by Eve Langlais
As disturbing as the memories were, the heady sweetness of the mouthful emphasized how starved he’d been in the phae court. The phae grudgingly accepted monsters like him to siphon off the powerful urges that had almost been their undoing. But their subtle, inhuman passions were more watered down than the drink in his hand.
He’d never had the opportunity to drink to satiation.
Avery held up her glass. “To getting what we want.”
Without waiting for his reply, she clinked her glass against his. The fragile chime shivered through him.
She drained half the drink then set it down over the changing images of the tabletop. She spun the glass between her fingers, making the lights dance like water on her skin. “So tell me about this story you want me to write.”
“First let me ask, did you open the portal that night at Stonehenge?” If she had stood on the verge of the phaedrealii, even briefly, that would explain her penchant for “crazy”.
“It wasn’t really Stonehenge.” Her smile flickered again, a touch mocking. “And since it was the middle of winter, no way was I stripping. So nothing sprouted, not the mushroom spores, and certainly not my date.”
“There is magic in baring yourself.”
Her lips pursed into a moue of disappointment. “Damn, and here I was starting to think you really weren’t like other guys.”
He reached out to take her hand, stopping the restless play of her fingers on the glass. “Against the dark and the cold, your naked fire is a dare.” Gently twisting her hand palm up, he stroked his thumb over the pulse point of her inner wrist.
Her fingers curled into a fist, and the long muscles in her forearm tensed invisibly within the long sleeve of her silky green blouse, ready to jerk away–or strike him. But her heartbeat raced under his grasp, and her pupils bloomed with a visceral thrill.
Her lips parted, just enough to let out a soft breath.
He inhaled that breath, sweet as summer honey. “That is what you do with your stories, yes? You bare secrets for all to see.”
She shook her head slowly. “Those stories aren’t secrets. They’re lies.”
He stared into her eyes, willing her not to look away. “What if they weren’t?”
“They are. I should know since I wrote them.”
“And you know yourself so well.”
“I do.” But her voice wavered.
“So tell me, what do you want?”
Chapter Three
“I want to get the fuck out of here.” Avery swore she meant every word, but she didn’t pull her hand free.
What sort of name was Hugo de Grava? The dusky Old World complexion that had made her guess mafia earlier wasn’t quite right, despite the snug black jeans and black–on–black pinstriped shirt beneath his trench coat that suggested uptown gangster. But he was something dangerous.
Though his touch was exquisitely gentle, his thumb barely skimming the tendons and veins of her wrist, his obsidian gaze all but cut her with his intensity. She wanted to blame the crappy lighting and the sense of isolation in the curtained booth for her racing heartbeat, but then why didn’t she actually get the fuck out?
Instead, her gaze slid to his mouth. He had thin lips, almost cruel in their ascetic severity, but the grenadine in the cocktail had added a delicate tint and a glimmer of wetness that made her suspect he wasn’t always harsh.
Damn, it must be the alcohol making her think this way. Even though she’d drunk less than half and the pour had been less than generous to start with. She couldn’t even suspect he’d slipped her anything since she’d been watching him the whole time.
Watching him too closely. He moved with the lean grace of some martial art–he’d said he liked to dance–and she’d always been drawn to artists. She’d thought the way they saw the world differently might help her better understand her mother. Instead, she’d started down some wrong paths herself, like she’d done with mushroom boy.
At least she’d learned to spot the lies even if now she was telling them.
“You are free to go whenever you wish.” His voice was even gentler than his touch. “But no one is ever truly free, are they?”
“Smooth moves and philosophy,” she said. “It’s like you were custom made, just for me.”
For a moment, his slow caresses stopped, and he frowned thoughtfully. “You might be right.”
There was an ominous note in his voice that made her alarm bells ring. And still she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t leave, she told herself, not if she wanted access to Barrows.
But she wasn’t sure that was all she wanted.
It was just this time of year. It always made her anxious. Lots of people got low at Christmas, even people whose mothers hadn’t vanished through a ring of holly right in front of them… Avery shoved the memory away. She just needed to get through the next few days. Then it would be the new year with its bogus promise of a fresh start.
For once, though, her armor of skepticism seemed unable to keep her spine stiff. She was definitely leaning toward Hugo, with his cryptic remarks and his too–good–to–be–true offer of a story that had the power to change her life.
But maybe she was just tired of questioning everything. Maybe she just wanted to take something–someone–at face value and not wonder what was going on underneath. The mellow lights, the curtain, and the high–backed seats made the booth into a strange cocoon. The kind of place from which something new might emerge. Like, a new memory to replace the old ones she wasn’t even sure were real.
The ridiculous thought made the alarm bells in her head ring louder. Unless those were slot machines. Maybe she was about to get lucky.
Unlike all the gambling going on around her, she knew this moment could be a sure thing. If she wanted it.
Slowly, she curled her fingers inward, brushing the underside of his wrist. His skin was warm, almost hot, and for a split second, she fantasized about passing a cold winter night tucked against him. She wasn’t looking for a season, just one moment she hadn’t given into in a long time.
She relaxed the subtle backward pull of her body, and he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the thin skin where her pulse raced. As she’d suspected, his mouth was softer than it looked. His breath feathered up her sleeve, and her need swelled.
His lashes, black and spiky, fluttered down, and she was mesmerized by a sudden sense of vulnerability in him.
She took a breath, about to ask him what he wanted, but in an effortless sweep, he looped his arm behind her shoulders, pressing the wrist he’d just kissed against her hip and trapping her in the cage of her own embrace as he pulled her into the strong curve of his chest.
The breath she’d taken left her on a gasp, and her free hand fisted on the velour seat. His black eyes gleamed down at her in challenge. The flicker of the lottery games in the table cast the planes of his face into mesmerizing light and shadow.
If they’d been in an empty alley, the move would’ve been a terrifying threat; if they’d been dancing, it would’ve been sexy as hell. Her heart slammed, as if it wasn’t sure which way to go.
With her free hand, she threaded her fingers through the unruly toss of his black hair and pulled him down to her kiss.
As if that had been the only invitation he needed, his mouth slanted open over hers, ravenous. His hunger fed her own, and she tightened her grip in his hair to angle his head just enough to seal the lock between their searching tongues.
This was a dance: a limbo of lips, a tango of tongues, a ballet of breath, each motion a story of sorts. But as masterfully as he’d looped her into his arms, she tasted desperation and urgency beneath the vodka in his kiss.
Obviously it had been awhile since the last kiss for him too.
The conviction shook her. Did she really think she could know him so well, after ten minutes, one drink, and half a kiss? She was deluding herself again.
And yet it tasted. So. Good.
She wanted more, but when she surged up against him,
their teeth clicked–just a little noise, like a lock yielding to a key. She winced when her tongue flicked over something sharp in his mouth, and the faintest hint of copper–penny tang, barely perceptible over the bite of the cranberry, flavored the kiss.
He froze, every muscle going stiff.
Was he wearing a retainer? Not wanting to embarrass him, she held back a giggle. Well, that made her mystery man seem much more real.
She forced herself to loosen her grip on his hair, trailing her fingertips down the sharp edge of his cheekbone to the outer curve of his lips, framing their kiss.
He shuddered at the caress. The petrified tightness left him as his body sagged against hers.
How long had it been for him?
She let her hand drop lower, tracing one black pinstripe of his shirt over the hidden hard curve of his pec–his breath caught–and lower yet to the fly of his jeans.
She felt more than heard his groan, and he dropped his head back against the velour–lined seat. She might have groaned too at the burgeoning length she found waiting for her. One kiss and he was this ready? Damn. It had been a while.
A rush of feminine power rippled through her, as if she’d drunk the entire bottle of cheap vodka. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t her. But with her cynical armor missing, all she had was this reckless lust to get her through.
Trailing her lips down the side of his straining neck, she hollowed her palm to cup his erection, gauging him through the denim. Oh yes, he’d been teasing her with his mysterious ways; now it was her turn to torture him with some unambiguously explicit pleasure. His muttered curse made her breathe out a soft laugh against the hammering pulse in his throat.
“Again,” he growled.
She gave him another stroke.
His hips lifted to her hand, but he said, “No. Not that. Laugh. I haven’t heard laughter in… too long.”
She huffed again, not so much amusement as a sound of disbelief. What a strange man he was. But she couldn’t fight the twinge in her chest at his wistful request. She knew what it was like to forget how to laugh.
Alcohol and loneliness were a terrible–and potent–combination. And the thought that he might actually understand her in some way? It made her head spin like a roofie dropped to the bottom of her cocktail of holiday misery.
“Maybe we could both be happy,” she murmured. “Just for tonight.”
With another of those impressive, almost impossible moves, he lifted her up and over to straddle his lap. Her plaid skirt rucked up and her knees pressed into the velvety seat on either side of his narrow hips while the lottery table held up her ass.
“Hugo,” she gasped, bracing herself against his broad shoulders. “Not right here.”
His strong hands flexed on her thighs, bared by her over–the–knee stockings. But he didn’t ogle the skin he’d exposed. Instead he stared up into her eyes. “This is the only time we have,” he said. “You think anyone is watching? Do you believe anyone cares? The rest of the world be damned.”
It was a casino; of course someone was watching. Security cameras, at the very least. But his reckless nihilism crashed up against her wish that someone would care.
Or maybe that someone was him.
She leaned forward to press her lips to the crown of his dark head. Her hair was another, more intimate curtain between them and the world. She closed her eyes when his hands skimmed up her hips, inside her blouse. His touch was so hot it was almost cold, and she shivered at the confusion of her senses.
The buttons of her blouse fell open, one by one, from the inside. Maybe he was a magician after all. And thank God she was wearing her power undies; she’d been planning to confront an important man when she dressed this morning, though not quite like this.
She twisted her heart necklace so the charm dangled behind her, forgotten for the moment, while he kissed the inner swell of her left breast. His breath shivered over her skin as he whispered something in French. It sounded like another curse.
Or maybe a prayer.
His hand plumped the mound higher and her nipple scraped against the lace, sending a jolt through her nerve endings and down to her pussy. She whimpered and tightened her grip on his shoulders to hold herself steady. But when the damp heat of his mouth closed over her aching flesh, tonguing her through the silky lace, steady went out the non–existent casino window. She squirmed on the table, and her fingernails sank into his shirt.
With his thumb, he dragged down the edge of her bra, freeing her distended nipple. He made a sound deep in the back of his throat, a growl that trembled through her.
“So lush,” he murmured. “So lovely.”
He dragged the flat of his tongue in a lazy circle over the sensitive tip and ended with a flick that made her rock back on her ass with a moan.
He must have taken that as a wordless demand, because his other hand made a slow exploration up the inside of her thigh, massaging the instinctive clasp of her muscle until she spread wider for him. He traced the top of the lacey panty above her mound, then down one side of the fabric triangle to the needy moisture seeping through, then up the other side, ending where he’d started at the top of the triangle.
She lifted her head to look down at him. “What are you waiting for?”
“Maybe I’m lost again.” His obsidian eyes were half–lidded.
Now a man wanted directions?
But when he cast his gaze up at her, she saw uncertainty in their depths. She loomed over him in the high–backed seat, her stockings slithering down to her calves as she scooted across the velour.
She framed his face in her hands and kissed him hard, not caring that their teeth bumped again. The taste of blood was stronger this time, and it should have been wrong, disgusting. But instead it was a brutal reminder that life was now and fleeting, just like the daylight.
“You’re right here,” she said in a low voice. “With me.”
Slowly, he reached up into the space between their bodies. His fingertips played over the weeping center of her body, tracing her shapes through the thin lace.
She laughed softly. “Well, you’re almost there.”
Chapter Four
It was the laugh that did him in.
He knew the blood mélange was to blame for their spiraling excitement. His long fasting had weakened his control, and when she’d cut herself on his incisor… With a groan, he dipped a finger past the wine–dark delicacy that hid her womanly flesh. Against the lace, her skin was creamy and flushed with her craving.
Her wetness coated his skin, yet another fount–nearly as potent as blood–to slake his overwhelming hunger. Her pleasure beat against him with silken wings, at once delicate and demanding.
Feeding from the phae had never been like this. Long before he’d fallen into the eternal court, the phae had stifled their passions. They feared the chaos of powerful emotion. Perhaps rightly so, since their wildness had led to their defeat during their so–called Iron Wars against the humans spreading over the earth.
But it meant their blood left him hungrier than if he’d just starved. Still, he could have withstood the temptation before him, if not for that laugh, the soft breath that was the joy of life itself.
Avery Hill was a feast he could not resist.
He licked the faint sheen of lust off her engorged nipple, and she mewed. She ground down, spearing her pussy on his hand. He slipped another finger inside her while his thumb teased the little hidden nub of her desire. Another gasp, as enticing as her laugh. In those husky sounds, he felt himself coming alive.
“Say my name again,” he commanded. “The way you say it, short, as if you don’t want to waste the time we have.”
“Hugo,” she moaned. “Oh God, Hugh, don’t stop.”
“Never.”
Although she had no idea how long never really was.
Her inner muscles clutched at his fingers, wanting him. The feeling was mutual. He was awash in the scent of her, rich and warm with a hint of de
sert wind still caught in her hair. She tilted her head back, and he stared up at her as the lights played over her fevered skin.
So gorgeous. A possessive howl threatened in the back of his throat, and he ducked his head against her left breast to stifle it. She pressed him closer with a high–pitched whine of her own as her pussy tightened on him, pulsing out her pleasure.
With his free hand, he yanked down the edge of her bra, shoving it under the weight of her breast so the white flesh with its engorged red nipple was completely bared to him.
She was grinding, panting, riding his hand so hard his cock ached in sympathy. And longing.
She made a keening noise and clamped her thighs around his fingers. Deep within her, he felt her muscles seize.
And he bit her breast.
Not deep. His fangs just pierced the fragile, plumped flesh above her nipple.
His hand was ready to catch her scream. The moist heat seared across his palm at the same time his lower fingers were drenched with her orgasm. Just as his mouth flooded with the vivid scent and taste of her blood.
Ah! Though his teeth had pierced her, it was she who filled him, from the inside out. His cock jerked so hard he feared he came in his jeans. But dirty laundry was a small price to pay for such lavish delights. His whole being was awash with her, his mind whirling with her aftershocks.
They breathed in synchrony for an eternity. Or maybe not quite so long. Maybe that one heartbeat filled up the space between never and forever. He wanted to close his eyes and sink into that perfect darkness and never arise.
But already he felt the tension returning to her body. He kept his hand over her mouth, straining her neck back for another moment, while he laved his tongue over her breast, licking away the evidence of his bite.
She bucked against him, and he felt the backwash of her overstimulated pleasure… and her equally strong desire to escape his touch.
The sudden shift in her emotions sent a chill over him. And this time he did close his eyes, though only briefly, at the pain. She didn’t know–yet–what he was, but instinctively she knew he’d stolen something from her. Even as he tried to give her satisfaction in return for his survival.