by Tamara Hogan
However, the work time had been productive. Searching through Hennepin County property records, she’d discovered that the house where Robert Johnson died had recently changed hands. Did the new owners realize that the quiet, four bedroom home they’d just bought used to be a sex dungeon? That someone had been killed there? The seller, T.S.D.C. LLC, probably hadn’t revealed those pesky little facts to the broker, much less the buyer.
A limited liability corporation; it just figured. It would take time, and serious effort, to find the sentient being hiding behind the acronym, but it could be done. It would be done, by her. But not today, because her concentration was crap.
Where was Wyland? And what had possessed her to kiss him—like that—in front of her parents?
“What the hell am I doing?” she mumbled. She reached for the pile of mail at the foot of the bed, mindlessly separating the bills from the solicitations, sorting them into stacks. The conversation she’d had with her parents—her revelation that, yes, she was sexually involved with Wyland, the Vampire Second—had been difficult, primarily because she hadn’t been able to define the relationship beyond that. Though she hadn’t shared blood with her parents in years and wasn’t privy to their mental conversation, their facial expressions had been easy to read. Her mother, usually the more excitable parent, had studied her for long, long seconds, finally giving her a subtle, woman-to-woman nod that conveyed approval, confidence, and an appreciation of her daughter’s taste in men. “Back off, Alex,” she’d said. “Tia’s affairs are her business.”
“Sweet bleeding universe, Diana, we’re not talking about a chef, or a novelist, or some random guitar player. She’s sleeping with the Vampire Second.”
“And the problem is…?”
Her father stared at her. “It’s a huge freaking deal.”
“Alexander, will you listen to yourself?” her mother scoffed. “You sound like a tool of the patriarchy.”
Her father recoiled, then took a deep breath—a conscious technique he used to process strong emotions. He experienced them, acknowledged them, and then watched them pass by, freeing him to think critically. “Diana, this isn’t about Tia having a sex life. It’s about who she’s having that sex life with.”
Her own temper spiked. “What’s wrong with Wyland?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’s a fine leader—probably one for the history books—and from what I’ve seen, he’s a fine man. But Tia, he’s so…constrained, so controlled.”
“He has to be.”
“Yes, he has to be. But you don’t. You…aren’t.”
“I’m not what?” It wasn’t very often her parents talked about her in terms of what she wasn’t.
Reassurance and love—her father’s faerie empathy—wrapped around her like a soft cashmere blanket. “You’re not constrained and controlled. He’s older, colder, and very powerful. He’s so…different from the men you’ve been involved with in the past.”
“Once you get to know him, he’s anything but cold.”
“Okay.” Her father nodded. “But given his commitments and responsibilities, how can you possibly get what you need out of this relationship?”
What did she need out of this relationship? It was a question worth asking, and an uncomfortable one at that. Somewhere along the way, her involvement with Wyland had morphed into something more than simple physical attraction, or scratching a sexual itch.
She was falling in love with him.
“Tia, I’d hate to see your passion, your spark, extinguished in any way. Stifled by protocol.”
If her father only knew how many f-bombs she’d heard some of their Council members drop.
“Wyland’s a fine leader, but…as my daughter’s lover?” He looked at her mother again. “Diana, I can’t believe you’re not concerned about this.”
“Tia has a good head on her shoulders. She doesn’t need our permission to share her body, mind, or heart with whomever she pleases.”
“But can he share his heart in return?”
And that was the crux of the matter. Tia sighed, continuing to sort the mail on auto-pilot. In bed, she and Wyland were a perfect match, but…what was the phrase her father had used? A leader for the history books? Did she have it in her to be the partner, to be the mate, of a historic man? “Talk about putting the cart before the— Whoa.” She drew herself upright, studying the envelope at the top of the pile. White, business-sized, no return address, and mailed from a busy downtown Minneapolis zip code, it was utterly generic, right down to the vaguely patriotic red, white, and blue adhesive stamp. “I suppose it was my turn.” Steeling herself, she carefully opened the envelope, withdrew the sheet of paper, and read. “Yep.” Such ugly words, about how her father should never have been born. About how she should never have been born. About how her mother should be punished for tainting her family’s pristine bloodline. “Misogynist pig with a eugenics fixation, check and check.” She looked at the envelope again, then froze.
It was addressed to her, using Vamp Central’s mailing address.
The letter-writer knew she was here.
Dread galloped into her system. She closed her eyes and waited as her father had taught her, letting the panic run wild and free, watching it buck and whinny and neigh until it finally tired itself out.
After a deep breath in and out, she focused on the letter again, analyzing the language. The letter-writer seemed to know a great deal about her ‘rotted’ family tree, but also claimed to have seen her and Wyland in ‘a compromising position.’ Compromising position or not, who’d even seen them together?
Soft footsteps outside her door. A weighty pause, then a knock. Finally. As she set the letter aside, anticipation crackled like heat lightning. “Come in.”
The door swung open on silent hinges. Though Wyland’s hair was still lashed back in that unforgiving ponytail, he’d removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and taken off his shoes. The fact that he’d come to her with his armor half-removed made her soften. Simmer.
Her father was right about one thing. After years of drooling over lovers wearing jeans, chef’s whites, and stage leathers, finding a tailored suit sexy was definitely a change. “Hey.”
“Hello.” Wyland didn’t come into the room, or close the door behind him. Instead, he leaned against the door jamb, looking at her with carefully banked heat. A crack in the window shade cast a filtered, safe sunbeam across his legs.
Sunlight and shadows. The calm before the storm.
“How did it go with your parents?” he asked.
“Well enough. Mom called Dad a tool of the patriarchy, and that doesn’t happen every day.”
His lips twitched. “I imagine not. Why did she call him that?”
“Because he’s worried about us sleeping together.”
He stared at her. “You described our relationship using those words?”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents think this—” he gestured to the air between them “—is merely a sexual relationship?” He stalked into the room, stopping when he reached the bed. “No wonder Alexander looked like he wanted to gut me when they left.”
Her sexual circuits zapped to life. Annoyance looked…really, really good on him. “Of course it’s not merely sexual,” she said, shrugging. “We…enjoy each other’s company.”
“What?”
His single, snapped word sent a frisson of excitement up her spine. Awareness crackled and popped between them like a downed electrical wire. “We enjoy each other’s company,” she repeated mildly. “Don’t we?”
Tell me it’s more. I dare you to tell me it’s more.
His expression was positively thunderous. The air felt heavy and charged, like she’d get a shock if she touched it.
“Tia.”
“Hmm?’
“This isn’t just about sex.” He whipped the bed covers back, exposing her camisole, panties, and the gooseflesh sheeting her skin. “And you’re in the wrong bed.�
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When he extended his hand, she saw fresh punctures on his wrist. He’d been feeding Valerian—another reminder that Wyland had responsibilities beyond her petty need for validation.
She stared up at him, into his seething gaze. Yesterday, she’d accused him of revealing nothing, of being locked down tight. Today, something had changed. He was a maelstrom, letting her feel every unfiltered emotion as it battered him. Fear, confusion, and anger were all tangled up with want, need, desire, lust. Joy and light, dark and dread…and there, hidden in the center, something soft and precious pulsed.
And she wanted it.
She clasped his hand and stood, bringing her body against his. Blessed warmth leached into her; his familiar scent wafted into her nostrils.
He reached for her hip with his free hand, but hesitated. “What doesn’t hurt? I’m afraid to touch you.”
Her muscles were screaming despite Thane’s magic liniment, but need was screaming even louder. She needed him, needed his touch. “I won’t break,” she whispered.
He lifted their clasped hands to his mouth, softly kissing her knuckles, then skimmed his palm against her cheek—lightly, so lightly. “Tia…” So much need, so much desperation, embedded in one word. So much helpless anger—anger at himself, that he hadn’t prevented her from being injured in the first place.
That, she couldn’t allow. “Touch me,” she invited, pressing a kiss to his palm. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she lifted her lips to his. “Please touch me.”
He groaned against her mouth, then obeyed, claiming her lips in a kiss so soft and succulent, a tasting so careful and reverent, that her throat tightened. Clasping his head, she pulled harder, tilting her head to get deeper, to sample more of his decadent, elemental flavor—
She hissed in pain as their noses bumped together.
“Damn. Are you okay?”
She nodded, eyes watering. “Yeah. Just smarts a little.” Okay, it smarted a lot, but she didn’t want Wyland see her as a patient, not right now. Taking his hand, she started walking toward the door. “And you’re right, this is the wrong bed.” She slanted him a look he couldn’t possibly misinterpret. “I want to be in yours.”
The floor suddenly tilted as he scooped her up in his arms. Cradling her against his chest, he strode into the hallway, past Valerian and Thane’s closed sitting room door, and into his room, closing the door behind them with a nudge of his shoulder. His blinds were closed, casting the room in shadow, but the Tiffany lamp on his bedside table threw colorful shards of light across his turned-down sheets.
He set her down on the bed, bundling her under the blankets. A muscle jumped at his jawline, but his expression was too controlled for comfort.
Not for long.
She shamelessly watched as he undressed, draping his clothes over the footboard. Tie, belt, then socks. Shirt, pants, then T-shirt. Still wearing his boxer briefs, he slipped between the sheets, absently reaching for the elastic band holding his ponytail in place. With a tug and a shake, his hair tumbled loose.
It was all she could do to keep her tongue in her mouth. “Why are you still wearing your underwear?”
“To remind myself that you’re in no condition to make love right now.” His voice was rough, but the touch of his fingers against her cheek was soft and reverent.
Make love. His choice of words was just that—a choice, not a slip of the tongue. Something inside her melted, heated. She wanted to make love, too—right now. She wanted to connect with him, in the most primal possible way. When he levered himself up, reaching across her body to turn off the lamp, she strummed her hands over the hard planes of his chest, down his sensitive sides. Clutched a handful of his cotton-covered butt, then shifted so he lay between her legs.
“Tia…” he groaned, dropping his arm and gazing down at her. “I don’t want to hurt you..”
“I’m fine, Wyland. And I want you so much.”
Soft fingers stroked her cheekbone. “You’re so bruised.”
Damn it, she should have let him turn off the light. “I wouldn’t want to look at me, either.”
Discipline and self-denial carved his expression into stark, taut planes, but his gaze was wild and turbulent, and his erection pulsed against her hot, slick core. “How you look isn’t the problem.”
Where was the man who’d frozen her out yesterday? Today, he’d opened the spigot full-bore, and emotions gushed from him like water from a fire hose. She wanted to wallow in them, in him. Swallow them up. “Wyland, you’re an anatomy expert.” Relaxing back against the pillow, she didn’t hide her hunger. “Surely you can find a place to kiss me—” she dragged his hand to her panties “—where I’m not bruised.”
Before she quite realized what was happening, he pushed himself upright, removed her camisole and panties, and laid her back against the pillow again. Resting on his haunches between her legs, he stripped off his T-shirt, then his underwear.
His fangs, his flexing muscles, the hungry jut of his penis…the position was pure alpha masculinity, and his eyes gleamed with diabolical sexual intent. Her skin felt too tight. She was going to explode if she didn’t get some relief. She reached for him, but he pressed her back against the pillows. “Lie back,” he murmured. “Let me kiss you.”
She spread her legs wider.
A knowing, dark chuckle. “So much for romance.”
“I don’t need romance, not tonight.”
“What do you need?”
Dratted man. Wasn’t it perfectly obvious? Locking gazes with him, she flooded his mind with images: his shoulders, between her thighs. His hair, brushing her breasts and stomach. His fingers, spreading her wide. His tongue, flicking at her folds until she—
“You’re killing me,” he gritted.
“Same goes.” What in the world was he waiting for? Lifting her hand, she trailed her fingertips over her breasts and torso, meandering down the curve of her stomach, down, down…
She touched herself.
Fangs flashing, he stared at her pussy as if cataloging her anatomy for future reference. As if analyzing which touch made her shiver versus shake versus shudder. Finally, with a tortured groan, he shouldered between her legs, nudging her hand aside.
She waited expectantly, but the touch of his tongue didn’t come. Instead, he inhaled, deeply and luxuriantly, pulling her scent into his lungs. Blunt, primal lust. Utterly transcendent pleasure. Both danced into her mind, swirling with her bliss. He exhaled, bathing her flesh in warm, moist air. Her core gave a violent clench, and her nipples drew painfully tight.
From his breath.
At this rate, she was going to come before he even touched her— “Aah!” The unexpected touch of his tongue, right where she needed it most, almost made her levitate. She lifted her hips, pressing against him, seeking, writhing against his mouth. “More...” she gasped, clutching his hair.
He lifted his head, searing her with his hot, blue gaze. One side of his mouth kicked up in a wicked grin. Then, he peeled her outer lips back with his thumbs and gave her the most erotic kiss she’d ever experienced, licking, sucking, and laving her flesh with hungry swipes of his tongue. She clutched at his hair, pushing it aside so she could watch him explore her body. Watch him learn, over long, delicious minutes, exactly which touches made her sigh, made her squeal.
“Wyland…”
His pulse galloped in response.
Aah, he liked it when she said his name. “This sexual mind meld thing is…fun.” His answering hum vibrated against her violently aroused flesh. “Holy shit,” she gasped.
He smiled against her folds, a diabolical caress.
When her nails bit into his shoulders, he grunted with pleasure. So she did it again.
A groan this time. “Harder,” he whispered against her.
When she complied, his fingertips dug into her thighs. She’d have new bruises tomorrow, but she gloried in it. All signs of the courtly, careful gentleman were gone.
He rimmed her opening with t
he tip of his tongue, then made a teasing push inside. The knot between her legs twisted, tightened. She held her breath, held herself poised, but the plunge she craved didn’t come. “Wyland...” she strangled out.
Propping himself up on an elbow, he looked at her.
Her stomach gave a lazy flip. His face was drawn into stark planes, his eyes slumberous with need. His hair was a messy tumble, and his mouth glistened from her pussy. No, this was no effete gentleman. This man could fulfill every fantasy, every filthy desire, and inspire her to think of more. “Why are you—”
“Drink from me,” he murmured. Extending his free arm, he brought his wrist to her lips. “Drink from me while I make you come.”
Her pulse beat a furious tattoo. This was no sexual power play; his silent yearning for a more intimate connection sang between them. Yes, something had changed with him, and she liked it. “If you drink from me, too.”
“We need to wait until you’re stronger.”
“Seriously? I feel great.”
“You need your blood to heal.” Self-disgust flicked over his face. “Bloody hell, I should be shot for even starting this.”
“You didn’t. I did.” Grasping his arm, she kissed his inner wrist. Did she dare ask? “I want to drink from your neck.” He didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at her pussy, as if considering how he’d make her come once he moved his head out from between her thighs. Jesus. “You have hands—very talented ones, at that. Come up here where I can reach you.”
“Demands, demands.” Rising onto his hands and knees, he crawled to the head of the bed like a slinky panther, sliding one arm under her neck and draping the other over her breast as he lay beside her. “Nothing’s ever easy with you, is it?”
The teasing was unexpected. Turning toward him, she curled up against his warmth like a cat in a sunbeam. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” The position gave her easy access to his neck, and inches from her hand, his hard cock stirred under the soft, white cotton. Yes, this position would do nicely. “Admit it—you’d be bored out your gourd with easy.” She cupped his cock. His hips arched against her hand, and he gave a groan that was music to her ears. “Hard can be very, very nice.”