Her breasts jolted and swayed invitingly with every movement of her body, dancing for him as she ground down, her breath coming in panting sobs. Deliberately, he slid one hand up from her hip to her breast and flicked her taut nipple. She gasped as if he’d held a flame to it. He pinched and tugged and then ran his finger from her breast slowly down her belly straight to where their bodies came together.
“Look at us, baby. Look at the way you take me inside you.”
He circled her clit and then flicked it just as he had her nipple. She cried out and clamped down hard with her muscles around his cock—rode him harder, breaking the slow rhythm. He pinched, using his finger and thumb, holding her little inflamed clit hostage while he pumped into her, surging with his hips and then suddenly letting her go so the blood flowed back. She cried out again as he gently flicked and teased the inflamed bud, while she pressed down harder into him, her muscles like a vise.
“One day I’m going to do a tie with clamps on your nipples and clit, malen’koye plamya. I’ll have you dripping with jewels and rope both. You always look so damn sexy.” Sevastyan slid his hands up her hips to her waist, holding her, needing to hold her. Wishing he could find a way to reach her other than through sex. He was willing to take what he could get, but she was perfect. So damn perfect.
The roaring started. Thunder in his ears. He felt the volcano in him, that deep dark well of savage, red-molten rage that only Flambé seemed to be able to tame. Even if it was for a short while, a small respite, she still managed. The sounds she made told him she was close. He recognized every little sign of Flambé’s needs, every tiny nuance, expression, moan of pleasure, sob of desire or lust, her body language, he knew all of that and yet nothing of her. Nothing of his woman.
He caught her close and held her heart to heart as her body clamped down hard on his and the tidal wave took her, took them together. She dropped her head on his chest, her arms sliding around his neck in absolute exhaustion. He could feel her heart beating, surrounding his cock, the same rhythm against his chest. If the emotion welling up in him was actually love, he wouldn’t have been surprised. It was stark, raw, overwhelming. And all for her.
He buried his face in the silky mess of her hair, taking advantage while he could. It wouldn’t last. She didn’t want him. He got that. Even Mitya got that. He was so angry with Mitya taking it out on him, but the truth was still the same. She didn’t want him. He would have to face that soon.
She had completely collapsed into him, breathing raggedly, her face pressed against his chest, eyes closed tightly. He kept his arms around her, holding her close to him, their hearts beating hard. He was leopard and he could hear them both hammering out of control. His began to settle first. He opened his eyes to look down at her, just to drink her in while she wasn’t paying attention.
Flambé was at her most vulnerable in the ropes, during sex and right after. Those were the only times he felt he had the real woman. The rest of the time she was so elusive he was certain she was moving just out of his reach, always one step ahead of him. He was very intelligent and used to being the smartest man in the room, even if few others were aware of it. To have Flambé always eluding him was both intriguing and disconcerting.
A flash of red caught his eye and he tightened his hold on her and sat straighter to look over her shoulder. She was bleeding from the puncture wounds. His heart jumped.
Shturm. How deep did you bite?
Not too deep. You said to make certain my claim was established and I did.
Sevastyan cursed silently. He had said that. Did you close the wounds with your saliva? He couldn’t remember if the male cat had licked the bites or not. He had the first time, but they’d been shallow punctures. These, clearly, were deeper.
No, she was distressed and I shifted.
What had he read about her mother dying in childbirth? She’d hemorrhaged. He’d had Ania do some investigating for him and several of the strawberry leopards had died from hemorrhaging. This was a careless mistake. He took a deep breath, refusing to panic. He stood up, lifting her off of him and into his arms, taking her to the bed and laying her facedown. She barely moved she was so exhausted.
Shturm, you’re going to clean those wounds. Shift now. Sevastyan was in no mood to take any bullshit from his leopard. Be gentle with her.
For once the cat obeyed without giving him any lip. Shturm lapped at the puncture wounds, and then shifted again. Sevastyan hurriedly yanked the first-aid kit from behind the bar where he’d stashed it. He cleaned the bite marks thoroughly, noting that even with the cat cleaning them they were still bleeding. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but enough that it told him she would have trouble if she really got a deep cut—or she had a baby. He wasn’t like so many others of his species—he wasn’t all about having children to save the shifters.
He tried butterfly bandages and waited to see if they would stop the flow of blood. If that didn’t work, he would put a stitch in each of the bites. He was also contacting the doctor immediately. He wasn’t taking chances with her.
“Sevastyan?” Flambé’s voice was husky. Drowsy.
“Shh baby, just lie still.”
“I need to clean up.”
“I’ll get you cleaned up in a few minutes. I’m admiring my handiwork. The ropes looked good on your skin.” He smoothed his hand over her thigh where the marks from the ropes were still faint.
She didn’t respond. The butterfly bandages were holding. Relief spread through him. He contemplated the perils of landscaping and how many ways she could cut herself while working as he ran a hot bath for the two of them. He’d given the cook and housecleaners the day off as well so after he bathed her, he’d put her back to bed and he’d fix brunch while she slept. That would give him time to try to figure out why she was afraid of him.
She never acted afraid of him. It would stand to reason that if she was, she wouldn’t let him tie her. She would never trust him the way she had that morning. Nothing about the situation made any sense.
Sevastyan scooped her off the bed and carried her into the bathroom once the tub was filled. He’d added bath salts to the water to help heal any soreness. She curled into his chest, feeling lightweight, almost insubstantial to him. There were rope marks on her body as well as marks from his mouth and hands. She had skin that displayed his artwork beautifully. Someday, he’d take pictures of her body after he removed the ropes as well as with the various ties on.
“Sevastyan.” His name came out a husky protest as he sat down in the tub, her body between his legs, the hot water nearly to her neck. “It’s too hot.”
“It’s good for you.” He caught her chin and pulled her head back against his shoulder so he could wash her face. “Keep your eyes closed. I like your face all shiny with my seed, baby, but you might not like it as much as I do.”
Flambé reached back over her shoulder and wrapped her arm around his neck. It was the first real spontaneous gesture of affection she’d ever made toward him that wasn’t sexual since his leopard had claimed hers. He knew she’d done it because she was half asleep, but he’d take what he could get. He was very gentle as he washed her face. She fell asleep as he held her, just soaking her body, letting the salts have time to do their work.
The moment he began to soap her body, it didn’t matter how gentle he was, he could see how sensitive her skin was, particularly now that hormones were raging. If she always had trouble with her nerve endings so close, the merging of the leopard and human cycles had worsened the effects. Her body shuddered with every touch no matter how careful or impersonal he was. He forced himself to use stronger, harder strokes, even though it went against everything he wanted to do, and she quieted.
When he washed between her legs she cried out and turned her face into his shoulder, biting down hard with her teeth, not realizing she was biting him. He murmured to her soothingly and finished, wrapping her once in a to
wel rather than trying to dry her off, and then putting her in bed and letting her air-dry.
He checked the butterfly bandages and then pressed a kiss into the middle of her back before heading downstairs to the kitchen.
12
SEVASTYAN poured Flambé a cup of coffee. “Tell me about your father. You don’t really talk about him that much.”
He kept his gaze fixed on her face. She was dressed in loose-fitting casual clothes. Nothing sexy about a pair of soft cotton, dark navy pants and a thin cotton ombré top, but for some reason he found her sexier than ever. Her face was devoid of all makeup and her hair was shiny clean, piled high on her head in that messy knot she favored. He knew it was to keep it off her skin, where before he thought it was to prevent the mass from bothering her while she worked or from getting it wet when she was in the tub.
“I don’t?” Her long lashes lifted and then she stared down into her coffee cup as if it would somehow help her to remember if she talked about her father or not. Her lashes were naked of all mascara, strawberry blond with those red-gold tips that got to him every time.
He had studied the photographs of the leopards in South Africa, interested to see what her species looked like. They were very small. The heaviest female strawberry leopard known so far was only sixty pounds. That was extremely small for a shifter. He was Amurov and his male was a big brute, coming in close to two hundred pounds of pure muscle.
“No, baby, you don’t. I never met him. What was he like?”
She moved her shoulders as if she was stiff. “Why did your leopard bite me again?”
“Flambé.” He pushed warning into his voice. Mild. But still a warning. “Things got heated in the bedroom. Is there a reason you don’t want to talk about your father?”
She shrugged. “It’s just difficult to know what to say about him.” She pushed the coffee away after taking a sip. “He was great with plants. Really great.” Enthusiasm slipped into her voice.
She hadn’t eaten much. She’d pushed the food around on her plate more than she’d actually put it in her mouth. He got her a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator and set it close to her hand, removing the coffee cup. “Honey, if you don’t like what I make for you, you need to tell me. I can cook other things. I just don’t admit it to the family. The chef can make anything for us and I can reheat it.”
Flambé sat up straight and shook her head, her eyes meeting his. “No. This is good, Sevastyan. I’m not a big eater as a rule.”
Her voice was very low. Husky. It played along his nerve endings. He watched her take a long drink of water and work her throat. A drop of water from the condensation on the bottle splashed on her top and stained the color a darker hue.
“I know Leland was amazing with his business, Flambé, but that doesn’t tell me anything about what he was like as a father. Or as a husband. I know he took a mate very late in his life. Your mother was a good twenty years younger than he was. She was a chef, wasn’t she?”
He was a rigger, a rope artist, and he paid close attention to everything to do with his partners, but now, especially to his mate. The slightest change in her breathing, the sweep of her lashes, the press of her lips. She was very uncomfortable discussing anything to do with her parents on a personal level.
“You know my mother died in childbirth, right?”
His heart stuttered. Clenched hard enough that it gave him pause. The moment he saw those steady trickles of blood running down her shoulder from Shturm’s claiming bite he knew something was wrong. He felt protective of Flambé. Not just protective. His sentiment went far beyond that. They’d spent time together, but mostly he expressed his passions in his art. He allowed his emotions for her to be wrapped up in his rope. He felt his connection growing with every knot, every tie. The touches on her skin. The sex was inflammatory, wild, the best, but it wasn’t nearly as intimate as the laying of the ropes. Wrapping her up—in him.
“Yes, malen’koye plamya, I’m well aware your mother died in childbirth. That’s one of the reasons I’m against you having children. I don’t want to risk you. I know it’s practically impossible for birth control to work for shifters, so I’d like to talk to a doctor about how to keep that from happening or how to best take care of it before you’re at risk.”
She tilted her chin at him. “Has it occurred to you that I might want children?”
The moment she gave him that defiant little chin lift of hers, Shturm roared and his body stirred, his dominant side rising fast. “Naturally. Which is why I said I was against you having children. I don’t want you carrying our children. We can use a surrogate. There has to be a safer way. When we find it, we’ll have children if you want them.”
He kept his tone mild, as if he wasn’t laying down the law when he was, because he damn well wasn’t going to lose her. He doubted if the strawberry leopards had been wiped out just from poachers. He thought it more likely was from whatever caused them to hemorrhage when they had even a slight cut.
The moment he realized she could be like her mother—a hemophiliac—that it could be genetic, he had set in motion everything he could to aid her. His people were researching. Evangeline, Ashe, Ania. Drake’s people. Jake Bannaconni’s people. Sevastyan had already texted Jake Bannaconni’s doctor, a renowned shifter, asking his advice. He knew there were ways to help treat bleeding disorders. That fast he had an incredible team to make certain Flambé lived a long life—with him. It did make him grateful for the life he led. There were some positive things to it. The thought of losing her was already beyond his comprehension.
“How did your parents meet? Did your father ever tell you?”
Flambé pulled her legs up under her, curling into herself there on the window seat in the kitchen. She looked away from him, her fingers circling the water bottle. “Yes. I was curious of course. She was one of the females he rescued. He put her through culinary school. According to him, she loved to cook and was very good at it.”
“She had a reputation,” Sevastyan encouraged when she fell silent. “Evangeline told me she was a chef at Baume, the renowned French restaurant in downtown San Antonio. She would have had to be amazing to work there.”
Flambé sent him a brief smile and then turned back to look out the window. She looked so alone he wanted to gather her up in his arms. It took effort to stay in his chair and just observe her.
Shturm, pay close attention. She is guarding herself. Holding herself so close. He wanted the impression of his leopard as well. More than once he had been forced to interrogate prisoners and Shturm’s observations had been helpful. This was more important to his life—and his leopard’s—than anything else.
“Keep going, baby. Tell me about them.”
“He wanted children and he never found his mate. The species was nearly extinct. He said it stood to reason that his mate had already been killed. She was in her first cycle.”
She turned and looked at him again. Straight. Her eyes meeting his. Her eyes were nearly emerald. Was there hostility there? Some kind of accusation? Her lashes lowered and she turned her head before he could read her.
Shturm?
She doesn’t trust us. Either one of us.
He waited a heartbeat, turning his leopard’s assessment over and over in his mind, letting it process. “Your father told you that your mother was in her first life cycle but that he had another mate?”
“Yes.”
Short. Clipped. By all accounts, Flambé and her father had gotten along very well. They didn’t argue. They were good friends. The only thing she’d gone against her father on had been continuing with her rescuing of the leopard species going extinct. Other than that one thing, everyone, including Flambé, said she didn’t fight with her father. But then, Flambé didn’t argue with Sevastyan either.
“Did he talk to you about their life together?” He pushed her just a little bit when he knew she was re
luctant to talk to him about her parents.
She took another drink of water and then swung her legs off the little bench seat to stand up, stretching. “He didn’t. I asked a couple of other people I knew, friends of hers, and they told me things. They weren’t exactly nice things. I want to go for a run.”
“That’s a good idea.” He stood up as well. “I think after this morning, we both need a little action.” He gathered the plates from the table.
Flambé instantly cleared the silverware and mugs. She began washing the dishes as he scraped the food she didn’t eat into the compost she’d set up for the plants.
“What did her friends tell you?”
She shrugged. “Nothing good. They’re both gone so I guess it doesn’t matter.”
He went hot inside. Red hot. Raging. It mattered. “He didn’t hit her—or you, did he?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
He could barely hear her and she was standing right beside him. Close. She smelled like cinnamon and Egyptian jasmine. At once he got that taste for her in his mouth. On his tongue. She set up a craving there was no denying. Franco Matherson was going to be a big problem sometime in the future as much as they both might want to think he was gone. There was no getting a woman like Flambé out of one’s mind.
Her parents. He needed to do some digging into what life had been like for her mother with her father. “When did you move out to that little studio? How old were you?”
The Carver property was fairly extensive, landscaped beautifully, so much so that it was a showpiece. The house was a long, U-shaped, single-story dwelling with many bedrooms and a wide covered verandah. There were two other houses, both of which had been built as dwellings for the male shifters who worked for them or the rescues who were training under her father. The studio was off by itself a distance from the main house.
She finished washing the dishes and wandered back to the window, avoiding his gaze. “I was seven. He needed the bedroom.”
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