The King (Games We Play Book 2)

by Liz Meldon

  It was time to breathe again, to find herself. And she couldn’t do that while working for the Harriswood League. Too many bad memories. Too many uncomfortable feelings. So, first thing Monday, she planned to print her resignation letter and hand it in to HR.

  But she needed the weekend to find her courage.

  And she needed Claude to help her manage the potential fallout.

  The party helped her forget. Claude’s hands on her body, roving and touching and grasping, definitely helped her forget. Tomorrow would be a time to talk, for her to press him about his reaction to the Donovan capture, to explain her career decisions, and to ask for support in the days to come—if he wanted to give it.

  For now, Delia planned to enjoy the way she looked in her dress, with her hair a shiny brown sea of controlled waves and her eyeshadow perfectly natural to offset such a bright lip. She would bask in the ambiance of a true yule gala, with its decorated dining hall, velvety red and green and gold as far as the eye could see; with its floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree, decked to the nines and glittering with lights; and its exuberant guests, vamp faces alight with mirth, human cheeks pink with intoxication.

  And most importantly of all, Delia planned to lose herself in Claude, in the man she’d denied herself for too long already.

  “Come on.” Delia wrapped both hands around his wrist and tugged him toward the huge door at the far side of the hall, weaving around clusters of partygoers. The most elaborate garland she had ever seen outlined the arched doorway, with red baubles and gold tinsel and velvety purple ribbons threaded throughout. She’d admired it when she first arrived, escorted into the hall by the same tall blond vamp who’d walked her up to Claude’s study the night of the hunter camping trip. Elov, apparently Claude’s right-hand guy, had been much friendlier this time around.

  As she pulled the vampire king through the corridors, her champagne-addled brain having only a vague idea where she was headed, her heart thrummed rapidly against her ribcage and her smile made her cheeks ache. This was where she wanted to be. Only Claude coaxed out this side of her—this willfully happy side, untouched by sarcasm and snark.

  After teetering up a set of narrow stairs, they found themselves in a dark and empty hallway, still close enough to the gala that the muffled music and chatter made the walls hum. Delia turned on her unsteady heels and dragged him into a kiss.

  Dragged—the word implied she had to encourage him to touch her. Rather, Claude all but pounced, his fingers threading through her bouncy brown waves as his other arm yanked her close.

  “Do we have a time limit here?” Delia asked with a giggle as soon as Claude’s lips left hers and pressed heatedly down her throat. “Are you, I dunno, expected to make an appearance or anything?”

  “My absence will be noted,” was his muffled reply, and she let her head fall back with a breathy moan when he nipped at the shell of her ear. Suddenly her back was against the wall, his hands and mouth everywhere, her stance widening instinctively so he could nestle between her thighs.

  Even though she was eager to show off how phenomenal her thigh-high stockings made her legs look, especially paired with the heels, Delia had something else in mind. As much as it pained her to even think about wriggling loose from Claude’s skilled hands, she did so with surprising finesse. Grinning, Delia gripped the front of his black dinner jacket, then pulled and pushed and positioned them so that they were reversed—he against the wall and she bearing down upon him. Surprise flashed across his vibrant blues, but it was hastily replaced by dark desire.

  “Well, if you need to get back to your people,” she whispered, fingers dropping to his belt, “I’ll be sure to be quick.”

  His lips shifted into a sinfully handsome smirk. “Delia, what…?”

  She answered his unsaid query by dropping to her knees and making quick work of his pants, not once stumbling over the buckle or getting caught up with the button or the zipper. Considering the glasses of champagne circulating her system, it was a noteworthy accomplishment.

  Delia found him almost ready for her as she pushed the cumbersome fabric down, letting it all rest on his muscular thighs—which quivered at her tentative touch. The slightest twitch of his skin, wonderfully warm and scattered with dark hair, sent a throb of need straight to her core.

  When his fingers curved beneath her chin, their slight pressure encouraging her to look up, Delia obliged with a mere flick of her eyes, her mascara-laden lashes poking the skin beneath her eyebrows. Claude inhaled sharply, his jawline seeming tight. The control she had, the power she exercised over him even from her knees, was thrilling. Her lips parted as she drew in shallow breaths, her gaze returning to his steadily hardening cock, her chin jutted outward as if she was still watching him.

  Grasping him at the base of his shaft, Delia trailed her tongue along the heated skin, then wrapped her lips around the head. His hushed cry when she took him as deep as she could, lips meeting her hand, was an incoherent mix of her name and some other affection that sent another jolt of arousal through her—the moan she gave in response made him grip her hair a little too tightly. It was hard not to feel proud at that; she wanted him to know she could give too, that their intimacy wasn’t all about her.

  And that thought alone encouraged her to set an even, steady pace, her head bobbing up and down in tandem with her hand. He seemed to especially like the way her tongue swirled around the sensitive, engorged skin at the head of his cock—and Delia especially liked the way his breath quickened and his groans grew hoarser.

  “Wait,” he murmured, stilling her with a slight tug of her hair just as her jaw started to ache. She glanced up with an arched brow, unable to keep the coy grin off her face. This was the most undone she’d ever seen him—and it was surprisingly attractive.

  “Are you sure you want me to stop?” She pumped her hand back and forth for added effect, blooming inside at the way his eyes threatened to drift shut. Her mouth was almost back on him when he pulled her away again, gently this time.

  “That mouth of yours is going to end things before I have a chance to return the favor,” he argued, though he didn’t sound quite as convincing as she assumed he wanted to. His hand left her hair to curve around her chin again, thumb brushing her lower lip. “I think you deserve a little—”

  A shrill giggle cut him off, and Delia looked sharply toward the stairwell they’d stumbled out of earlier. Apparently they weren’t the only ones in search of a little privacy. Drunken laughter echoed up toward them, and the second Delia was off her knees, Claude dragged her down the hall and pushed her into a dark room. As she scrambled for footing, Claude closed the door quietly behind them at the sound of giggling voices, both male and female, tumbling into the hall.

  Moments later he switched on a light, bringing to life a forgotten room, all its furniture covered in white sheets. She took in the room quickly as Claude locked the door, her hands on her hips. Tables, dining chairs, couches—all covered. Black shutters on the other side of the room looked locked and coated in a layer of brownish dust, though the sound of the gala below had grown infinitely louder here. One could probably pull the shutters back to admire the festivities in the party hall.

  When she heard Claude exhale deeply, Delia turned on the spot, cheeks flushed and mouth set in a thin line. He ran a hand through his hair, looking like a little boy who’d only just escaped punishment. When their eyes met, his smile went unreturned.

  “Not that I didn’t want to be caught with you,” he told her, as if reading her mind. “So stop that frown before it starts. I don’t want any member of my clan to see…quite so much of me.”

  Her smile was slow to form—if only to make him squirm a little. “Huh. A bashful king…”

  He held out his arms and rotated in a quick circle. “Here I am.”

  When he faced her again, they fell silent, studying one another across the distance. The smiles disappeared, replaced with something dark and tinged with want. Outside, the muffled groans remi
nded her that they had unfinished business to attend to—that neither were satisfied with such an abrupt departure.

  Claude’s eyes wandered her figure, leisurely, taking his time, drinking her in. He then nodded to her knees. “You’ve ruined your stockings.”

  “What?” Apparently the stone floor had worn a hole in each knee, tearing them like they were dollar-store finds, not boutique treasures. She looked down at them briefly, then gripped the front of her dress, slowly dragging the fabric up, inch by agonizing inch, until cool air brushed the skin exposed at the top of those thigh-highs. “Shame. I was so excited to wear them for you.”

  He was on her before she had a chance to look up, lips crushing hers with bruising force, pinning her to what felt like the back of a couch. His mouth was like a punishment, a delicious penance that Delia happily paid. Not long after, he bent her over the draped couch, and they both clumsily hiked up her dress, shoving all that billowy fabric aside.

  She’d never been taken like that before—hard and fast, with little foreplay or pretense. She’d also never climaxed that fast either, wrapped in Claude’s arms, helplessly trapped between his hard body and an antique piece of furniture. When he came, groaning into her hair, a hand cupping her breast hard enough to hurt, Delia half-turned and claimed his lips, fingers threaded through his hair. He sagged against her somewhat, one arm propping him up on the back of the couch, the other secured snugly around her corseted waist.

  In the hall, the drunken giggling had been replaced with loud, long moans. Delia clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, but she couldn’t help herself. Easing out of her, Claude grinned too, and as they sorted themselves out as best they could, the sex serenade outside reached its crescendo.

  “We weren’t that loud, were we?” she asked. Claude rolled his eyes.

  “I should hope not.”

  With her dress in order, she tried to help him with his tie—which Claude immediately redid; Delia’s tie-knotting skills were beyond subpar.

  “Hey,” she whispered, clutching his tie and tugging. “You wanna scare the absolute shit out of one of your clansmen?”

  She wiggled her eyebrows at him when Claude grinned slowly, then took his hand and let him lead her to the door.

  *

  “Why did you go after me at the masquerade?”

  She heard the rush of water from the sink, the old pipes in Claude’s bedroom walls creaking and groaning with the effort. Moments later, he poked his head around the bathroom’s doorway, brow furrowed.

  “What was that?”

  “At the masquerade ball,” Delia repeated, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. She tilted her head to the side, sitting back on her elbows. “I wanted to know why you went after me. I mean, you said then it was because of my back in the dress…” Her cheeks prickled unnecessarily as he grinned and ducked back into the bathroom. “But I’m pretty sure that was just a line.”

  “It was,” Claude agreed as he breezed into the bedroom. They’d popped into his room after surprising the two noisy canoodlers, vamp and human, who’d thought they were alone in the empty hallway. Claude had insisted he show his face a little more at the gala before they headed to bed for good, but only after they washed the sex out of their appearances, even if only a little.

  “It was a bit of a corny line,” Delia said, stopping his advance on her by sticking her leg out, pointed toes poking his thigh. “But I guess I bought it at the time.”

  “That you did.”

  He looked to the door briefly, as if to encourage her to go. Her shoes were set neatly beside her, ripped stockings hanging over a chair by the window. She’d see if they were salvageable in the morning. Ali probably had a bunch of torn-stocking fixes up her sleeves, given her obsession with DIY projects for the wedding.

  “Delia, we should—”

  “Not until I get a straight answer,” she said as she sat up, hands settling on her lap. They’d barely ever discussed the night they met, besides remarks made in passing by Claude, ones that always set her off—and not in his favor. His large hands fell to his hips, then slipped into his pocket as he gave a shrug.

  “I’d seen you before,” Claude admitted after a long pause, his eyes wandering along her bare leg. A prickle of apprehension skittered across her skin at the confession, and Delia dropped her foot to the floor.

  “You did?”

  “I’d seen you working,” he told her softly. “Only a handful of times. I’d gone along with my men to check up on League activity, you know, make sure no one was doing anything illegal on either side. I mostly saw you driving a car or sitting somewhere I assumed you thought no one could see you. I thought you were beautiful.”

  The apprehension slid away. “Oh.”

  “Beautiful and bored, I suppose,” Claude added with a chuckle, reaching out and pinching her chin. She tugged her head away, unable to fend off the small smile creeping across her features. His hand hovered there between them, until it returned to his pocket and he sighed. “I too was bored. It’s been so quiet for so long, you see. The same thing, day after day. The same tasks, year after year. I’ve been king of the region for almost three centuries. I think I became too lax with the clans. I’d become absent.”

  Delia fidgeted with the voluminous black fabric gathered around her waist, sensing that his story had very little to do with her. This was a side unseen by her, a Claude who came across as a man touched by self-doubt, by regret. For a moment it read plainly across his face, but it vanished as she stood, replaced by a more recognizably affectionate expression as she touched her palm to his cheek.

  “So you went after me because you were bored?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

  “I thought we had that in common,” he offered, his hand blanketing hers as he pressed a kiss to her wrist. He lingered there, his eyes closed, before threading his fingers around hers. Their clasped hands hung between them, and as Claude moved in, their bodies finding one another in a perfect fit, he pressed her arm behind her back, nudging her hips closer to his.

  “I’d watched you for some time that night once I realized who you were.” His whispered words smoothed over her skin, willing her eyes to close. “It started as curiosity, then interest. I couldn’t help myself. But know that I had every intention of dancing with you, showing you my room, and keeping you for myself until morning.”

  A welcome shiver traveled down her back, beneath the tight lacings of her corseted top and straight to the tips of her toes. Suddenly the rest of the world ceased to matter. She didn’t care about the gala or the face Claude had to put on for his people. She only wanted him—again and again, until exhaustion forced her to stop. Delia stood on her toes, trying to capture his mouth with hers, but he evaded her with ease. Even as their bodies touched, he still felt so far away.

  “I ruined it for myself by tasting you,” he murmured, twisting and turning so that it seemed as though he was going to kiss her, lips so close that hers buzzed in response, but Claude stopped just shy of touching her. “I thought I’d ruined everything. But you surprised me. Ensnared me.”

  “Staked you,” she whispered back.

  Claude smirked, his free hand reaching up to stroke her cheek while hers hung at her side. He nodded slightly, eyes alight with want once more. “Yes, you showed me you could be brave, even in a desperate moment. Fierce and beautiful, that’s what you were from then on. No longer bored. And neither was I.”

  Her grip tightened around his hand. “So you chased me to stop being bored?”

  “No,” he said, his voice a hushed dream, hypnotic and comforting, delicious and desirable. “I pursued you because I thought we had something. I wasn’t lying about that. There was a spark. A moment. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed worth the effort.” He kissed her then, sweet and soft, and retreated when she tried to take more. “You are worth the chase.”

  “Am I?” His words touched on a niggling little fear at the back of her mind, one that had started to fester ever
since they’d made their relationship more official: that she was too much work for him. “It’s been kind of a bumpy ride so far. Your patience seems infinite.”

  “I can assure you it isn’t,” Claude remarked gently, then brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear, “but no great love story can grow in lifeless, boring soil.”

  It was as their lips found one another again that the floor rumbled. Vibrations tickled her legs, hummed beneath the soles of her feet. Delia pulled away with a frown, eyes to the ground.

  “What the hell was—” She cried out when another set of tremors rocked the manor, the windows rattling this time. Claude held her tight until they stopped less than a minute later, and Delia wriggled out of his embrace and went for the windows. Smoke rose over the trees, far in the distance. Thick grey smoke, stark against the otherwise clear night sky.

  It was spiraling up from Harriswood.

  “Wh-what…” Delia pointed to the glass pane, then looked at Claude, her mouth hanging open. “What’s happening?”

  “Let’s go back to the party. I’m sure it’s nothing to—”

  “Something’s happening,” she pressed. “Something…isn’t right.”

  He crossed the room to the window and peered out, squinting, hands falling to her hips. “Probably a fire, judging by the smoke.”

  “Fires don’t feel like an earthquake,” she shot back shakily. Then she went for her purse, which she’d left on Claude’s bed when she arrived—no point in carrying it around all night when her hands had more interesting things to touch. Phone in hand, she sat on the edge of the bed again, finding about a dozen missed calls from Kain and a few texts from Devin. She swiped her hair back as she scanned the messages. Devin was at the League party and wanted to know where she was. Hadn’t she said she was coming? Did she want him to save her some oysters—yeah, the League went all out on the food, and she was missing it.