Tempted by Midnight 12.5

by Lara Adrian

  deny—as how it felt being with Lazaro.

  She wrapped her hand around his

  nape and pulled him down in a deep,

  scorching kiss. With her other hand, she

  sought out his cock and grasped it firmly,

  pumping his length in sure, steady

  strokes. She didn’t let go of his mouth or

  his penis for a good long moment. When

  she did, she gave him a smile against his

  parted lips and the fangs that now filled

  his mouth even more than before. “See?”

  she told him. “I’m not going to break.”

  He uttered a low, vicious curse that

  sounded to be half relief and half

  anguish.

  Then he positioned himself at her

  body’s entrance and drove home, deep

  and slow and long, all the way to the

  hilt.

  He filled her so completely she

  could hardly summon her breath. Then

  he started to pivot in and out, rolling his

  hips in controlled, tantalizing swivels

  that dragged a curse out of her too.

  Sweet pressure spiraled within her core

  as he pushed her toward another climax.

  He didn’t go gently, instead driving into

  her so far and fully, it was all she could

  do to hold on to him and let her body

  shatter in his arms.

  Lazaro watched her as she came,

  his eyes locked on hers. She couldn’t

  look away. The power of the connection

  was too intense. He felt it too—he had to

  have felt it.

  As his own release built, then

  broke on a coarse shout, he kept his gaze

  fastened on hers too. It was so intense, so startlingly real, this thing coming to

  life between them.

  If anything had the power to terrify

  her, it was this.

  The feeling that she had already

  given herself to this man. A man who

  had pretended he barely remembered her

  when he first saw her on Turati’s yacht.

  A man who warned her not to get

  close to him, all but threatened that he

  would only hurt her.

  And here she was, giving him her

  body.

  Staring into his eyes as she

  surrendered the most intimate part of

  herself to him, and imagining that she

  could so easily let herself fall. That

  maybe she already had. Maybe the men

  in her past had been right. They would

  never have been good enough for her.

  Because all along, what she wanted

  them to be was someone like Lazaro

  Archer. Brave. Loyal. And yes, heroic,

  even if he refused to accept that truth.

  She didn’t need him to be perfect,

  because even through the haze of

  affection and searing desire, she knew

  he would never be perfect. He didn’t

  need to be. Not for her to want him like

  she did. Not for her to feel so right, so

  safe and contented in his arms.

  Oh, God...could she be falling so

  fast?

  Did she dare?

  Melena finally broke his gaze then,

  turning her head away from him to the

  side, bewildered by her epiphany.

  Her heart was pounding hard,

  making her carotid tick palpably in the

  side of her neck.

  She didn’t have to look back to him

  to know that Lazaro’s amber eyes had

  drifted to that fluttering vein. She felt the

  heat of his stare. Then she heard a

  dangerously low growl curl up from the

  back of his throat.

  She went very still, terrified he

  might bite her.

  Terrified he wouldn’t.

  “Lazaro?” she whispered, uncertain

  what she was about to ask him to do.

  She slowly pivoted her head back

  to look at him and saw torment in his

  handsome, otherworldly face. And fury.

  He drew back from her on a hiss.

  His expression was wild looking,

  intense...and his smoldering aura told

  her he was balanced on the razor’s edge

  of a rigidly held, but tenuous, control.

  * * * *

  What the fuck was he doing?

  Lazaro came to his senses as if

  physically struck. He was still buried

  inside Melena’s hot, wet heat, his pulse

  still charged and racing. His cock was

  still hard, still greedy, even after the

  climax that had ripped through him with

  brutal ferocity.

  And he’d been reckless enough to

  let his fevered gaze drift to the vein that

  throbbed so enticingly in the side of her

  vulnerable throat.

  Christ.

  He’d

  nearly

  lost

  control—

  something he never allowed to happen.

  Not once in twenty years had he even

  been tempted. His guard was always up,

  his will impenetrable.

  Even then, he’d made a habit of

  avoiding women like Melena, females

  with the Breedmate mark. To drink from

  one of her kind would tie him to her

  singularly,

  irrevocably.

  He

  would

  always crave her. He would always feel

  her in his blood, in the root of his

  soul...unless death severed the bond, as

  it did when he lost Ellie.

  Why the thought didn’t freeze his

  thirst or shrivel his desire for Melena,

  he didn’t want to know. And he sure as

  hell wasn’t going to sit there pondering

  that fact as she gaped at him in mute

  terror.

  “Damn it.” He pulled out of her on

  a roar. As difficult as it was to deny

  himself the feel of her silken grip on his

  shaft—as much as he wanted to have her

  now, still, again and again—he needed

  the separation more.

  What he needed was to put as much

  distance as possible between her soft,

  inviting body and the blood hunger that

  was suddenly twisting him in vicious

  knots.

  He got off the bed to collect his

  clothes.

  “What are you doing?” Melena

  asked from behind him. When he began

  to dress, he heard her slide across the

  sheets. “Talk to me, please.”

  He couldn’t form words, let alone

  push them out of his mouth. He still

  wanted her too much, and he feared that

  if he let himself cave to that need now,

  he might not be able to reign it back in.

  He zipped up his pants, ignoring the

  persistent bulge of his uncooperative

  arousal. His hands moved hastily,

  aggressively, as he donned his shirt, then

  bent to retrieve his boots.

  He had plenty of human females he

  could call upon to slake his needs. A

  pity he didn’t think to do that before he

  made the mistake of putting himself

  alone in the company of a Breedmate as

  tempting as Melena.

  And

  what

  a

  feeble

  fucking

/>   rationalization that was.

  Nothing would satisfy him more

  than to dismiss his near-mistake as

  something that might have occurred with

  any female sporting the teardrop-and-

  crescent-moon birthmark. Far more

  troubling to realize that it was this

  woman who tempted him like no other.

  Melena Walsh would continue to

  tempt him for as long as she remained in

  his care, under his dubious protection.

  He didn’t know how a woman

  who’d

  come

  into

  his

  life

  so

  unexpectedly—not

  to

  mention

  temporarily—was making him hungry

  for things that would come with a very

  permanent price.

  “You’re just going to walk away

  then?” She stood beside the bed,

  watching him prepare to make his

  escape. For a long moment, she said

  nothing more, her silence ripe with hurt

  and confusion, almost too much for him

  to bear. “You’re not even going to

  acknowledge what almost happened just

  now?”

  That he was only an instant away

  from taking her vein between his teeth?

  Or that every particle of his being was

  so ravenous for a taste of her Breedmate

  blood, there was a chance he might still

  act on the powerful impulse?

  The memory of her blood scent

  hadn’t left him since he’d first caught a trace of it back in the cave. He knew

  what she would taste like: caramel and

  dark, ripe cherries. On top of the other

  decadent sweetness that still lingered on

  his tongue from his carnal exploration of

  her body.

  Lazaro cursed roundly, a nasty

  profanity spoken in a language only the

  eldest of the Breed like him would

  comprehend.

  “No, Melena, I’m not going to

  acknowledge it.” He caught her gaze,

  knowing how cold his own must look

  through her eyes. Yet even as he

  glowered, furious with his own lack of

  control, his traitorous body had lost none

  of its interest in her. “And yes, I am

  going to walk away, and what happened

  here will not happen again.”

  She stared at him. “I think we both

  know better than that. You still want me,

  Lazaro. I don’t need to read your aura to

  see that.”

  “This was a mistake,” he snarled

  through teeth and fangs. “I damned well

  won’t complicate it any more by letting

  it become something both of us will

  regret forever.”

  He turned and walked out the door.

  Before his shaky resolve could

  break completely.

  CHAPTER 8

  True to his word, he didn’t return.

  She had showered and dressed,

  even eaten a fresh meal that Jehan had

  brought up to her sometime after Lazaro

  had gone. That was hours ago, according

  to the old grandfather clock in the

  hallway. It was well into the evening

  before she’d finally given up waiting,

  wondering...God, pitifully hoping, that

  he would come back and at least talk to

  her after the incredible passion they’d

  shared.

  Her psychic gift prevented her from

  sulking over doubts about Lazaro’s

  intentions. It wasn’t that he didn’t want

  her tonight. He’d left because he wanted

  her too much.

  But that didn’t change the fact that

  he was quite obviously avoiding her.

  She’d since begun pacing the

  residential suites in the clothing he

  bought for her, feeling like a prisoner in

  a beautiful, unlocked cage. Although she

  had the entire fourth floor to explore,

  decency kept her from snooping too

  avidly through Lazaro’s home. Not that

  she’d find anything very personal in his

  quarters, she’d realized fairly quickly.

  Each room was consummately

  appointed with elegant furnishings and a

  variety of fine things. Sophisticated

  pieces, tasteful antiques, a wealth of

  heirloom Oriental rugs—the kind of

  things she might expect someone who’d

  lived as long as him would appreciate.

  But there was nothing personal in

  Lazaro’s home. Nothing modern.

  There were no photographs on the

  bureaus or sofa tables or walls. No

  mementoes scattered about in any of the

  meticulously kept rooms. There was

  nothing to remind him of the past

  century, let alone the past twenty years.

  He lived here in a carefully

  curated, elegant isolation.

  Her conversation with Jehan and

  Savage came back to her now. The fact

  that Lazaro had never fully gotten over

  the deaths of his mate and family. That

  he blamed himself for not being able to

  save them. And so he’d joined the Order

  and exiled himself to this place.

  If he hadn’t found room in his heart

  for anything or anyone in the past two

  decades, how could she hope he might

  let her in after just a couple of days?

  She had half a mind to confront him

  about the way he was living his life.

  Maybe it wasn’t her place to call him on

  it. Maybe she’d be better off leaving

  well enough alone and simply wait to

  return home to the States, where she had

  her own life to manage.

  A life that no longer included her

  father, she thought, swamped with a

  fresh wave of grief to think that Lazaro’s

  entry into her life came at the loss of

  someone else she loved. But even before

  losing her father last night, even before

  the loss of her dear mother years before,

  Melena realized that her life was

  missing something vital.

  She had a life that, if she were truly

  being honest with herself, wasn’t so

  much different from the cage Lazaro had

  built around himself here in Rome.

  She had a nice apartment of her

  own at her father’s Darkhaven in

  Baltimore. She had friends. She had

  lovers when she wanted them. She had

  colleagues at her father’s office and in

  the GNC. She had her Breed brother,

  Derek. She had a full life and plenty of

  companionship whenever she needed it.

  And yet, deep down, she was so

  lonely.

  She saw that same emptiness in

  Lazaro. Maybe he saw it in her too.

  Maybe that’s why when their gazes had

  locked in the midst of their release

  tonight, the connection had felt so real.

  So nakedly, startlingly real.

  How could he expect her to ignore

  that as if it hadn’t happened?

  She couldn’t.

  And she wouldn’t, not without a

  fight.

  Whatever was building so swiftly


  —powerfully—between them had a

  chance of growing into something

  extraordinary. She felt that with a

  certainty in her bones, in her blood. And

  she knew she wasn’t alone in that

  feeling.

  So, like it or not, Lazaro Archer

  was simply going to have to talk to her.

  He might be accustomed to blustering

  and bossing his way around everyone

  else in his life, but she wouldn’t stand

  for it.

  Steeling herself for a battle she

  wasn’t sure she could win, Melena left

  the suite on the fourth floor and headed

  downstairs to the mansion’s main level.

  It was quiet down there, so she

  continued on, toward the connected

  command center of the estate.

  She didn’t get far.

  From out of nowhere, a massive

  wall of muscle materialized to block her

  path.

  It wasn’t Lazaro. Not Savage or

  Jehan either.

  She looked up and found herself

  gaping into the cold, hard face of the one

  warrior she hadn’t yet met. His shaved

  head and jagged scar made him look

  even more lethal than the dark stare he

  held her in now.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t seem

  inclined to make even the remotest effort

  to put her at ease.

  Melena lifted her chin in defiance.

  “I’m looking for Lazaro.”

  “He’s not here.” God, that voice

  was coarse gravel. “And you shouldn’t

  be down here either, female.”

  As he spoke, Savage and Jehan

  came out of a nearby chamber in the

  corridor. Sav hissed. “Trygg, for fuck’s

  sake. Go easy on her. Save the venom

  for tonight’s patrol.”

  When the scarred vampire didn’t so

  much as twitch in acknowledgment,

  Jehan stepped forward, placing himself

  between Melena and the warrior who

  bristled with a feral darkness.

  Jehan squared off against his

  comrade, gently guiding Melena behind

  him. “I’m only going to say it once.

  Back. The. Fuck. Down.”

  The one called Trygg had an aura

  that verged on feral. The menacing haze

  sent a shiver up Melena’s spine. She

  saw pain there too, buried deep, but it

  was a dangerous pain, as sharp as

  razorblades.

  For a long moment, Trygg didn’t

  move. Neither did Jehan. It wasn’t clear

  which warrior would be the first to spill

  the other’s blood, but there was no

  mistaking that cool, calm, and cultured

  Jehan was every bit as lethal as his

  barely leashed brother-in-arms.

  Perhaps more so. Jehan’s aura