by Tamara Hogan
As he dealt with the cork and poured, he heard a series of electronic clicks. Fabric rustled, making his body hair stand on end. His perfectly-tailored suit coat suddenly seemed two sizes too small.
Tia Quinn was finally in his bed.
He took a deep breath. Another. A third. Once he regained a modicum of control, he picked up the wine glasses, turned toward her, and nearly dropped them.
Tia Quinn was naked in his bed.
She was under the duvet, on the side where he usually slept, her shoulders bare against the pillows she’d propped against the headboard. Her clothes were strewn across the carpet, dropped where she’d removed them. Right next to the bed was a wisp of white lace, a garment so insubstantial it barely deserved the name.
He swallowed with an audible click.
“Wyland?”
His gaze jumped to the bed. The Tiffany lamp turned her reddish hair to flame, and the green tips glowed against the pale gray pillowcase. Her eyes sparkled, and her skin seemed lit from within. She was a kaleidoscope of color against his monochromatic sheets. He didn’t know where to look first.
“Wyland? The wine?” She sounded amused, as if she knew exactly how addled he was. He walked to the bed and handed her a glass. “Thank you.” Her throat shifted as she drank, her shadowy veins fluttering beneath her skin. Jerking his gaze away, he took a hasty gulp from his own glass. “Mmm, this is lovely,” she said, her lips wet from the wine. “And look at you. Pure suit porn.”
His suit? Pornography?
She ran her finger down his thigh, her eyes skimming his body with appreciation. “There’s something so arousing about a beautiful man wearing a beautiful suit. That steely gray, with your coloring?” Her lips made an approving moue. “Gorgeous.”
No woman had ever complimented his appearance quite so frankly before. The roles—the rules—regarding sexual congress had definitely changed since he’d last had relations, and…he liked it. How utterly refreshing that a woman could look at a man with frank sexual hunger in her eyes, and not hide her desire. That a woman could speak openly and without shame about how much he aroused her. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. “You’re the gorgeous one.” Was there anything more beautiful than seeing your own desire reflected back from the face of your lover, her anticipation written there for you to read?
Such a thing could enslave a man.
Setting her glass on the nightstand, she brushed the covers aside, rose to her knees, and pressed her nude form against his fully-clothed body. She slid her hands under the suit coat, stroking upward from his stomach to his chest. “I love the suit,” she murmured, trailing her mouth along the border where his shirt collar met his neck. “But why don’t you take it off?”
Each word was a maddening caress. Down at the foot of the bed, Vlad the Impaler kissed his doomed wife Elisabeta goodbye, but Wyland was too busy watching Tia crawl away from him on hands and knees to care.
She reclaimed her wine before settling back against the pillows again, not bothering with the blankets this time. Pale skin, soft curves, firm muscles over fine bones…the multicolored Tiffany lampshade spilled color over her shoulders and breasts, highlighting her pebbled nipples. Her waist nipped in, flaring out to hips that any Renaissance master would yearn to sculpt or paint. Sleek thighs, muscular calves…her feet were crossed at the ankle, exaggerating the vee of her mons.
“Start with the jacket,” she murmured.
His pulse pounded. He’d never undressed for a lover before. Deirdre had always— No. Deirdre had no place here. The past had no place here—not when Tia, this enchanting, exasperating woman from the here and now, watched him with a hunger she didn’t hide.
Her hot gaze slowed time to honey.
When he set his wine on the table next to hers, the click of glass against wood sounded unnaturally loud. He toed off his shoes, nudging them under the bed so no one tripped on them, then shrugged off his coat. She made an inarticulate sound deep in her throat, one that made his body hair stand on end. She watched his hands, staring at them as he draped the coat over the foot board, as he reached for his belt. Leather creaked. Metal clanked. He flicked open the button at the waistband, then worked the zipper over his straining cock. Leaving the pants sagging at his hips, he yanked out his shirt tails.
Bloody hell, how was a man supposed to focus on the task at hand when she lay there, wearing nothing but skin and light, watching him so greedily?
Her gaze was a phantom, caressing him through the air. His cock throbbed; his bollocks ached. Energy snarled low in his pelvis, a long-forgotten sensation.
“God.” Her throaty curse was poetry.
He made fast work of his shirt buttons, yanking it off and dropping it to the floor. Shoving his hair aside, he grasped the neck of his undershirt, hauled it over his head, and tossed it next to the dress shirt.
She chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Men undress so matter-of-factly. No delicacy to it whatsoever.”
He refused to think about where she’d gained such knowledge. After a fortifying breath, he stepped out of his pants.
Tia’s avid gaze raked him up and down. “Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Very hot.”
He still thought it was a strange thing to have another man’s name written on his smalls. “They’re quite comfortable.” Rather, they usually were, when his penis behaved itself instead of fighting with the fabric.
As she moved toward him, he didn’t know where to look. At her erect nipples, standing out in little points for his tongue? At her hips, shifting so mysteriously? Arousal flushed her cheeks, flashed in her eyes, and her fangs glinted in the light. Kneeling before him, reaching for him with a graceful hand, she looked as alluring as a courtesan.
When she cupped his cock through the soft cotton, he clutched her shoulders for support, locking his knees as she explored him with keen, knowledgeable hands. Cock, bollocks, hipbones, his arse…no bit of his anatomy was spared. His breath hissed as he watched. Obviously, he’d forgotten more about foreplay than he remembered, because this was torture, sheer bloody torture.
She lifted her hand. Before he could miss her touch, she was crouching, rubbing her cheek against his hard, aching flesh.
“You’re killing me,” he gritted out.
She smiled against the head of his cock. Before he could recover from the diabolical caress, she opened her mouth. Hot breath blossomed through the soft cotton, twining up his pelvis and spine. She pulled at the elastic waistband, working the garment over his arse and down his thighs. Letting gravity pull the fabric to the floor, she grabbed his hips and put her mouth back on him—not on his cock, but on the crease where his leg joined his torso, right over his femoral artery.
He drove his fangs into his lower lip, tasted his own blood. How had the little witch zeroed in on his most sensitive erogenous zone? As she licked and nibbled at the sensitive skin, his lifeblood surged like a whitewater rapids. His penis throbbed with every beat of his heart.
He wanted to wallow in the suck and pull of her mouth. Wallow in her until he drowned.
But when her tongue swirled against his skin, as if preparing it for her bite, he jerked away, tipping her back against the pillows and following her down. He came to rest covering her body, her full breasts pillowing his chest, lying between her spread thighs—an equally dangerous position.
With one subtle shift of his hips, he could be inside her.
One. Subtle. Shift.
A desperate groan escaped.
She wrapped her arms around him. Whispered his name.
Her eyes were heavy with arousal, and soft, slick heat gathered between her thighs. The lamp highlighted her collarbones, casting shadows at the juncture where her shoulder met her neck. Under her skin, blood rushed through her arteries and veins, branching out into tributaries he yearned to explore.
Deep in his lizard brain, a small voice whispered, “Drink.” He could please them both, and level the p
laying field between them, in one fell swoop.
So, so tempting.
He reached for the lamp, but she stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Leave it on.”
Such sex-drenched words. Such a throaty demand. She’d probably packed more sexual experience into her meager thirty years than he had in three hundred.
Her strong legs came up, wrapping around his hips. “Leave it on,” she murmured against the notch between his clavicles. The points of her fangs scratched his skin. “Leave it on and fuck me.”
The wicked word blasted him broadside, lighting up his brain stem like a Beltane fire. He grabbed her head and kissed her—a wild, uncontrolled kiss, a clash of lips, teeth, and tongues. A kiss that drew blood—his, hers? He licked into her mouth, trying to gather more of its delectable, dark sting. His hips gave a helpless, instinctive roll.
He paused, panting, as his penis notched against the opening of her vagina. So warm, so wet. He gave another testing flex, hissing at the give of her resilient flesh.
“I have condoms in my purse.”
Condoms. The sensible, clinical word was a lifeline. Last night, he’d noticed the birth control patch on Tia’s hip, but condoms were a necessity between lovers who hadn’t yet exchanged sexual histories. His last sexual experience had literally occurred in the Victorian Age. “I’ll get them.” He levered his upper body off hers, then paused. Thane had provided everything else he needed for a romantic encounter; why not condoms? He reached into the bedside table’s drawer, and sure enough, came out with a small black and gold cardboard box.
He peered at the label. Ten latex condoms, pre-lubricated with a reservoir tip. “Ribbed for her pleasure,” he read. What the hell did that mean? The last time he’d used a condom, latex hadn’t been invented yet, but…surely they worked the same way?
Tia grabbed the box and tore it open, spilling condoms onto the bed. Snatching up a strip, she tore off a single small packet, ripped it open with her teeth, and withdrew a small, flexible disk about the size of a British crown. He smelled latex, and chemicals—odd but not off-putting, especially compared to sheep intestine—but before he could take it from her, she nudged him back, rolled the condom onto his penis, and pulled him back between her legs.
He lifted a brow. “Such efficiency.”
“You were taking too long.” Reaching to the nape of his neck, she none-too-gently pulled at the elastic band he’d put back on in the car. His hair spilled down, curtaining their faces.
Even in the shadows, her eyes mesmerized him. The combination of green and brown reminded him of tender shoots pushing through rich, fertile soil in springtime.
Damn it, now he was waxing poetic. When had everything gotten so bloody convoluted?
She broke their gaze, wrapping her arms and legs around him, pulling him closer. The tip of his cock skimmed her slick folds. Tia writhed against him, clawing at his back and tugging at his hair. A delicate pink flush suffused her cheeks, chest, and neck…her beautiful neck, with its enticing blue veins... He nuzzled them. Nipped.
She tipped her head back, giving him unfettered access. “Drink from me,” she whispered. Her words were a dark, sultry invitation, an invitation to as much pleasure as a vampire could possibly stand.
He looked down at the fluttering vein, stared at its rhythmic throb. Imagined driving his fangs into it, and drinking her lush, rich lifeblood. Yes, having access to her thoughts and emotions would help level the playing field between them, but—
He couldn’t.
Could he?
It had been so long.
No. He couldn’t drink from her if he wouldn’t let her drink from him in return—and thanks to Valerian, she’d already sipped more of his blood than he was comfortable with.
“Wyland.” Her gaze was steady on his. “Don’t mind-fuck this to death. I want you to know me. I want you to drink from me. I want to feel your fangs and your cock inside me.”
“Tia…” How could she take such risks? How could she give so freely, expecting nothing in return? Once he drank from her, he’d be able to read her like a book—until she learned to protect her mental boundaries, at any rate.
Tia wrapped her arms around him, embracing him. “Drink from me.” Her eyes glowed with heat, anticipation, and welcome. Her pupils were huge, dark as the infinite night sky.
With a minute shift of his hips, the tip of his cock skimmed her slippery heat. He stilled, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth. Her heels dug into his arse, spurring him on. With a slow, steady glide, he buried himself to the hilt.
“Mmm.” Her velvety groan twined around his vitals, her fingernails biting into his back with a tiny, erotic sting. Her arms and legs tightened, enveloping him in a languorous embrace.
Through the ultra-thin condom, he felt every hot clutch and ripple with a violent clarity. Do not spend. Do not. He would bring her pleasure first, even if it killed him.
He started to move—slowly, so slowly—trailing his hands anywhere and everywhere he could touch, delving his tongue into her sweet, tart mouth. He lost himself as their lips and hips surged together, swallowing her throaty moans whole. Lost himself in the lush cavern of her mouth, and in the tight, slick channel he forged again and again.
They strained together, harder. Faster. Her inner muscles clutched and clung. “Please,” she whispered, her eyes blind and wild. “Now.”
Tilting her head back, she exposed the long, white column of her neck.
He stared, mesmerized, as if he hadn’t written a half-dozen textbooks detailing its anatomy. As if he hadn’t examined, resected, and repaired every millimeter of every life-giving tributary, a thousand times over.
He couldn’t resist.
He couldn’t refuse.
This is the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.
“Wyland…” Her hips moved faster, her breath huffing against his ear in thin, reedy moans. Her heels dug into his buttocks, spurring him on.
He homed in on the external jugular pulsing just under her skin. He gently nuzzled it, licking and swirling with his tongue.
She suddenly tensed, her body strung tight as a bow. “Oh, god.” The strong muscles of her vagina clenched around him, poised for the leap. One more hard thrust—another—and she shattered beneath him with a cry, her nails biting into his back.
He plunged his fangs into the tender vein. Her lifeblood gushed like a geyser, flooding his mouth. A searing bolt of pleasure sizzled into him, zinging between fangs, brain stem, and cock. Sunlight, shadows, sweet and tart…endlessly complex…a throb of Valerian’s immense power… His sensory system was going haywire, but he didn’t care. He could do nothing but swallow or drown, drink and thrust, drink and thrust until she was fully satisfied, until… Ah, there it was—that exquisite ferrous filament, a receptor his greedy DNA immediately recognized.
Reaching for him.
He reached back, and felt the delicate synaptic connection click into place.
Oh, my.
Right? She sighed, trailing a languid hand from his hair to his stinging back to his arse. The gush in his mouth had slowed to hot, silky pulses, but he didn’t mistake it for weakness. She was strong, so strong—strong enough to share her blood with him and ask for nothing in return.
Guilt nudged at him. Her boundaries were non-existent—she didn’t know how to protect herself yet—and now, he could read her as easily as a billboard.
She thought he was smoking hot, and didn’t think him old and decrepit in the least. She was intrigued by him. Confused by him. He was the best lover she’d ever had…and she wasn’t entirely happy about it.
His hips picked up the pace, his chest puffing with an absurd masculine pride. I’ll show you my best.
Her white grin flashed. “Bring it.”
His eyes narrowed, but then his orgasm was looming, rearing over him like a huge, cresting wave. He could do nothing but thrust, and let it pound him down.
Let it take him under.
Chapter Twelve
Across the room, she still slept, her head and body buried in an avalanche of blankets. The covers couldn’t hide her stunning curves—curves he’d explored with exacting attention to detail. When the hospital had called, waking him but not her, he’d been reluctant to answer, not wanting to extricate himself from her strong, clinging limbs. At the memory, his penis gave an enthusiastic lurch—which he ruthlessly ignored.
He had to ignore it, because he wanted to crawl back into bed with her too damn badly.
E-mail could wait. Perching the damned readers on his nose, he rolled his office chair more squarely into the knee well, and reached for the thick envelope that hadn’t been there yesterday. Heavy ivory parchment sealed with red wax, and undoubtedly hand-delivered, Lyudmila’s ornate handwriting rivaled that of any professional calligrapher. He broke the seal, extracted the invitation, and read. He was cordially invited to a gathering at the Lake Minnetonka home of Lyudmila and Stanton, et cetera, et cetera, and so forth. He squinted at the tiny letters engraved at the bottom left of the invitation. Black tie, the first week of September.
Labor Day was almost here. Where had the summer gone?
He’d have to attend; Lyudmila, Stanton, and their daughter were his. On the positive side, going to the party would give him an opportunity to observe Mila in a non-medical setting. He sorted through the layers of card stock and translucent vellum, found the RSVP card, replied Yes, and sealed his response in the envelope which was provided. Picking up his phone, he updated his calendar.
Would Tia attend? He glanced at the messy mound of clothes still lying on the floor—the thong, the shorts, the well-worn concert T-shirt she’d stripped off and so carelessly dropped—and tried to imagine her wearing a formal gown, or a dress that was in any way appropriate for the occasion. Such a dress wouldn’t quite come into focus, but he could visualize removing it.