt at restraint. She wore a birth control patch on her right hip, and had no tattoos beyond
the one on her inner forearm. Her pubic lips were pink and bare, with only a small tuft of auburn hair adorning her mons.
Yes, he had much to learn about women of this era. It had been so long since he’d looked at a female body with anything but professional interest that he wondered whether he remembered how to bring her pleasure.
But her humid need called to him, prodding a dormant, voracious hunger awake. He took her in his arms, brought their bodies together, closing his eyes so he could better savor the sensation of her bare skin brushing against his. Angles to curves, concave to convex, male to female, fitting together like puzzle pieces. She scattered gentle kisses across his chest, but her hands clutched his shoulders with urgency. When she swirled her tongue over his nipple, he almost jumped out of his skin. Lust and need galloped through his body, finally running free.
As she suckled, his penis reared against her stomach, each soft tug pulling an invisible anatomical string. His bollocks drew up tight, and an unmistakable pressure snarled low in his pelvis. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
Her eyes widened—had his blunt words surprised her?—but her answer was gift-wrapped in an approving, sensual smile. “Yes.”
She squeaked when he swept her up in his arms, carrying her to the padded chaise lounge. When he laid her back against the cushions, they gave with a soft whoosh.
She parted her legs, making room for him to join her. Her pink folds glistened, beckoned. She was wet—for him—and unashamed of her desire.
She held out her arms. “Fuck me, Wyland.”
The word he usually found coarse and vile took on an entirely different meaning when uttered with such breathy, feminine demand. He couldn’t refuse her.
Couldn’t refuse this.
He slowly lowered himself between her spread legs, groaning aloud when she wrapped them around his waist. She was so wet, so hot. So ready for him.
When she kissed his neck, scratching the tip of her fangs against a frantically pulsing vein, he pulled his head back. He couldn’t allow her to drink from him, no matter how much his body throbbed for it. Instead, he locked his gaze on hers, and entered her—simply, directly, and inevitably.
He groaned as he pushed into her slick, lush heat. Her intimate muscles clutched and clung, stroking his violently aroused flesh. When he bottomed out in her body, he gritted his teeth against the urge to spill.
He’d bring her pleasure if it killed him.
Given the way his heart thundered in his chest, it very well might.
All too soon, her vaginal muscles gathered themselves, poised for the rhythmic clench of orgasm. She writhed, tossing her head back. “More. Faster. Now.” Her heels and nails dug in, spurring him on. “Wyland. Now.”
He plunged, riding them both into oblivion.
Chapter Nine
“Ow!” Mila slapped at the mosquito on her cheek, almost hitting Dominic. “Sorry,” she said, giggling.
“I forgot to close the windows.”
They’d been necking in the back seat for hours, and the SUV was swarming with the bloodthirsty little buggers.
She stretched her arms overhead. What had started out as a late dinner date had morphed into drinks, coffee, and conversation. They’d closed down the restaurant, talking about anything and everything, and when Dominic suggested going for a drive rather than taking her home, she’d quickly agreed. He’d headed west, toward the far side of Lake Minnetonka, leaving the windows open to the humid night air. She hadn’t been able to stop staring at him, mesmerized by the way his Adam’s apple shifted as he talked, at his capable hands on the steering wheel. At his leg muscles bunching and clenching as he worked the clutch. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. When she laid her hand on his thigh, he covered it with his own. After a quick, hot glance, he’d pulled into what looked like a private boat landing.
So isolated. So quiet.
With a scramble of legs, he sat up.
“Where are you going?” She pressed her palm against the bulge of flesh pushing against the front of his jeans. She wanted to see him, to touch what she’d only touched through his clothes.
“Look at the sky, Cinderella. I need to get you home.”
A pinkish light glowed in the eastern sky. Sunrise was about half an hour off—plenty of time to make the drive home. On the other side of the seat, Dominic covered a yawn with the hand he’d just pulled out of her pants. He left the hand there longer than he needed to, inhaling deeply.
Her face flooded with self-conscious heat, but Dominic seemed to be in heaven. With his ginger hair mussed from her hands, his lips puffy from kissing her for hours, ignoring his own hard-on to savor her scent, Dominic was the hottest thing she’d ever seen. “When did you sleep last?” He’d mentioned earlier that he’d put in a full day at the health club, and he’d visited his father at the hospital before meeting her at the restaurant for their date.
He gave a half-shrug. “I’ll catch up later this morning. I work the late shift today.”
So they couldn’t get together later, but that was probably for the best. She had some thinking to do, and she’d do a better job of it without being distracted by him. “I worry about you driving when you’re so tired.”
“I’m okay.”
He certainly seemed that way. Despite the yawn, his eyes were clear and alert. He seemed so big, so sturdy and strong, sitting with his legs splayed wide, spilling onto her side of the seat. She zipped up her jeans, tugged the hem of her T-shirt back where it belonged, and scooted beside him. “Your hair’s a mess.” She smoothed it with her fingers, enjoying the springy texture that was so different from her own. When he leaned into her touch, her fangs throbbed with a fierce, unexpected possessiveness. “You can’t keep going without sleep,” she murmured. “And we need to find a private place, an indoor place. Without mosquitoes. And with condoms.”
“I can take care of the condoms.”
Where could they be together? Her house was out—it was never empty—but maybe they could steal an hour or two at his. They’d find a way. If she could bring the slightest pleasure or relaxation to Dominic’s chaotic life, she would.
Sex. Maybe this time she’d finally understand what all the fuss was about. “Would you like to go to a party with me?” she blurted.
His brows lifted.
“My parents are having a thing next week.”
Dominic laughed. “Mila, your parents have soirees. High teas. Cocktail parties, and full-on balls. They do not have things.”
She nodded, acknowledging his point. “It’s an evening gathering. Dressy.” Her mouth was as dry as dust. “Would you go with me as my guest? As my date?” She really liked him, and he seemed to like her, too. If she arrived at the party with a date, someone her own age who would meet her parents’ absurdly high standards, maybe they’d recognize just how squicky an alliance with Wyland would be. Yesterday, when he’d removed her staples, she’d barely been able to look him in the eye. She needed to nip her parents’ ridiculous aspirations in the bud, and fast.
“I’d be honored to be your date.”
“The honor is mine.” She dropped a light kiss on his lips, so similar, yet so exotically different, than her own. “We should get going,” she said reluctantly, giving the horizon another look. The familiar, dragging tiredness—her body’s instinctive demand for day-sleep—was a lot more noticeable now than it had been a couple of minutes ago. She probably shouldn’t have declined the transfusion Wyland suggested yesterday. “Where are my shoes?” After finding them, she put them on, and they both climbed into the front seat. She pulled down the passenger seat visor and tried to restore some order to her hair. Her eyes were slumberous, her lips puffy, and her cheeks and neck were red from the scrape of his beard. “How’s your father?”
“No change.” Dominic turned the key, glancing at the eastern horizon as they pulled away from the boat landing. “Who will be at your parents’ party?”
Okay, change of subject noted. She’d let him get away with it f
or now. “My parents’ friends, members of the Council, people from GPL.”
“Council members? Really?”
“My parents are always networking, always thinking about their position in society.”
“At least they have a social position to preserve.” He shot her a wry look. “My family? Not so much.”
In her opinion, spending so much time and effort preserving that lofty social position was more trouble than it was worth. “Actually, you might already have received a party invitation. Mother asked me for a list of GPL members I’d like to invite.” She flicked him a flirtatious glance. “You were the first name on the list.”
He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. “It’s been days since I checked the mail, but thanks so much for inviting me in person.” He gave her knuckles a lick before setting her hand on his thigh.
They fell into a companionable silence, and after too short a time, he pulled into her parents’ Deephaven driveway. “Damn, that’s a big house. Nice.”
Big, yes—but nice? Most of the time, it echoed with funereal silence. “Thank you for the ride. And the date. And the kisses.”
His answering smile was both sweet and hungry. “The pleasure was all mine.”
A thrill zinged through her. Next time, it will be. “Please get some sleep,” she said. “Promise me.”
“I will.” With another glance at the house, then at the sky, he reached across the seat and opened her door. “You’d better get inside.”
“I had a great time.” Screw whoever might be watching. Leaning over, she kissed his cheek, grabbed her purse, then stepped out of the car. “’Bye.”
“’Bye.”
The sun broke over the horizon as he pulled away. She lifted her hand to her still-tingling lips.
“Miss Mila?” Hansen was at the door, holding it open.
Dominic’s tail lights finally disappeared from view. “Coming,” she called, trotting to the shadowed safety of the house.