by Sarah Piper
“Watch,” he demanded, pulling her hair. “Watch me make you come. And don’t make a fucking sound.”
She pressed her lips together, and he fucked her harder, his fingers slipping faster over her clit, his jaw tight as the pleasure rolled through him, rising unchecked on his face in the mirror.
Charley saw the precise moment his control finally unraveled. The look in his eyes turned feral, his lips curling back over his fangs as he slammed into her one last time and let out a primal growl, his body shuddering as he came inside her and finally pushed her over that bright, tingling edge…
She fell, hard and fast.
The orgasm exploded inside her like fireworks, starburst after epic starburst, leaving her wet and trembling, chasing the very last breath from her lungs.
Through it all, she remained silent.
And in the end, when the last tremor rolled through her body, Dorian broke their gaze and rested his forehead on her shoulder, and Charley closed her eyes and tried, in vain, to count the stars swimming before them.
The moment was sweet, but fleeting, and after a few more blissful heartbeats, he finally pulled out from between her thighs and tucked himself back into his pants.
Charley wasn’t ready to lose him, though. Not yet.
“I’m not afraid of you, Dorian Redthorne.” She turned around to face him and lifted her hand, fingertips tracing a path from his brow bone down to his mouth. He opened at her touch, and she slid her thumb inside, grazing the edge of a razor-sharp fang.
At the barest pressure, it sliced through her skin, blood beading on the surface and dripping onto his tongue.
Another low growl vibrated from his chest, and his eyes turned from their rich honey-gold to a deep, dark red. It felt like watching the sun rise over the ocean, and it filled her with wonder.
My vampire king...
It was mysterious and impossible.
It was the sexiest, most incredible thing she’d ever seen.
Charley slid in deeper, and Dorian closed his lips around her thumb and sucked, moaning reverently. She brought her other hand to his cheek, and he fell to his knees, suddenly lost to the taste, the pleasure, the feed.
His soft, warm tongue stroked her skin, the delicious pressure of the suction winding her tight with new desire.
With power.
She let him take it—just for another minute—then dragged her thumb out of his mouth, lingering on his lower lip.
Dorian glanced up at her, his red eyes gleaming with so much hunger, she was certain he’d grab her exposed thigh and sink his fangs into her femoral artery.
But instead, he fisted the hem of her sweater and brought his mouth to her belly, kissing a hot path up to her breasts as he slowly rose from the floor. In a flash, he tugged the sweater over her head and tossed it behind him, then cupped her face, his mouth descending in a searing kiss.
She tasted her blood in his mouth, tasted his desire for her, tasted his pain. It was all wrapped up together, pulsating through his vicious kiss until there wasn’t a single lie left between them—not one their bodies could tell, anyway.
Charley finally pulled back, staring deep into his eyes, once again bright and golden. His fangs had receded.
“Tell me you meant it,” she whispered, knowing she was skating on the knife’s edge, begging him for something she had no business wanting, but unable to stop the words. More than the story of the planned robbery, more than the desperate apology she’d rehearsed in her mind for hours, more than the pleasure he’d coaxed from her body, this felt like the true confession. The ultimate baring of her soul. “Last night… Tell me it wasn’t a dream, Dorian.”
His eyes clouded, and she knew at once he understood her meaning.
She was asking about his own true confession, a ghost that still whispered in her ear.
I’ve bloody well fallen in love with you, Charlotte D’Amico…
“Not a dream,” he said, closing his eyes. “Only a momentary lapse in judgment. I assure you—it won’t happen again.”
“Liar,” she whispered, taking his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her again. She could see it in his eyes—the embers still burning for her, the tenderness.
The love.
It was as new as the dawn on New Year’s Day, as fragile as a soap bubble, but it was real.
Not a dream. Not a lapse in judgment. Not something that wouldn’t happen again.
Despite everything, it was happening right now.
Fresh anger blazed in his eyes, as if he resented her for recognizing the truth, and he kissed her again, desperately working his way down her neck. Her hair hung low in front of her breasts, and he pushed it behind her shoulders, clearing the way for his hot mouth.
But then, without warning, he stopped. Pulled back. Gasped.
His fingers hovered over her collarbone, as if he was afraid to touch her.
His eyes widened, then filled with hot, new rage.
This time, it wasn’t directed at her.
It was directed at the man who’d marked her.
Chapter Eleven
“Who… did… this?” Dorian could barely get the words out, fangs burning through his gums again, mouth filling with a taste for blood and vengeance.
Charlotte’s skin was swollen and red, a row of fresh bruises decorating her collarbone like rotten grapes.
Dorian’s vision swam, blood pounding in his ears. He thought he’d been angry last night, finding the robbery plans in Charlotte’s bedroom. He thought he’d been angry when he’d cornered her in the dining room, confronting her with his dark past and her own bloody lies. He thought he’d been angry as he’d fucked her today, his traitorous heart still beating just for her, nearly breaking to think it might truly be their last time.
But seeing the perfect, silky-smooth flesh he’d eagerly kissed and caressed so many times before, suddenly bruised and battered…
I will find the man who did this, and he will beg for death…
“Who?” he demanded, fighting to keep his voice even, even as tremors of rage rocked his body.
Charlotte bent down to pull up her pants and retrieve her sweater, ducking his insistent gaze. She dressed quickly and covered herself up again, but now that he’d seen the marks, no amount of clothing would erase them from his mind.
“Charlotte, answer me.” Dorian wanted to break something. Someone. Had this happened before? Was it the snake who’d shown up here the night of the fundraiser, claiming to be her driver? Was it the man who’d ordered her into the SUV outside the Salvatore? Some other soon-to-be-dead man for whom Dorian should promptly order a coffin and headstone?
His mind reeled, his fury desperate to lock in on a target. In that moment, if Charlotte pointed out a stranger on the street and named him as the one, Dorian would’ve ripped the man’s throat out without a second thought.
“Charlotte?” he tried again, gently cupping her face. She looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes, her lashes wet with tears. “Tell me his name.”
Charlotte bit her lower lip. She seemed at once determined and vulnerable, those eyes frantic, her mouth red from his kiss, her hair a mess. Even falling apart, she looked beautiful. Dorian didn’t know how she always managed to get under his skin, but she did—every fucking time. And despite his intention of keeping a safe distance, all of his cool rationality—along with a good bit of his sanity and the last shreds of his self-preservation—had flown out the window the moment he’d seen those bruises.
Oh, who was he kidding? It wasn’t just the bruises. His good intentions died the moment he’d laid eyes on her today, so clearly happy to see him, so confused by his cold response. He could no more keep his guard up than he could keep his mouth from devouring her lush, soft lips or his body from craving the exquisite taste of her blood.
Dorian ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes in an effort to regain his composure. When he opened them again, she was still watching him, her own gaze desperate and frightened.
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But not of him.
He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed about that.
“Tell me this much,” he said. “Are your injuries related to the information I found in your bedroom?”
At this, she finally nodded, letting loose a deep sigh. A strand of auburn hair stuck to her lips, fluttering in the shallow breeze of her breath. Dorian couldn’t take his eyes off it. Off her, the woman who’d gotten him so turned round he could barely think straight.
“It was my boss,” she admitted. “Rudy.”
Rudy. Even the name enraged him, the sound of it setting fire to his ears.
“Was this the boss I met outside the Salvatore? The one who all but shoved you into the SUV and sped you away from me?”
“Yeah, and before you ask why I work for such a trash fire of a person… Rudy’s not just my boss, Dorian. He’s my uncle.”
“Your uncle?” Dorian didn’t know why it surprised him. It wasn’t as if his family was a stellar example of love and loyalty.
But still, it did.
He’d wanted better for Charlotte, he realized. Despite everything he’d learned about her, everything he’d speculated in the hours since discovering those floor plans, he’d still wanted her to be innocent. Not of the crime, perhaps, but in the sense that maybe she’d been spared some of life’s harsher brutalities.
That had been a fool’s hope, of course. She was as damaged as he was. In different ways, but nevertheless scarred.
He’d seen the darkness inside her the moment they’d first locked eyes in the Salvatore lobby. It had drawn him in deep, calling to his own shadows.
Even now, looking into her beautiful copper eyes, Dorian saw the gathering storm. And rather than run from it, rather than take shelter, he wanted to utterly bathe in it.
“He runs our crew now,” she said. “He took over when my father died.”
“And which crew would that be?”
“We’re art thieves, Dorian.” Charlotte pressed her fingers to her temples and sighed, clearly exasperated, but Dorian needed to hear her say it aloud. “It’s the family business. I’ve been doing it professionally since I was Sasha’s age. That’s part of what I wanted to tell you today.”
“Your father—the art lover. He was in the business too?”
“My father was the business. He built the entire empire from the ground up.”
“Sasha?”
“I’ve kept her out of it.” New fire burned in Charlotte’s eyes at the mention of her sister. “She’s got a chance at normal. I’m doing my best to give it to her.”
Dorian’s heart softened a bit more. But then the bruises flashed through his mind again, and he reached for her collarbone, tracing his fingers across the sweater.
“And this man… your uncle.” He grit his teeth, keeping a tight rein on his anger. “He’s the one who put his hands on you?”
Charlotte took a step back and wrapped her arms around herself, barely holding back a shudder. “It’s the first time he’s gotten so violent with me. Usually he just threatens.”
“Excellent. So you won’t mind if I drain him of his blood and bury his body out back?”
Her eyes widened. “Dorian, no! You can’t kill him. You can’t even threaten him. He’s got too many fail-safes in place. If anything happens to Rudy…” She shook her head and lowered her gaze, but it was too late. Dorian had seen the sheer terror in her eyes.
Despite his earlier anger at her, despite his suspicion, despite every horrible thing he’d felt since last night, Dorian’s heart bloody ached. It was all he could do not to take her into his arms and repeat the promise he’d made that day in the mountains—that he’d keep her safe forever.
He still bloody loved her. Even the worst kind of betrayal couldn’t stamp out those feelings. And now, watching her tremble in the dining room that reminded him of his own hour of monumental helplessness, Dorian could not turn his back on her.
He took a step closer, the space between them shrinking again. Their bodies had always been highly attuned to each other, reacting instantly to a touch, a breath, a caress, even a look. Standing before him in her bulky sweater, Charlotte tried to cover her chest with her arms, but Dorian had already noticed her nipples, firm and erect beneath the fabric.
His cock stiffened as he tried desperately to rid his mind of the memories, the taste of her soft skin as he’d sucked those rose-colored peaks into his mouth time and again, teasing and biting, moaning her name as he drove himself into her hot, willing flesh…
“I hate asking this, but I need your help,” she whispered, yanking him back to the moment. “It’s truly a matter of life and death.”
Against every warning in his heart, Dorian nodded. “I’m listening.”
“Sasha and I are in danger. I know I deserve it—I made this bed, and now I have to lie in it. But she doesn’t. I can’t let him hurt her. I’ll tell you anything you want to know about the heist, about the art, my family, all of it. But I’m begging you, Dorian. Please don’t send me away.”
Tears gathered in her eyes again, the coppery color bright against the bloodshot whites, and Dorian’s breath caught. Since his discovery of her plans, he’d imagined all sorts of ways to punish her… but that didn’t mean he wanted her to suffer. And Sasha had nothing to do with this. Even now, Dorian could hear her laughing with Aiden in the pool outside, her tone light and carefree.
He remembered the picture he’d seen of her in Charlotte’s bedroom last night.
Who would want to hurt that sweet, charming girl?
Charlotte was losing her carefully controlled facade, breaking down before him in a way that couldn’t—despite all evidence to the contrary—be an act. She was clearly withholding information—as usual—but she wasn’t lying about Sasha being in danger. That much was obvious.
Dorian couldn’t help himself. He needed to touch her again, to feel her skin, if only for the briefest moment. He reached for her face, and she leaned into his touch, her warm breath caressing his wrist.
There was more to her story. A lot more.
But right now, the question plaguing him most—the one that posed the most danger for all of them—was one she’d been dodging since before last night’s attack.
And as much as he didn’t want to push her into that corner again, Dorian needed an answer.
“Alexei Rogozin,” he said, and Charlotte winced. “Are you and your… uncle… working for demons?”
Dorian held his breath, waiting for the denial. Desperate for it.
The Redthornes could take care of a human stain like Rudy, one way or another. But if the demons were involved, their world just got a lot more complicated.
Seemed to be the running theme with Charlotte D’Amico.
“If you’d asked me that two days ago,” she said softly, “I would’ve said no. But after last night?”
Bloody hell. Dorian lowered his hand from her face, his chest tightening. “Something tells me we’re going to need alcohol for this conversation.”
“Better make mine a double.”
Chapter Twelve
Charley scooted her chair closer to the fireplace in Dorian’s study, pulling the blanket tight across her shoulders as he bent down to light the fire.
After cleaning up in the bathroom and taking a brief detour to check on Sasha—who was presently having the time of her life in the pool with Aiden—Charley had followed Dorian into the study, preparing to bare her soul. Not just about the planned robbery, but about her entire life—the heists, the high-end auctions, the hundreds of little mistakes that had led her to this moment, sitting in the manor of the vampire she loved, a million miles away from him.
Miles he might never let her cross again.
“I’ll go fix the drinks,” Dorian said, the fire roaring comfortably. “Try not to steal anything while I’m gone.”
She took the hit, sucking it up without a response as he headed for the kitchen. He’d certainly earned the right to a few below-th
e-belt comments, but she hoped it wouldn’t continue all day. She’d already hit pretty close to rock-bottom on her own; she didn’t need the extra help.
Charley closed her eyes and let the fire warm her skin, the crisp, outdoorsy scent reminding her of the first time she’d been here, the night she’d discovered the Redthornes were vampires. That vampires existed at all.
It hadn’t even been that long ago, yet so much had already changed. Was still changing, moment by agonizing moment.
Despite the insane passion that had overtaken them in the dining room, she knew it was over between them. It had to be. And she already missed him—his exquisite touch, his kiss, his smile, all of it.
What have I done?
Charley ached with regret, her heart mourning for all the things she’d destroyed. Things she’d never deserved in the first place.
“So you’re a professional art thief. Cheers, then.” Dorian was back, his voice startling her.
She opened her eyes, and he handed her a Sapphire and tonic, clinking their glasses. Icy liquid splashed onto Charley’s hand. Absently, she wiped it on her jeans and took a deep drink. The alcohol was cold and strong—exactly what she needed.
Dorian settled into the chair across from her, not meeting her eyes. Everything in her ached to be close to him. She wanted to set down her glass and climb into his lap, to slide her fingers into his thick, silky hair. She wanted to whisper every reassurance, to kiss away the lines of doubt and worry she’d put on his face, to wrap her legs around his hips and show him how sorry she really was.
To pick up where they’d left off in the dining room.
But whatever tenderness and heat had filled his eyes then, now there was only ice.
She took another sip.
So did Dorian.
Both of them sighed.
Neither spoke.
The fire crackled.
And Charley was about to explode.
“So,” she finally blurted out, “it’s not like you wake up one day going, ‘I think I’d like to steal priceless works of art for a living. Let’s get to it!’ I didn’t choose this path, Dorian. It was chosen for me.”
