Temptation at Twilight: Lords of Pleasure

by Jo Carlisle

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Teaser chapter

  A Dangerous Need

  He reached out and ran his fingers down her cheek. “Oh, you’re going home with me, just not as my slave. My brothers and I don’t believe in that practice. But I plan to keep you busy.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “You will be one of my Chosen, for my exclusive use.”

  A thrill went through her body at the prospect of belonging to this man—in every way. Staring at him, taking in the determined set of his jaw, the heat in his eyes, she knew that no piece of paper, or lack thereof, would stand in his way when it came to owning her.

  He stepped close, reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. That golden gaze mesmerized her, drawing her into the flames. Her skin burned from the mere graze of his fingers, and she wanted more. “Is this acceptable to you?”

  “Yes,” she said breathily. “I want to know what it’s like to be Chosen.”

  He gave her a sexy half smile. “It’s pure pleasure, like nothing you’ve felt before.” Cupping the back of her head, he brought his lips to hers, whispering against them. “It’s addictive, a little dangerous. I’ll show you.”

  “Please.”

  He captured her mouth and thrust his tongue inside, exploring. The vampire tasted so good, and felt even better with his hard chest pressed against her, holding her close. He surrounded her totally, and while she knew the very real dangers of succumbing to such a cunning predator, she’d never had the sense of peace that swamped her now. There was freedom in allowing him to have his way, a sense of rightness. She wanted him to take everything....

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  First published by Heat, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2011

  Copyright © Jo Carlisle, 2011

  All rights reserved

  HEAT is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Carlisle, Jo.

  Temptation at twilight: lords of pleasure/Jo Carlisle.

  p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54574-4

  1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Brothers—Fiction. 3. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 1. Title.

  PS3603. A7526T46 2011

  813’.6—dc22 2011026919

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  To my family and dear friends,

  who got me through a really rough year.

  You know who you are, and I cherish you all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, my special thanks to:

  My family, for putting up with my mad deadlines and takeout for dinner.

  My agent and friend, Roberta Brown, for your unwavering support.

  My editor, Tracy Bernstein, for making my work shine and my job easier.

  My publicist, the art department, and the rest of the team at NAL for being the finest people to work with anywhere.

  And the readers, for making what I do such a joy. You inspire me.

  1

  Above nearly all else, Soren Fontaine loved playing with his food.

  This particular feast rode his cock with enthusiasm, a fall of blond hair framing full, bouncing breasts tipped with pert, rosy nipples. His fingers dug into the soft globes of the woman’s ass, and he hissed with pleasure as she sank onto his slick rod again and again, her cries getting louder with every thrust.

  Snug heat surrounded him, massaged his length as his breaths shortened. Too soon the wonderful bliss became fire that spread through his belly, balls, and thighs. So close.

  Along with the impending orgasm, hunger rose swiftly, demanding the ultimate completion to assuage the predator within. Sitting up, he pushed her hair aside, exposing the pale skin of her neck, where he immediately fixated on the pulse of life flowing there. His tongue flicked out, tasting salt and desire, a hint of the nectar too sweet to resist.

  He struck, sinking his fangs deep into her throat. Hot blood splashed over his tongue, more potent than his most expensive liquor and ten times as satisfying. Gods. He was lost in ecstasy, barely aware of her pussy spasming around his cock, fingers clutching, pulling his long hair, urging him on. To take more.

  Take it all.

  Shit, he longed to do just that. Tear into the delicate throat, drink until her heartbeat faded to silence and both his body and thirst were sated. Until he’d taken every drop, was drenched in sweat, blood, and cum.

  Vampires were killers by nature. Creatures of seduction and death. Perfect predators.

  But he’d learned restraint since those early blood-and-sex-soaked days nearly three centuries past.

  Now he unleashed the full deadly nature of his beast only on those who deserved it.

  “Oh, fuck, yes!” Trisha cried, gyrating on his lap. “Master!”

  Master. Tha
t word sent him over the edge, his release exploding in a blinding flash of white. He filled her, gradually coming down from the incredible high that never got old, the haze of passion lifting. Carefully, he removed his fangs and licked her neck to seal the small wounds. The tiny scars would join the others, marking her as one of the coven’s Chosen—a willing human selected to live permanently at La Petite Mort, serving Soren and his brothers exclusively, tending to their bodies’ needs.

  “Thank you, ma chère,” he said softly, kissing the top of Trisha’s shiny head. Exhausted, she slumped against his chest, head on his shoulder.

  “My pleasure as always, Lord Soren.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Lips curving in fondness, he eased her off his lap and situated her in the center of his huge bed, then tucked the covers around her shapely form. “Sleep, petite. You’ve earned the rest.”

  “Yes, master.” She was asleep almost instantly.

  Moving quietly, he retrieved fresh clothing from the walk-in closet and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door so as not to disturb the slumbering Chosen. Trisha was one of his favorites. As he turned on the shower, he thought once again of how much she resembled Helena lying there, tired out from his attentions.

  Helena, his one true mate, human and therefore fragile. Dead and gone. But perhaps not lost forever.

  The warm glow of great sex and good feeding dissipated like the steam rising from the shower. How simple it would be if he could take Trisha, or another of the Chosen, as his mate. Any one of them would make a fine companion to change into one of his kind and ease the loneliness of existing forever without someone special to share his burdens and joys.

  If only he could accept someone other than his gentle, beautiful Helena.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to mate with another. If it meant a bargain with the devil himself, he’d bring his love back to his side. No matter the price. He would.

  The pain of Helena’s loss hit him fresh, and he shoved down the debilitating sorrow with effort. Tonight, after more than a century of fruitless searching, he’d have an answer to the question of how to bring her back. Sure, you’ve said that many times before.

  But the thought of defeat was unacceptable.

  Dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, he slipped out of his quarters and went in search of his brothers. Aldric was nowhere to be seen, but in the library, Soren found Luc. The resort’s resident golden boy was sprawled on the sofa with his nose stuck in a book, no doubt the latest crime thriller. Soren was always amazed that his hyperactive sibling could settle long enough to get into the story.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Soren asked, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Not really.” Luc didn’t look up.

  “Where’s Aldric?”

  A shrug. “How should I know?”

  “You haven’t seen him at all?”

  “Hmm . . .” He shifted to get more comfortable and flipped a page. “Nope.”

  Soren fielded a surge of annoyance. Little brothers never changed, whether they were twenty-three years old or four hundred. And this one existed to drive him and Aldric out of their minds on a regular basis.

  “He did return from the meeting with the Council, didn’t he?”

  “Got no idea.”

  “Satan’s balls, Luc! Put that down while I’m talking to you.” Pushing away from the door, Soren walked into the room and stood glaring at his brother.

  “Right at the good part,” Luc grumbled. With a false put-upon scowl, he lowered the book and laid it on his chest. “Happy?”

  “I’ll be happy when—”

  “Yes, I know. You’re going out to stir up the priestesses again, right?” Soren’s silence was answer enough. His brother was no longer faking his irritation as he sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and set his book on the coffee table. “You won’t be satisfied until you’ve run us all into the ground, looking for a solution that doesn’t exist, and pissed off every witch in the Southern Coalition on top of that. Helena is dead, brother, has been for a long time, and nothing is going to bring her back.”

  Pain stabbed his gut, the words more agonizing than his earlier recollections of the woman he loved. Even more so than her loss. He stared at Luc, unwilling to examine why. A tiny inner voice spoke up anyway, whispering that perhaps the quest itself had become more of an obsession than the reason for it, and he ruthlessly quashed the idea.

  “I’ve never forced either of you to tag along,” he snapped. “Stay here if you want. I really don’t care.”

  Spinning around, Soren stalked out, ignoring his brother’s muttered curse. Whether Luc agreed with his actions or not, the kid would follow. He always did, if for no reason other than not wanting to be left out of any adventures—even the useless ones. When he heard Luc’s boots thudding on the tile behind him, Soren stifled a grim smile.

  His brother remained silent until they were in the back of their limo. “Who’s on your list tonight?”

  Luc’s curiosity was spurred in spite of himself, just as Soren thought. Soren took his time in answering, knowing part of this night’s agenda would meet with even more disapproval than the seemingly futile endeavor itself.

  “Two priestesses who live in New Orleans proper. They are both descendants of powerful witches I consulted when Helena . . . was killed.” Such an understatement for the brutality of his mate’s death. He swallowed the lump that threatened to strangle him.

  “If neither of them was able to help you bring back Helena,” Luc pointed out reasonably, “I doubt their descendants have the power, abilities being passed down as they are.”

  He restrained a surge of temper. Barely. “True. But I have to try. And if they can’t . . .”

  Soren paused a couple of beats too long. Luc arched a blond brow, waiting. “There is another. She lives deep in the swamp. I have a boat ready to take us there.”

  “She who?”

  Soren held his gaze, unflinching. “Leila Doucet.”

  Luc’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in disbelief. “God’s blood! What the fuck is going on in your head to even think of putting yourself—all of us—on the radar of that hell-spawn? Do you know how much trouble Aldric’s had in blocking that bitch from grabbing a seat on the Council?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you know she’d do anything to obtain that seat, right?”

  “I know, but—”

  “And you also know that if you give a venomous snake like her any opening at all, she’ll slither right inside and wait for the opportune moment to deliver her deadly bite in order to gain what she wants! The things she’s done—”

  “Been accused of doing,” Soren corrected. “None have been proven.”

  Luc snorted. “Tell that to the poor bastard she fucked to death. The man was Fae, brother. She left him a dried husk, drained of his magic and his life! No normal witch should’ve been able to do that!”

  “Normal witch? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  “Don’t mock me.” Cool blue eyes narrowed.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Just trying to infuse some levity.” And failing. “Anyway, the Council hasn’t proved she’s the one who drained him,” he repeated. “She freely admitted they had sex and claimed he was fine, not to mention thoroughly satisfied, when she left him that night.”

  “What else was she going to say when facing swift execution?” his brother parried incredulously.

  “I’m not blind to her questionable character, all right? But if neither of the two in the city can help me, Doucet’s my last resort.” In this century or any other, because he didn’t know whether he could take the disappointment any longer. Yet the thought of giving up twisted his guts once again.

  “She’s wicked, Soren. You’d place us all in danger for the merest hint of hope from a user like her,” Luc said softly. It wasn’t a question.

  Impasse. Despite Luc’s adventurous spirit, he and Soren would never agree on this point. Fal
ling silent, Soren looked out the tinted window of the car at the night. Absently, he noted an old truck parked on the opposite side of the road as the limo approached, obviously broken down. He didn’t see a driver inside, but it was difficult to tell from his position in the car, not to mention in the blackness that cloaked the swamp at this hour. Then the limo passed, and he brushed aside a tinge of guilt for not ordering their driver to stop. Immediately, he was again immersed in his own misery.

  Never had he felt so isolated. So lonely. When even Luc argued against the wisdom of his actions, perhaps it was time to quit. No matter how much it hurt.

  After tonight, I will.

  But I have to try just once more.

  Harley Vaughn waited until the sleek black limo had passed, traveling in the direction from which she’d come—what the hell was a fancy car like that doing out here in the boonies, anyway?—then got out of her ancient pickup truck, slammed the driver’s door, and stalked to the front.

  “Thanks for the assistance,” she muttered, giving the retreating taillights a glare. Huffing in annoyance, she crouched, turning the evil eye to the flat tire as though her anger alone would be enough to reinflate the damned thing.

  “Shit!”

  Just great. Stuck in Creepsville at night with a broken-down piece of crap and no spare tire. Snakes and gators would be the least of her worries if she didn’t get moving, quick, and find someone to help with the tire. Maybe there would be a house or a gas station down the road. Standing, she wiped her hands on her worn jeans and listened intently. Soft peeps, croaks, and blurps drifted in the heat, and some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Those were good, normal sounds. It was the absence of them that counted, when all went deathly still and the smaller, more vulnerable creatures cowered in fear. Then a body had better be on alert.