Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment)

by Naima Simone

  Dismayed—and not a little sickened—he stalked to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. His claws clacked against the metal rim as he yanked the door open. Warm air rushed in, danced over his face and tickled his hair. It invited him to come out, join the night and fly free of his fury and revulsion.

  “Bastien.” He stopped, his foot already over the threshold, but didn’t turn around. Couldn’t face her. “It’s not your fault.”

  The growl rolled up and out of him before he could hold it back. He whipped around, lip curled. “Get out of my head…emotions…whatever,” he snapped, slashing a hand though the air.

  Sinéad snorted and crossed her arms. The pose boosted her smooth breasts over the top of the black corset, the sensual sight reminding him of how one of the soft mounds had filled his palm, how taut her nipple had hardened under his plucking fingers. How her blood had rushed hot and delicious through the delicate network of blue veins, blushing faintly under her creamy skin.

  He tore his rabid stare away from the provocative picture. Shit, she threatened to shove him over the edge into a needy, dark oblivion he wouldn’t have the power or desire to crawl out of.

  “It doesn’t take an empath to discern what you’re thinking or feeling, hippogryph,” she drawled. “I can see it all over your face. Just like I knew you were willing to throw away our one chance at infiltrating Faolan’s circle before we even entered.”

  “And I was right, damn it.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, nodding. She moved forward, closing the space between them in three long strides. Her smaller hand wrapped around his fist, her fingers slipping between his palm and curled talons. “You made the right decision to go forward. But that’s not what this is about, is it, Bastien?”

  He groaned. It sounded rusted and scraped his throat raw. “I failed.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “How do you figure?”

  He scoffed, caught between disbelief and disgust. “You should’ve never been exposed to the scene we entered tonight. You shouldn’t have been exposed to them. I did that.”

  “And I had nothing to do with it, right?” Her lips curved into a wry smile.

  “Shit.” He retracted his claws then yanked his hand free. Thrusting his fingers through his hair once again, he dragged the heavy strands away from his face. His lips twisted into a sneer, full of the self-directed loathing bubbling and seething inside him. He pivoted on his heel and stalked across the room. Away from her scent, away from the tempting swell of supple flesh and, mostly, away from the understanding softening her beautiful features.

  He didn’t want her compassion—didn’t deserve her sympathy.

  “It was my hand shoved up your damn skirt, Sinéad,” he growled. “My fingers fucking your pussy.”

  Her swift intake of breath echoed in the room, but damn if he could retract the words. Just uttering them brought back the slick, tight clasp of her sex. How the wet, snug channel had clutched at him like a suckling mouth. He ground his teeth together so hard it wouldn’t have surprised him if white enamel dust puffed from his mouth.

  Unable to stop himself, he lifted his arm, brought his fingers to his nose. Inhaled. And felt like a pathetic sap. His arm dropped to his side.

  “I know,” she whispered. A weighty, tension-filled pause vibrated in the room. He bit back the primal roar his beast let loose. It filled his chest, pushed at his throat, demanding to be heard. It pounded in his head like a crashing wave and yet the next gently spoken words sliced through the din like a sword hot from the fires of a forge. “Even now I swear I can feel you inside me.”

  His heart stopped. His hippogryph stilled.

  Slowly, he pivoted. He had to see her—had to look at her face when she said those words. See if the hunger in her voice was reflected in her stunning, quicksilver eyes. I can feel you inside me. Those simple syllables created the most confusing, violent emotions to whirl and tumble in his chest, to tighten his stomach.

  Stroke his cock.

  Sinéad stood next to the foot of the bed, the faint tinge of red on her cheeks incongruous with the wickedly sinful outfit of black leather and silk. He could imagine how hard it was for a female unused to passion to confess it. Yet she had, not only with her admission but with those glorious eyes. They shimmered with heat like dry lightning foretelling a coming storm. And it was for him. For his touch.

  That in itself was a miracle.

  “You can stop blaming yourself, hippogryph,” she whispered. A slim hand hovered over her abdomen. It fisted. “I wanted what you did to me. I want more.”

  He lunged for her, a growl rumbling in his throat. But just as he reached her, he drew up short. Ignoring her soft gasp, he wheeled around and marched to the dresser next to the bed. He snatched up his cell phone and hurriedly tapped a message on the screen. Within seconds, the subtle vibration of another phone reverberated in the silence. Sinéad frowned and glanced down at her cell on the mattress. She picked it up and he studied her face as she read what he’d texted. I’m about to kiss you.

  Surprise passed over her features before a huge smile played across her lips. She obviously remembered her previous forewarning about making sudden moves on her. Sinéad’s eyes rose from the phone and a laugh that seemed bigger than her petite frame rolled out of her. Grinning, Bastien tossed the cell back to the top of the dresser with a clatter before he vaulted over the bed in one leap and soundlessly landed in front of her.

  Capturing her face between his palms, he lowered his head and covered her smiling mouth. He swallowed her chuckle and grunted in satisfaction as her hilarity morphed into a needy moan. She jerked hard in his hold, but then relaxed, her petite body molding to his. Her hands clutched his shoulders. Pleasure surged at the tiny bite of her nails as she clung to him. With a hiss, he thrust his tongue between her parted lips and drank from her mouth. This time he groaned. The taste of her—the taste of a fresh Irish morning—was habit-forming. She was habit-forming.

  Her tongue curled around his in a sucking motion that gripped his stomach muscles and echoed on the swollen head of his cock. His hips punched forward, his cock grinding against her soft belly. Oh fuck. He snarled, his control slipping away like tendrils of smoke. The razor-sharp tips of his talons pricked beneath his fingertips, demanding to be let free. His hippogryph ached to claim this female as the man did.

  Bastien wrenched his mouth away from Sinéad’s and tipped his head back on his shoulders. He fought the partial change. That was a door he couldn’t open…especially since he didn’t know which of the creatures existing within him would emerge.

  Small palms glided down the front of his chest and hesitated at the band of his pants before sliding under the hem of his shirt. He flinched at the first caress of her fingers over the bare skin of his abdomen. His hands shot out, cuffed her wrists, halting her progress. The knee-jerk reaction plunged the room into a subzero, deafening silence.

  Desire bled from his veins, purged by the cold snap of fear and shame. His facial scars didn’t seem to bother Sinéad, but the one time she’d seen him naked had been in the dim shadows of early morning. She couldn’t have truly glimpsed the road map of hardened ridges and whorls marring his chest and stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut. Disgust would twist her lovely features. Pity would erase the need from her gaze. And seeing it would shatter something in him. He couldn’t find the courage to risk the pain.

  His eyes opened as Sinéad snatched free of his hold. Her lips straightened into a firm, grim line. Thunderbolts crackled in her gaze as she reached behind her. As if in slow motion, her hand reappeared, one of her black-handled daggers in her grip. His eyes traced the short length of the curved, steel blade shaped like a miniature scimitar. Deliberately, her eyes never breaking contact with his, she brought the tip to his throat, paused…then slowly drew it down the center of his chest, coming to a stop at his waist.

  The cool air of the room’s centralized air brushed over him—and fluttered the cleanly sliced edges of his shirt apa
rt.

  With a flick of her wrist, the knife flew across the room and embedded itself in the wall above the headboard, only the guard and grip visible.

  Stunned, he stood motionless. The savagery—the fucking hot ferocity—of her defiance tasered him, the shock leaving him trembling yet unable to move.

  Her eyes glittered up at him like diamonds cast across a gray sky. Even as she lowered her head to his chest, she didn’t release him from her gaze. Even as her perfect lips parted and her teeth clamped down on a thick scar that ran from under his chest bone and ended inches above his navel, she held him prisoner, practically daring him to glance away. Even as she sucked on the numb flesh, flashes of silver and fire challenged him to deny the acceptance—no, the pleasure so clear in her unwavering gaze.

  Hands trembling, he threaded his fingers through the long, chocolate strands tumbling around her face and shoulders. He pressed his fingertips against her skull, holding her closer. What he wouldn’t give to feel the sting of her bite on his flesh. The deadened nerves under the dense scar tissue prevented him from experiencing the nip of teeth and the lash of her tongue. He wanted it. A groan of frustration rolled out of him and his fingers flexed on her scalp.

  As if interpreting his silent need, she swirled her tongue over the hardened mass of flesh then settled her mouth on him again, this time catching the unmarred skin surrounding the scar with her teeth as well. She tugged and the sensation arrowed straight to his cock. His hips punched forward and her moan over his damp skin nearly careened him from aroused to I-need-a-cigarette territory.

  “Harder, sweetheart,” he demanded—pleaded—as he cradled her head and pressed her closer.

  With a sexy growl that drove his beast wild, she clamped down, drew on him with a suction his cock envied. Her tongue flicked over the sensitive skin around the scar, back and forth, until she released him with a soft pop.

  “Again,” he whispered, never having imagined the disfigurements he’d detested could offer him healing and pleasure.

  No. That wasn’t true.

  Sinéad offered him the healing and, damn, so much pleasure. This beautiful, fierce, funny, sensual female who had been there in the most painful, desolate moments of his life.

  She’d given him his life back and now she made it worth living, showing him he could have the things he’d believed lost to him—laughter, desire, passion…love.

  Yes, he loved her. Both male and hippogryph adored her.

  Maybe it had been from the moment he’d broken through the pain and darkness to see her hovering over him, a dark angel, his savior. Or maybe it’d been the moment she’d taken the wendigo victim’s life so he wouldn’t have the stain of death on his soul. Or maybe it’d been the moment she’d called him beautiful then worthy.

  Maybe it’d been all three and he’d fallen a bit deeper in love each time.

  She paid homage to his scars with her lips, tongue and teeth. Each nibble, rake and lick added another crack to the mortar he’d erected around his spirit even as it stoked the fire in his gut.

  Untangling his fingers from her hair, he slid his palms down until he cradled her jaw. He nudged the corners of her mouth with his thumbs, applied the slightest pressure and she obeyed the unspoken command. Her mouth eased back from his chest, but not before planting several soft kisses along the damaged flesh. Tipping her head back, Bastien studied the swollen curves of her lips. Unable to resist, he sipped at the bow of her top lip, savored the full weight of the bottom.

  “Get on with it, hippogryph,” she ordered breathlessly. He smiled both at the impatience she didn’t try to conceal and the shiver coursing through her as he lapped at the underside of her chin.

  “I’ll do that,” he said, voice dark with promise. He hoisted her in the air, spun around and dropped her on the wide bed. She bounced once before he covered her, settling his hips between her legs. The high side slits in the skirt allowed him to nestle his cock against the soft mound of her pussy. He swallowed her cry with his mouth, tasted it with his tongue. It was so sweet.

  She arched beneath him and the heels of her boots pricked his ass through his pants as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Sharp nails pinched his shoulder blades and he rumbled his approval, diving deeper between her lips. She met him stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust, as ready to duel in a sensual battle as she was in a physical fight.

  He pushed off her, kneeling between her thighs. Damn she was gorgeous. Her eyes gleamed with the same heat surging through his veins, pumping through his cock. Her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, the plump swells of her breasts were fuller, rounder and threatened to spill free of the corset. She stretched her arms toward him and he barely managed to resist the lure of her embrace.

  Instead he smiled and, as her arms lowered and eyes widened, he assumed the wickedness tickling him was visible in his grin.

  He lifted a hand and with a tiny tug on his magic, his talons appeared, black, hooked and lethal.

  “My turn,” he murmured.

  * * * * *

  Sinéad’s breath trapped in her throat as the dangerous claw descended. Any human or immortal with an ounce of reason would’ve been shrinking in fear at the sight of the deadly talon capable of ripping skin, muscle and bone apart with one swipe. Exhibit A—the vamp in the alley minus his head.

  But trepidation didn’t make her heart pound like a bodhràn at a boisterous céili. Except the traditional Irish drum in the midst of a party bore no competition to the excitement and desire leaping and dancing through her veins. She was reminded of the beast that lurked under Bastien’s skin—reminded she wasn’t just dallying with the man, but the ferocious hippogryph as well. And damn if the thought of claiming them both didn’t send a shaft of pleasure to her nipples and the pulsing flesh between her legs. Squirming, she rolled her hips, seeking the amazing cataclysm she’d already experienced at his hands—literally. She wanted more, sensed she could shatter into even more pieces with his long, heavy cock rubbing over her sex.

  She’d seen it once and the quick glimpse had been enough to sear the image in her head. It had also been enough to stir the embers of longing in a body that had lain dormant for three hundred years. More. The demand had seemed to become her mantra since he’d found her again. More.

  A white-blond eyebrow arched high and his green eyes darkened with deviltry. “More, sweetheart?”

  Lady. She sucked in a breath. Had she inadvertently passed the thought along the mental path she’d opened? Such carelessness had never happened before. It seemed as if this hippogryph had weakened her natural defenses along with her resistance.

  “I have what you need.”

  Sweet Nef. She gasped as the tip of his talon hooked under the seam of her top and slit the boned garment in half, mimicking the surgery she’d done to his shirt. The pieces fell to the sides of her torso and before she could utter a word, Bastien swooped low and sucked a nipple between his lips, nearly taking half her breast in his mouth.

  “Bastien.” She grasped his head tight. Coherent thought fled her brain as his tongue curled around the taut tip. If his fingers in the pleasure den had been wonderful, this was…phenomenal. Wet heat lapped at her, played and stabbed. She shuddered. Groaned.

  Why hadn’t anyone told her breasts could convey such pleasure? She shuddered as he switched breasts, captured the other peak between his teeth and raked the sensitive skin. A hand cupped and tormented the other nipple. Rapture bolted down her spine and she arched into his caress like an unbroken filly. She’d gone without this knowledge for centuries and yet the section of her brain still functioning whispered what her soul had already acknowledged and accepted. If Bastien hadn’t come into her life five months ago, her body would have slept for another three centuries. He’d awakened this hungry beast inside her, much like the one existing in him. It insisted to be fed, satisfied. Fucked.

  “Beautiful,” he praised softly, his lips brushing her wet nipple.

  Confounded and energized by the ne
ed jolting through her, she tried to drag him back down to her flesh. “Stop talking and suck,” she growled, yanking on his long, bright hair.

  Bastien chuckled, but didn’t comply. The place at the top of her sex he’d stroked and rubbed in the pleasure den throbbed in a relentless rhythm of demand. The more he tongued her breasts, the more adamant the pulsing spot became to be touched. Her legs scissored on either sides of his hips. With a last-ditch effort to assuage the ache, she ground her pelvis over the rock-hard plane of his abdomen. Immediately delight swelled from her flesh, up her belly and to the wet tips he continued to pinch and roll lazily.

  “Does it hurt, little cruxim?” he asked in a lethal voice she hadn’t heard from him before. The sultry rumble carried a hint of the hippogryph and more than a little of the other creature—the creature of blood and fangs.

  Desire chained her voice, holding it captive. All she could do was nod.

  “Where?” He gave her nipple a slow, protracted lick. “Here?”

  She moaned. Nodded again.

  “Or,” he planted his palms on either side of her head, levered his chest off her and circled his hips against her sex, “here.”

  She cried out as flames coursed through and over her with the force of a dragon’s blast. She wouldn’t have been surprised to look down and see ash coating them both.

  “Look at me, Sinéad,” he commanded.

  She lifted her lashes. Lady, when had she closed them? She blinked, staring up at him. The male, hippogryph and other studied her through enlarged, crimson, eagle pupils. His head was cocked in a way that was more animal than human and his sharp cheekbones pressed harder against his skin.

  Slowly, he leaned to the side. Cupped her sex through the skirt. “Is your pussy wet?”

  Pussy. The word tumbled over in her mind as he massaged her with the heel of his palm. Yes. She trembled as molten lava replaced blood and pooled where his hand cradled her. That fits. Until him, she’d thought of the place between her legs as purely anatomical, not sensual. But with Bastien there was nothing cold or sexless about the flesh clamping and releasing for his presence. Sex. Vagina. Mound. None of those terms suitably described the swollen, damp, aching flesh he’d brought alive. But pussy did. Erotic. Carnal. Feminine.