The Beast

Rhage brushed her lower lip with his thumb. “I love the way you kiss me.”

“What did you fight about?”

“And I love your body.” His hands went down to her shoulders and moved to rest on her collarbones. “You’re so beautiful, Mary.”

“Look, I appreciate the compliments, but I need to know what’s going on,” she said, putting her palms over his. “You’re clearly upset about something.”

“Will you let me kiss you?”

As he stared at her, he seemed desperate in a way she didn’t understand. And it was because of the pain that she sensed in him that Mary leaned in.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Always.”

Rhage tilted his head to the side, and contrary to his usual passion, his lips were soft against her own, brushing, lingering. As her pulse quickened, she almost wished it didn’t—she didn’t want to be distracted with sex . . . except as he continued to stroke against her mouth, all the chaos in her brain rerouted to an electric feeling of anticipation, his flaring scent, his beautiful body, his male power crowding out everything that worried her.

“My Mary,” he groaned as he licked his way into her. “Every time with you . . . it’s new. It’s never the same and always better than the last kiss . . . the last touch.”

His hands drifted downward so that she felt the weight of them over her breasts. And then with a slow draw, he peeled the jacket away, sweeping it off her arms, making her feel her silk shirt and her lacy bra and all her skin beneath her clothes with aching clarity.

Except some part of her spoke up. Her conscience, maybe? Because she sure as hell felt as though she had let him down by being gone when he needed her.

“Why were the windows open?” she asked again.

But it was as if he didn’t even hear her.

“I love . . .” His voice caught and he had to clear his throat. “I love your body, Mary.”

As if she weighed nothing, he lifted her off the hard marble floor and moved her to the side, laying her on the plush fur rug that was in front of the Jacuzzi. Easing back against the softness, she watched his eyes travel down her throat to her breasts . . . and go lower to her hips and legs.

“My Mary.”

“Why do you sound so sad?” she said quietly.

When he didn’t answer her, she had a moment of true fear. But then he began to slip the buttons free on her blouse, taking his time, keeping the two halves together even as he tugged the tails out of her slacks. Sitting back, he took the silk between his fingertips and revealed her body to the heat in his gaze and the warmth of the bath’s interior.

He shifted himself over and knelt across her thighs. “I love your breasts.”

Leaning down, he kissed her at her sternum. On the edge of her bra. On the top of her nipple. A sudden release of the subtle pressure of the cups told her that he’d freed the front clasp—and then the air currents brushed against her bare skin as he moved the fragile barrier off to the sides.

He spent . . . forever . . . caressing her breasts, stroking them, thumbing the tight tips. Until she thought she was going mad. And then he was sucking at her, first one side, then the other. She couldn’t remember when he’d last taken his time with her—not that he was ever inconsiderate. Her hellren ran on a different Rhage-length, however, which was to say he was all-in, all the time.

Not tonight, apparently.

He kissed his way down onto her abdomen and released her thin belt, the fastener, and the zipper on her slacks. As she lifted her hips, he pulled her pants off and made them disappear, leaving her cream silk underwear behind.

Back at her belly, he splayed his hands wide, until his palms covered her pelvis.

He stayed like that, stroking his thumbs back and forth over her lower abdominals.

“Rhage?” she said in a voice that was choked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

TWENTY-ONE

As Rhage knelt above his Mary, he was distinctly aware that she was saying his name, but he was too lost in the clamor between his ears to respond.

Looking down at his shellan’s belly, he imagined her growing big like Layla had, her body harboring their young until their son or daughter could breathe on its own. In the fantasy, both his baby and Mary were perfectly healthy before, during and after the birth: she glowed her way through the eighteen months—or was it nine months, for human women?—and the labor was short and painless, and when it was all through, he was able to gather her and their creation in his arms and love them for the rest of his life.

Maybe their little boy would have blue eyes and blond hair, but his mahmen’s incredible character and intelligence. Or perhaps their little girl would have Mary’s brunette hair and his teal eyes and be a firecracker.

Whatever the combination of looks and spirit, he pictured the three of them sitting down together for First Meal and Last Meal and all the snacks in between. And he imagined he could take the young to give Mary a break, just like Z and Wrath did for their shellans, bottle-feeding breast milk to the infant. Or, later, giving little pieces from his plate to a small precious mouth as Z got to do now with Nalla.

In this marvelous daydream, years would pass, and there would be tantrums at three and the first deep thoughts and questions at five. Then friends at ten and, God forbid, driving at fifteen. There would be human holidays and vampire festivals . . . followed by a transition that would terrify the shit out of him and Mary—but because this was a fantasy, their young would make it through and come out strong on the other side. After that? The first heartbreak. And maybe the One.