Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  She pulled back with a shocked gasp, and felt wetness flood her sex.

  He was panting, his pupils expanded into tall, vertical slits that threatened to swallow all the golden glow. “I always was an animal dressed up like a man,” he said, ruefully. “This makes sense, I guess.”

  “I like it.”

  He groaned again, his purr swelling into a growl in the air between them, and he dragged her back for another kiss. Wet and messy, fangs scraping hard across her lip. When she circled her hips again, he lifted up to meet her, the ridge of his hard cock grinding along the center seam of her tac pants. Then it was her turn to groan, breaths harsh and quick against his lips.

  “Rose. Rosie.” He raked his claws back through her hair, and down her throat, petting at her almost frantically. His chest and his belly heaved as he fought for breath. He was straining against her, wings rustling. Something coiled around her ankle – his tail, she realized, pulsing in time to his ragged breaths. “Please don’t tease me, sweetheart. Not if–”

  She kissed him hard. “Not teasing.” And started fumbling at the zipper of her jacket with clumsy fingers.

  He helped her push it off her shoulders – nothing mask-like about his face, now, its lines taut with anticipation and want, his eyes blazing, his mouth soft and wet and gleaming from kissing. The sight of it had her stomach tightening almost painfully – and that was before he took the hem of her shirt in both hands – claws scraping teasingly against her skin – and pushed it up.

  When she’d pulled it off over her head, and dropped it behind her on the dirty floor, uncaring, she glanced down to find Beck staring at her chest. At the two pendants hanging there from the chain around her neck: the rose and the crown.

  He reached out slowly, his hand trembling at the last, and pressed one clawed finger to the pendants, one and then the other. “You kept them,” he breathed.

  “I wanted to keep more, but there was too much…so I took what was most important.” She covered his hand with hers, pressed it more firmly to her chest. “These are the most valuable things I’ve ever owned.”

  “No, the dagger–”

  “The dagger was a useful tool. And an even more useful offering to help me bring you back. But it wasn’t valuable. It wasn’t a token of love, like these.”

  He stared another moment – and then lifted his hand away, drawing hers with it. She saw his long lashes flutter down on his cheeks as he closed his eyes and tipped forward to rest his forehead at the base of her throat. He nosed faintly at the pendants, his breath rushing warm down her breastbone, tightening her nipples inside her bra.

  She touched his shoulders, his neck – and then, drawn by its silky softness against the backs of her hands, his hair. It was a different color, but it felt the same sliding through her fingers, heavy and slippery and addictive.

  He opened his mouth against her sternum, tasted her skin with his tongue. Shifted downward, his hands tightening on her waist until she felt the prick of his claws.

  She pressed her fingertips to his scalp, cupped the back of his skull in both hands.

  He dropped a row of heated kisses across the top of her breast – and then hooked his claws in her sports bra, and ripped it down the front.

  “Beck.” It came out more plea than reprimand, and she could read the satisfaction in the low growl he rumbled against her skin.

  He tongued at her nipple, and then drew it into his mouth. Careful, claw-tipped hands cupped her breasts, squeezing and shaping.

  Rose clutched at his hair and surged forward against his mouth, silently asking for more.

  Every inch of her he touched – with mouth, fingers, claws – burned. By the time he’d bent her back over his arm, and his lips were trailing down the center of her stomach, she was grinding shameless in his lap, rubbing herself against the proud, hard line of his erection. He was purring constantly, now, hips twitching.

  “Beck.”

  “I know, I know, baby.”

  She stood at his urging, wobbly and unsteady, her vision swimming she was so turned on. He tore at the fastenings of her pants, shoved them down her hips. They both fumbled at her bootlaces, but finally, blessedly, she was naked, and he was hauling her back into his lap with one hand, while the other went to his own fly.

  She helped, their fingers catching; one of his claws left a scratch on the back of her hand.

  “Oh, sweetheart.”

  “It’s fine.” She got the zipper down and reached in to curl her hand around his cock; her palm remembered its particular hot, hard heft. “It’s fine, just–”

  “Rose, I–” He touched the inside of her thigh, and then hesitated, and she realized when she felt the prick of his claws again, digging into the soft flesh there. He had his teeth bared, his gaze wild, caught between doubt and wanting.

  She shuffled forward, lined them up, and sank down onto his cock in one slow press, no prep, both of them hissing at the stretch.

  She held still a moment, adjusting, and tipped forward until their foreheads rested together. She could just see the unfocused gold of his eyes, could read the adoration and wonder in them.

  “You’re a marvel,” he breathed out, reverently, “just as ever.”

  The praise moved through her like a shockwave. When she could, she started to move – slowly. Lifting up and settling again, just gentle rocking motions of her hips that shifted his cock where it was buried deep inside her.

  “Yes,” he breathed, hands shifting up her waist, her ribs; covering her breasts and plucking at her nipples, the light scrape of his claws sending darts of pleasure along her nerves. “Take what you want. What a good girl.”

  “Beck.” Her hips hitched, and she lifted a little higher, and settled down a little harder. “God.”

  “Not him, I’m afraid. Never now.” His hand settled loosely at the base of her throat, a faint pressure rather than a squeeze. She felt his tail wrapped around her calf, mimicking the movement, but firmer, squeezing the way she squeezed around his cock on every thrust.

  It struck her, through her mounting haze, that he was more in-control than she’d ever seen him like that. Even at his most careful – the night she’d first kissed him, the night of their first kill together, in the house, when he’d towed her into the bathroom with him – there’d been a shakiness to him. He’d held onto his self-control with teeth and claws – figurative, back then – and she’d felt the tremors in him, the harshness of his breath. Known that he was only seconds, one bold touch, away from snapping and mounting her like an animal.

  But for all his animal adaptations, now, he only looked pleasured, and smug, and not teetering on the brink of anything.

  With a fresh flush of heat through her insides, she decided she needed to change that.

  He still wore the horrible, cobbled-together shirt the Welsh monks had given him, one of the buttons already slipped-loose at the top from their flight through the city. She tipped forward – far enough to change the angle and leave her panting, and him hissing and grinning – so she could unfasten the rest.

  His chest and stomach were the same lean, statue-carved works of art they’d always been, but so much hotter beneath her hands as she stroked him, breastbone to navel, long, sweeping drags of her palms and fingers. The air that swirled down from his bellybutton and furred the base of his cock was black, now, too, and she watched his abs flex as she raked her nails through it, until she could touch the base of his cock, and herself, a little, too, slippery wet now, all of it.

  He pressed his head back, tendons stark in his neck, and that was a better reaction. She braced her hands on his chest, and picked up her pace, clenching around him on every upstroke, arching her back and making a show of it.

  That earned her a growl, a flash of eyes and teeth. He sat up, suddenly, arms closing tight around her, one hand spread against her ass, and he fused their mouths together and urged her faster.

  This.

  His other hand gripped her braid and tugged it; then cup
ped her nape and held her fast to him, as his tongue fucked her mouth, and the pressure of his other hand pressed her down onto his cock again, and again, and again.

  This was what she’d wanted, needed, missed.

  He stood. The world tilted. She clutched at his shoulders, legs locking tight around his waist on instinct. Then her back was against a cool, hard section of wall, and Beck was fucking her relentlessly, hammering into her hard.

  His mouth broke from hers and he trailed wet, uncoordinated kisses down her jaw and throat, and fastened his mouth there. She gasped, and clung to him, and her eyes slitted open – to see that they were against the wall, yes, but about five feet off the ground. He was hovering, his wings thrusting as viciously as his hips, his whole body one tangle of flexing muscles.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured, because they were the only words she could find, overwhelmed, overheated, her climax coming on like a freight train.

  He sank his fangs into her throat, two bright sharp points of pain, and that tipped her over. She gripped tight to one of his horns, closed her eyes, and let the pleasure drown her.

  It was devastating in all the best ways. Her head thunked back against the wall because she couldn’t hold it up any longer, all of her weak, and shaking, and awash in glorious sensation. She was aware of his ragged breath on her throat, the sweep of his tongue – lapping at her blood – and the final sharp thrusts that finally left him coming with a ragged growl, cock kicking inside her, head flooding her insides.

  He held them there a long moment, catching his breath, and then, still inside her, he let them drift slowly down to the floor, until his feet touched, and his wings stopped beating; swept forward to close them in together, instead, blotting out all light save the vivid, golden glow of his eyes.

  ~*~

  By the time the call finally came from Rose, even Bedlam was in an uproar about the disappearance.

  “She’s with Beck,” Gallo tried to reason. “He won’t let anything happen to her.”

  But, if he was honest with himself, and his team, Beck was the thing that worried Lance the most.

  But, just as Bedlam was screaming about a rescue mission, Rose radioed in. Left them coordinates – and an address to meet. A place to rendezvous.

  Lance hadn’t seen Anthony Castor’s mansion since he’d last served in it as an employee. It was no less unsettling now, even gutted and crumbling, its windows dark save the glow of moonlight reflecting off the glass. Fleeting moonlight, at that; more clouds threatened on the horizon, a dark, fluffed-up bank of them ready to cover the night.

  “Why here? This place is a dump,” Gavin said.

  Lance pushed the gate with his fingertips, and it swung inward with an ugly squeal of unoiled hinges. “It didn’t use to be. And it’s the place where he went to hell.”

  Some things thrived, even in this bleak landscape; weeds would always find a way, he supposed, as they waded through them up the front walk, and climbed the lichen-crusted, palatial stairs that led up to the grand front doors. They were locked – but, worse, swollen shut from moisture coupled with disuse. Lance shot off the lock, and Tris kicked them open.

  The great hall stretched before them, just beyond the entryway: black and white checked tiles, as he remembered, still grand, despite a scattering of leaves, and mold, and even a few pigeons who winged up through the holes in the ceiling. A fine mist had started to fall, covering what furniture remained in a crystal glaze. The sconces on the wall were gas – always had been, because Castor had spared no expense when it came to making sure his electrical comforts had backups – and usually those had backups, too. A flickering glow warmed the walls, danced across the floor. Illuminated the ridiculous throne upon which Castor had once sat – and upon the man, the creature, who occupied it now.

  The torchlight illuminated the stained-glass portrait of St. Michael behind the throne, his wings and sword and his putting-down of the devil. A devil whose dark, leathery wings matched those of Arthur Becket, slumped down with spread legs, chin propped negligently on his fist, more a king than Castor had ever hoped to be. His hair was wild, and his shirt rumpled. Rose sat on his thigh, fully dressed, her hair braided – but there was something languid about her eyes and mouth, and Beck smirked as they approached, a small but malicious twitch of his mouth that flashed a single fang.

  You idiot, Lance scolded himself. He’d been an idiot to ever agree to the scheme of resurrecting him.

  “Hello,” Beck purred. “Good of you to join us.”

  “Hope we’re not interrupting,” Lance said, unable to keep a frown off his face.

  Beck’s smirk became a smile, and his tail – draped over the arm of the throne – flexed like a cat’s, its spade tip catching the light. “No, not at all.” He lifted his chin long enough to flick his fingers, beckoning them. His other hand remained at Rose’s back. “But I thought: if we are to work together as a team, we should have a headquarters.”

  Lance frowned.

  Tris said, his voice gruff, “We have a base. We have several bases.”

  Beck’s gaze slid to him, golden and impossible. “It’s Tristan, isn’t it? Yes,” he said, before Tris could answer. “You do have bases. Military bases. But I’m not in the military.”

  Lance took a breath and tried to tamp down his hot surge of anger. God, he hated this asshole: all smug and superior, like he was smarter and better than everyone else…and that wasn’t counting the fact that he looked like a demon from a storybook. “If you’re working with us, then you’ll have to obey the military, like it or not.”

  Beck tilted his head, the movement not quite human, his gaze one that sought to understand – and which sent a hard shudder down Lance’s spine. Rose had always been a little out of reach, enigmatic and stoic and an island unto herself – it pained him to see how she slotted together with Beck, to know that this was the man who’d helped to shape the mystery of her, when Lance loathed him in all the ways that mattered.

  “Am I working with you?” he asked, innocently. “Or are you working with me?”

  Gallo took a sharp breath and muttered, “Shit.”

  Beck grinned, and looked at him, in turn. “Quite. You’re Francis, aren’t you?”

  Tris shifted his weight, his rough palms sliding audibly on his rifle.

  “Frankie,” Gallo said. “Or Gallo.”

  “And only Francis to your lover,” Beck said. “Understandable.”

  Tris took a breath.

  Lance said, “It won’t be safe to stay here overnight. The helo that dropped us took off, but I can call another. Or armored transports.”

  Beck waved dismissively. “We’ll be perfectly safe here. Don’t worry.”

  “You saw the city,” Lance pressed. “It’s a fucking disaster.”

  “Yes. And you want me to fix that, don’t you?” A hint of steel in his voice, now, a threat in the hard curve of his lips. “That’s why you went along with Rose’s plan. You don’t care about me. Only what I can offer you.” At this his wings spread, deep black, blotting out the stained-glass mural behind him, overlaying St. Michael’s wings with his own.

  Lance fought the urge to grind his teeth. “This city is the most infected in the country. If we hope to turn the tide of war, we can’t save the worst sore spots for last.”

  “I agree,” Beck said, easily. “It’s better to lance the ugliest wounds first.”

  “Then, if you’re going to help us–”

  “This is shaping up to be a threat, Sergeant.”

  “Guys.” Rose slid off his lap and to her feet, her expression hardening – all save her eyes, and those Lance had never seen so full of conflict, as she glanced between them, a silent plea. “Let’s not do this. Beck, you agreed to help – that means helping under our conditions.” When she turned to regard her former – probably current, again, given the state of Beck’s shirt buttons – lover, Lance couldn’t see her face any longer, but he could see Beck’s. He looked nearly amused, eyes glittering like backlit g
ems.

  “Alright,” he said, softly, after a moment, and reached to press her hands – quick but gentle, intimate – between both of his. He stood with the grace and poise of a king. “You’re right, sweetheart.”

  Then he looked to Lance, and a challenge shone clear in his expression, one Lance felt was mocking. Baiting. “Lead on, then, Sergeant du Lac. I put myself in your capable hands.”

  TEN

  Before

  Lance stared up at the ceiling and fought to catch his breath. Rose lowered herself to the mattress beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, and even though he was overheated and tingling all over, he lifted his arm so she could settle more closely, and so he could hold her, his hand tucked into the tight, inward flare of her waist. She liked to cuddle, afterward, he’d learned; one of those small, endearing, wholly unexpected details he’d come to know in the last few months.

  Just like he now knew the particular way she sighed when she’d pushed herself too hard, and exhaustion was dragging at her – and the way she sighed when he touched her just right. Knew when she shivered from cold, from fear, from pleasure. He knew the way she murmured in her sleep, the way nightmares pressed a groove between her brows. He knew the scrape of her nails, and the press of her heel, and the clench of her body around him, when he was buried deep.

  He knew her now.

  But there were so many moments when he was struck with the cold assuredness that he didn’t know her at all.

  Now felt like a knowing time, though.

  “So,” he huffed. “Like I was saying.”

  She chuckled. “If you can remember, then I didn’t do my job right.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t remember shit. Just stalling.”

  She breathed warm and amused across his chest, raising goosebumps there.

  He really had meant to keep things professional this evening. He had a stack of reports, and he’d picked up two cups of gross, instant coffee, and he’d invited her in thinking about the tasks that lay ahead, rather than other distractions.

  But she’d sat down on the end of his bed, crossed her legs, leaned back on her hands, and sent him this look. He was only human, after all.