The Beast

“Good evening,” she said as she struck a pose. “I wore red, just as you asked.”

Say what you would about her lack of a pedigree and her gold digger mating, she was a beautiful female, all long black hair with a Marilyn Monroe bust-to-waist-to-hip ratio. Wearing that low-cut dress, and with her size sixes in a set of Loubou’s, she was every cock-and-ball’s wet dream.

And yet even dolled up and turned out, she didn’t hold a candle to his Marisol—in the same way a hothouse flower wasn’t nearly as attractive as something that grew, untamed and unexpected, in the wild.

Still, the scent of her went through him in a manner not all that different from the cocaine he’d taken before he’d come here, and his body woke up even as his emotions and soul remained dead and cold. The awful reality was that his flesh needed the blood of a female vampire—and that biological imperative was going to take precedence right here and now over everything else.

Even if under other circumstances he would have given her a pass.

“Do you like?” she said, holding up her arms and doing a slow circle.

As he was supposed to, he smiled, revealing his descended fangs. “It’s going to look even better off of you.”

“Come here,” he commanded.

Naasha sauntered toward him, but didn’t come all the way, stopping by a buttercup yellow, antique French sofa that had more pillows than seat space.

“You come to me.”

Assail shook his head. “No.”

The pout was quick, her thick lips pursing out, gleaming with a color that matched the dress. “You traveled all the way across town for me. Surely you can make it another six feet.”

“I shall not cross this room.”

As he assumed a bored look, which was not forced in the slightest, her arousal flared. “You are so disrespectful. I should throw you out.”

“If you think this is disrespect, you have seen naught from me. And I am more than happy to leave.”

“I have taken a lover, you know.”

“Have you.” He inclined his head. “Congratulations.”

“So I am quite well-serviced. In spite of my beloved’s infirmity.”

“Well, then, I shall take my leave of you—”

“No.” She raced around the sofa, moving in until she was so close he could see the pores on her smooth face. “Don’t go.”

He made a show of looking at her features. Then he reached out and touched her hair.

“Get on your knees.” Before she could say anything, he pointed to his feet. “On your knees. Now.”

“I’ve forgotten how demanding you are—”

“Don’t waste my time.”

As another rush of her arousal hit his nose, he knew she was going to kneel on the Aubusson carpet—and when she reached out to steady herself on his chest, he pushed her hand away so that she was forced to wobble her way down to the floor.

“That’s a good girl.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and bent her head back. “Open your mouth.”

With parted lips, she began to pant, the scent of her sex becoming a roar in his sinuses, her face flushing with heat, her breasts pumping over the bodice of her dress. With his free hand, he undid the zipper of his fine twill slacks and popped his erection.

Palming himself, he growled, “Do you want to tell me more about your lover?”

Her low-lidded eyes flared with erotic light. “He’s such a strong—”

Assail pushed himself in between her lips, stopping her from going any further. And then, using his grip on her hair, he fucked her mouth as she moaned, her hands going to her breasts and squeezing, her knees spreading wide as if, in her mind, he was working himself in and out of her core instead. Or maybe in addition to.

As he manhandled her, it wasn’t that he hated her. He didn’t even dislike her—she’d have had to be on his radar for him to have any kind of opinion of her one way or another.

What he did hate was that she was not the one he wanted.

And the more he thought about that reality, the forever distance, the loss?

Popping himself free of Naasha’s mouth, he led her over to the sofa on her knees, using her hair as a leash. And she loved it. She followed him more than willingly, panting, flushed, ready to be fucked. Which was convenient, wasn’t it.

Especially as he bent her over that beautiful French couch, shoved that tight skirting up, and drove into her from behind.

She came immediately, shuddering and bucking under him. And as he yanked her head back once more, she called out his name.

“Shh,” he gritted. “Wouldn’t want your beloved to hear. Or your boyfriend.”

She moaned a bunch of senseless things, so lost in the fucking that her brain had obviously taken a vacation. And in an odd way, he envied her the erotic experience. For him, this was nothing but an expression of base needs, a physical workout with pleasure and blood as an anonymous award.

It held none of the knife-edge pleasure she was so clearly enthralled by. But at least he could use this weakness of hers—to Wrath’s benefit.

Baring his fangs, Assail struck the side of her throat, biting hard as he rode her, sucking at her, taking his fill. The taste of her was . . . fine. The feel of her sex gripping and releasing his cock was . . . fine. The strength that she would give him was utterly necessary.

Across the way, in the wavy glass of an antique mirror, he caught sight of him fucking her.