Chapter Eight
“‘Colton grabbed her with sawdust-covered arms, boosting her onto the butcher block countertop he’d just finished sanding, and moved between her legs,’” Tia read aloud. “‘His heavy tool belt dragged at the waistband of his jeans, and a hammer and wrench bracketed the thick, hard cock that had taunted her all morning. Rough denim scraped her tender inner thighs.’”
She glanced at Valerian over the edge of the book. He lay under the bedcovers, propped up by a mound of pillows, his eyes closed and a slight smile curling his lips. He was breathing more comfortably now, thank the universe. When she’d arrived, carbo-loaded and ready to tear Wyland a new one, she’d found him arguing with Valerian about his oxygen. Listening to the men reminded her of two bucks clashing their antlers together, neither giving ground. She’d listened at the door for several minutes before entering the fray herself, offering Val a straight-up bribe: use the oxygen, just for a little while, and she’d read a chapter of the book they’d just started. Val accepted, and after placing the nasal cannula correctly, Wyland had left.
She hadn’t heard a peep from him since.
Leaning toward Val from the upholstered chair she’d pulled next to the bed, she watched the reassuring rise and fall of his pajama-clad chest. Was he awake? Asleep? Remembering his own erotic adventures?
How much sex could someone have over a 900-year lifespan? The mind boggled.
Out in the hall, Wyland’s bedroom door suddenly opened. The sound of his footfalls quickly faded away.
“He doesn’t know what to do about you,” Valerian murmured.
“Hmm?”
Valerian opened his eyes. “He wants you, but he’s denying himself, denying you, out of a misplaced sense of duty.”
“Duty is Wyland’s middle name.” Self-sacrifice seemed as essential to him as blood and bone. “You shouldn’t give him such a hard time about the oxygen, Val.”
“He thinks you’re too young for him. That he’d be abusing his power if he acted on his attraction for you.”
Tia’s stomach gave a silky twist. Had Wyland told him this first-hand, or was the elderly sage simply guessing? She shot down the thought as soon as it formed. The two men had shared blood for centuries; they knew each other more intimately than most bondmates. She thought back to the explosive kiss she and Wyland had shared down by the bar. She knew lust when she felt it, when she tasted it. She knew Wyland felt it, too. Speaking of which… “Wyland wasn’t happy that you shared your blood with me,” she told Valerian. “We fought.” After kissing the stuffing out of each other.
“So that’s why he’s in such a pissy mood.”
She felt a squirt of satisfaction. It was only fair that Wyland feel as annoyed and out of sorts as she did. “Apparently I’m now a risk to all vampiredom.” She explained Wyland’s concern that she, with her untrained mental boundaries, could now be used as a tool against them.
“You also have strengths and insights you didn’t have before,” Valerian said, adjusting the thin tube draped over his left ear. “Life’s a series of trade-offs, my dear. Risks and rewards, pros and cons. In the scheme of things, you drinking my blood is a net positive.”
“Wyland doesn’t think so.” And it stung.
“Your boundaries will firm up quickly, just wait and see. I’ll train you myself.” Valerian shifted against the pillows. “Speaking of training, has anyone shown you the gym and lap pool? Down in the lower level?”
Why did Valerian always change the subject just when things were getting interesting? “You have an indoor pool?”
Valerian nodded. “It’s where Wyland goes when he needs to escape his thoughts, to turn off his brain for a while. The door to the basement is down the hallway leading to Nick’s office, right across from the powder room.”
Rising from the chair, she handed Valerian the book. At some point during the last week, she’d apparently developed a serious masochistic streak, because, yeah, she was going downstairs. What she’d do once she actually found Wyland was anyone’s guess—she was still really pissed off at him—but her body was already making its wishes known. Her teeth tingled in her jaw, and each beat of her heart sent pulses of blood through her body, stroking it from the inside. “Does he know you’re such a schemer?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The twinkle in his eye contradicted his words.
“And you’re a good friend.”
“I hope you consider me one as well.”
Sudden tears stung her eyes. “You honor me.”
“Right back at ya.”
She laughed, then kissed both papery cheeks. “Sleep well, my friend.” As she left, he flicked the nasal cannula away as if its very existence offended him. He settled back into the pillows again, picked up the book, and started to read.
After exchanging a couple of words with Valerian’s care attendant out in the sitting room, she went downstairs, walking toward the hallway Valerian had mentioned like a puppet pulled by unseen strings. There was the powder room to the left, its heavy wooden door standing ajar. Directly across the hall was another heavy door—this one firmly closed.
She studied its ornate oval knob. Did she really want to push this…this…thing between them? Knowing he wanted her, but that he was denying himself?
Ah, hell. How could she not? Twisting the knob, she walked through the door and closed it firmly behind her.
The narrow stairwell was well lit, and solidly and recently constructed, but she trailed her hands along the wall anyway. Humid, chlorine-scented air wafted over her as she descended; she could almost feel her skin sipping it in. When she reached the bottom stair, she took a ninety-degree turn. The room was larger than she’d thought it would be, and beautifully tiled in all the colors of the sea. There was a wrought-iron café table with seating for two, several padded chaise lounges, a massage table over in an alcove. Across the room was a rack of free weights, several Nautilus machines, and a stair stepper with a towel draped over it—serious equipment, but the place felt more like a spa than a gym.
A refuge, a private getaway.
The door across the room probably led to a changing area, but Wyland hadn’t made use of it tonight. The tailored suit he’d been wearing earlier lay in an untidy mound on the bench set on the narrow edge of the lap pool, his hard-soled shoes and socks kicked haphazardly underneath.
She watched his body slice through the aquamarine water. Saw a flash of muscled white buttock.
Her fangs descended in a rush.
Blood humming, she sat on the bench next to his discarded clothes and watched. He was built like a channel swimmer, with long, lean muscles that cut swiftly and surely through the water. The taut globes of his ass shifted out of the water with each stroke of his arms, but his calves and feet barely broke the surface. He swam silently and efficiently, like a great white shark. She glanced down at the clothing mound. A shark who wore designer boxer briefs.
When she stopped ogling his underwear and looked back at the pool, he was standing upright in the waist-deep water, staring at her.
She stared right back. Men with his body type had always tripped her trigger, and damn it, Wyland’s particular build would fuel years of future sexual fantasies. His hair was lashed back in its usual ponytail, the wet tail clinging to his shoulder. Drops of water glistened on his lashes, but his chilly blue eyes blazed. His arms and pecs were well-developed—he clearly used the weights across the room—and his tiny, tan nipples were visible through a delicious dusting of chest hair. Water dripped down his taut abdomen, bumping over a diagonal slash of a scar before reaching the silky trail of hair peeking above the water line. His lower body was a blur; the glimmering water hid too much.
The nasty-looking scar was a surprise.
“Is Valerian okay?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s fine.”
Silence hummed. “Pass me that towel, please,” he finally said, gesturing to a neatly folded Caribbean-blue towel sitting on the other end of the bench.
Such high tea manners, even with his fangs descended. “Of course.” She picked up the towel and took several steps toward the pool. Stopping well short of the lip, she extended her arm.
He’d have to get out of the pool to reach it.
His gaze flicked to the towel, then back to her face. His thoughts were well-guarded, locked down tight, but his gaze wandered over her breasts then dropped to her hips, hidden under the clingy yoga pants she’d put on before reading to Valerian. He muttered something under his breath—brat?—but then he took a deep breath. Moving slowly, he walked toward the pool’s ladder. He met her eyes again as he grasped the silver rungs, pausing before he hauled his body out of the water with a whoosh and an impressive flex of muscle. Water sheeted off his body.
Valerian was right; Wyland wanted her. He was half hard, his cock jutting from a patch of water-darkened blond hair. Dragging her eyes away from his penis, she gave the rest of his body an admiring up-and-down, pursing her lips around a silent wolf-whistle. “Who knew the Vampire Second looked so great naked?”
His penis gave a kick as he padded toward her, leaving wet footprints in his wake. When he reached her, he didn’t reach for the towel. No, instead he stood before her, wet and dripping, his eyes turbulent, looking like a vengeful sea god forced to come onto land. “Why.”
She almost smiled. He’d asked so many impossible questions in a single, annoyed syllable. How many people ever noticed the volcano seething under his icy, placid surface? Despite the room’s heat, she shivered. All that pent-up steam, looking for a way to escape.
She didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, she slung the towel around his butt, grasped both ends, and yanked, bringing their bodies together. Opening her mouth, she showed him her fangs, her desire. Nicked her own lip, drawing a rich bead of blood.
And then she kissed him.
Tia flicked her tongue over the tip of his fang, a silky caress that nearly unmanned him. Wrapping his arms around her, he opened his mouth and let her inside. The towel dropped unheeded to the floor.
Her blood. He closed his eyes at its ecstatic zing, groaning at the lush flavor. Her mouth was hot and hungry, eating him alive, and he ran his hands over her body, anywhere he could touch, palming and kneading her luscious frame. She was soft and curved, not whittled down to muscle and sinew like so many women of this era. Her hands were as busy as his, trailing heat over his water-chilled skin.
Tia was no shy miss who’d let a glimpse of a man’s erect penis send her to a fainting couch. The ravenous way she’d looked at his body as he’d climbed out of the pool had been the final nail in the coffin of his control.
She pulled his hair out of its queue, wet strands slapping against his upper back. She speared her hands through it, tugging him closer, and he hissed as his cock pressed into her soft stomach. Her busy mouth dropped, trailing kisses along his jawline, down his neck and over his collarbones, sipping the dripping water. When she rubbed her nose and cheek against his chest hair, the gesture pierced his brain stem.
It was like she was marking herself with his scent.
She wants me as much as I want her. The thought brought both relief and torment. Valerian was right; Tia was an adult woman, fully capable of making her own decisions, and it appeared she’d decided on him—but she’d inevitably move on with her life, leaving him behind.
But he needed this moment, needed it with a wild, hot fury. Now was not the time to ask why, not when her clever hands were mapping his abdomen and slowly traveling south. He held his breath as she trailed her fingers down his body. A groan escaped when she threaded them through his pubic hair, combing with soft, diabolical tugs. He nearly whimpered when she removed her hands.
She met his gaze. “Are you sure you want this?”
A strangled laugh escaped. “How can you doubt it?” His cock, standing upright between them, was hard enough to drive spikes.
Tia acknowledged the point with a smile. “Your body does, but do you?”
He searched her eyes, her face. It suddenly hit him: consent. She was asking him to consent, to enter into this…this experience, with his brain as well as his body. To make a conscious decision, not just let his body carry him away.
What man with functioning brain cells wouldn’t choose this? He might regret it later, but damn it, he wanted. He wanted her with a violence he barely recognized, barely remembered, and though her own motivations weren’t entirely clear, her desire for him was. For some inexplicable reason, she wanted him, too. Just this once, he was going to take something for himself. “Yes.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Yes, I want this.”
I want you.
She covered his hands with hers, then stroked up his arms to his biceps. She gave them a testing squeeze, humming her approval. Suddenly, her fingernails bit in, hard enough to sting. “It took you long enough to decide.”
Waves of weakness washed over him. “You’re the one who asked me to think.” He glanced down to where his penis bobbed between them. “It took some doing. My blood’s pooled elsewhere.”
“True.” And with that, she took his cock in both hands.
He gritted his teeth and locked his knees, trying to steady himself against the barrage of forgotten sensations. Time whirled away as she stroked, cupped, and measured his need with a thoroughness he could better appreciate if it hadn’t been over a century since a woman had touched his todge. When her fingers danced over the particularly sensitive patch of skin behind his bollocks, he bit back a curse and pulled away. “Any more of that and I’ll spill where we stand.”
She flicked her tongue against the corner of his mouth. “And why is that a problem?”
A frisson shot down his spine, snarling in his pelvis. “I appreciate your confidence in my recuperative powers, but that’s not how I envisioned this.”
“You’ve envisioned this? Us?”
Endlessly. Relentlessly. In his deepest death-sleep fantasies, he’d held her. Caressed her. Covered her body with his, losing himself in her wet, clinging heat for hours on end. Instead of answering, he captured her tongue, drew it into his mouth and suckled. The tiny, self-inflicted slice had almost healed, but the maddening taste of blood lingered. He delved into her mouth, exploring its contours, gathering as much of the dark essence as he could. His hands wandered down her back, over her waist, over her hips, finally making their way to her deliciously rounded arse. He palmed the voluptuous globes, flexing his fingers against her firm, resilient flesh. She was doing the same thing to him, her small hands roving his body with an explorer’s gusto. When she scratched her nails over his buttocks, an involuntary grunt escaped. He couldn’t stop his hips from rolling against the heat between her legs, still covered by the clingy fabric of her yoga pants.
She held him there, then grabbed his hands and pressed them to her breasts.
He bit back a groan as their tender weight filled his hands, as her hard nipples pressed into his palms. He buried his face in her cleavage, absorbing her intoxicating scent. His knees weakened along with his resolve. “I need to see you.” He reached for the hem of her camisole, but she stepped back and peeled it off before he could touch it.
He’d complain about that later, because such beautiful orbs deserved a slow and theatrical unveiling. They were a sumptuous feast for the eyes—art, really—with delicate, shadowy veins just visible under her pale, pale skin, and topped by saucy pinkish-tan nipples.
She put her thumbs under the elastic waistband of the clingy black pants and drew them down. When she bent over to remove them, his heart gave an extra kick. A slim strip of shiny black fabric disappeared in the crease between her buttocks, leaving the glorious globes completely bare.
Her pale, plump arse was the Eighth Bloody Wonder of the World.
She stripped off the garment, threw it on top of his suit pants, then drew herself upright, proud as a princess.
Oh, she had reason to be proud. Her frame had the classic hourglass shape that artists had celebrated for centuries, with full breasts, a narrow waist, and soft, rounded hips, and her skin was unmarked by any corset or attempt at restraint. She wore a birth control patch on her right hip, and had no tattoos beyond the one on her inner forearm. Her pubic lips were pink and bare, with only a small tuft of auburn hair adorning her mons.
Yes, he had much to learn about women of this era. It had been so long since he’d looked at a female body with anything but professional interest that he wondered whether he remembered how to bring her pleasure.
But her humid need called to him, prodding a dormant, voracious hunger awake. He took her in his arms, brought their bodies together, closing his eyes so he could better savor the sensation of her bare skin brushing against his. Angles to curves, concave to convex, male to female, fitting together like puzzle pieces. She scattered gentle kisses across his chest, but her hands clutched his shoulders with urgency. When she swirled her tongue over his nipple, he almost jumped out of his skin. Lust and need galloped through his body, finally running free.
As she suckled, his penis reared against her stomach, each soft tug pulling an invisible anatomical string. His bollocks drew up tight, and an unmistakable pressure snarled low in his pelvis. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
Her eyes widened—had his blunt words surprised her?—but her answer was gift-wrapped in an approving, sensual smile. “Yes.”
She squeaked when he swept her up in his arms, carrying her to the padded chaise lounge. When he laid her back against the cushions, they gave with a soft whoosh.
She parted her legs, making room for him to join her. Her pink folds glistened, beckoned. She was wet—for him—and unashamed of her desire.
She held out her arms. “Fuck me, Wyland.”
The word he usually found coarse and vile took on an entirely different meaning when uttered with such breathy, feminine demand. He couldn’t refuse her.
Couldn’t refuse this.
He slowly lowered himself between her spread legs, groaning aloud when she wrapped them around his waist. She was so wet, so hot. So ready for him.
When she kissed his neck, scratching the tip of her fangs against a frantically pulsing vein, he pulled his head back. He couldn’t allow her to drink from him, no matter how much his body throbbed for it. Instead, he locked his gaze on hers, and entered her—simply, directly, and inevitably.
He groaned as he pushed into her slick, lush heat. Her intimate muscles clutched and clung, stroking his violently aroused flesh. When he bottomed out in her body, he gritted his teeth against the urge to spill.
He’d bring her pleasure if it killed him.
Given the way his heart thundered in his chest, it very well might.
All too soon, her vaginal muscles gathered themselves, poised for the rhythmic clench of orgasm. She writhed, tossing her head back. “More. Faster. Now.” Her heels and nails dug in, spurring him on. “Wyland. Now.”
He plunged, riding them both into oblivion.