by Tessa Dawn
The words settled deep into his soul.
With her hand still resting just above her heart, she added, “He’s already in here.”
Napolean nodded. “I know what you mean.” His eyes feasted on her beauty, and he knew he could not contain his passion much longer. He would try to be tender…and gentle…but she was fully converted now—completely and irrevocably his—and he wanted her in every way. Sending a strong psychic suggestion to the baby—imploring him to remain asleep—he held out his hand. “Come here.”
Brooke visibly paled, and she cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Napolean chuckled then, low and deep, not meaning to add to her consternation but unable to restrain his amusement. “Come to me, Brooke.”
She smoothed the skirt of her nightgown, and then her eyes nervously scanned the room, stopping to stare in desperation at the matching robe lying alongside the edge of the bed. “Um, let me go get my robe,” she muttered. She stood up and quickly stepped aside, walking slightly backward all the way to the bed, as if he might do something hasty if she turned her back on him.
What? he wondered. Pounce on her like a hungry lion?
Or a thirsty vampire…
He restrained a smile. “Are you still afraid of me, Brooke?”
She laughed insincerely. “No, of course not. I”—she quickly slipped the robe over her bare shoulders and tied the sash loosely around her waist—“I’m just cold.” She rubbed her hands over her arms. “I think I caught a chill.”
Napolean swallowed a chuckle. Indeed, he had noticed several goose bumps on Brooke’s arms—just before the robe had concealed them. It was true, she did have chills—but she wasn’t cold. His body heated with the knowledge. “You waited up for me?”
She shivered, but she didn’t respond.
“Thank you.”
He took a measured step forward, and she retreated, the back of her legs meeting the bed at just the right height so that her knees bent and she fell backward onto the mattress in a seated position. She looked up at him with enormous blue eyes. “I…I knew you would want to see our son.”
“Mmm…I see,” he murmured, holding her gaze.
As if the nonsensical explanation suddenly occurred to her, she abruptly changed tactics. “I mean…I knew that we would probably have…there were things we should talk about…about our son.”
Napolean’s heart skipped a beat.
She was lovely in her indecision.
Beautiful beyond compare as her desire warred with her sense of modesty…and her curiosity battled her unspoken fear.
Her perfect breasts rose and fell beneath the light, silk robe, and despite her reluctance to allow passion a foothold, her nipples hardened beneath the cloth. She was aroused and pulling herself in opposite directions: One wanted him to touch her—no, needed him to reassure her that all of this was real, that he would take infinite care of her heart as well as her body from this moment forward—and the other was lost and confused…and so overwhelmed by the power of their bond that she probably wanted to run.
“So,” she breathed, clearly searching for a distraction, “what happened? At the clinic, I mean.”
Napolean shook his head.
He wanted to tell her.
Gods knew he needed her comfort.
The weight of the grief he had encountered in that cold, sterile waiting room, the palpable terror that had radiated from the Silivasis and their destinies—from young Braden and even Kristina—had shaken him to the core. He shook his head again, forcing his thoughts from the clinic back to the bedroom. “Later,” he whispered. “I will tell you later. It is…too much…right now.”
Brooke looked up at him with so much compassion that he couldn’t help but close the short remaining distance between them, gliding as much as walking to the side of the bed. He reached down and took her hand in his. “I need you, Brooke.”
She stiffened, however slightly, and dropped her head, and her thick wealth of hair created an easy, natural barrier, hiding her gaze from his. “Napolean, I—”
“You what?” He cupped the back of her hand in his, brought her palm to his mouth, and slowly kissed the center, over her lifeline—a line that would now reflect immortality. Releasing her hand, he lightly stroked the length of her wrist, softly brushed the curve of her elbow, and then ran the pads of his fingertips along her upper arm to her shoulder, where he slid the back of his fingers along her neck to her ear, then fingered her hair. With his other hand, he tipped her chin to force her gaze. “Don’t turn away from me, Brooke.”
She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m not trying to turn away, it’s just…”
He waited for her to finish speaking, his heart warm with longing. When she didn’t continue, he whispered, “It’s just…what?”
She licked her lips. “It’s just that I’m not sure if I’m ready for…all of this.” She shrugged her shoulder out from under his hand—albeit gently—and gestured around the room. “Our life together. Our son.” She gripped the sides of her robe and drew the silk together, holding it tightly against her chest. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for…us.”
Napolean knelt in front of her, never losing eye contact, and she almost squirmed in an effort to back away. He could feel her determination—the effort it took to remain seated, to hold her ground and face him—and he was blown away, as always, by her bravery.
“I know what it looks like.” She smiled sheepishly. “What I’m wearing…the room.” She glanced at the blazing fire across from the bed, and then she turned to glimpse the low-lit lanterns above the nightstands, hanging as decorative sconces. The walls were adorned with evenly spaced electric candles, crafted to imitate the real thing, and their pale yellow reflections created a soft, golden halo about the bed.
Baby sleeping or no, Brooke could have left the overhead lights on, but she hadn’t.
She sighed then. “I thought I was ready for all of this. I mean, for heaven’s sake, we have a child together…and it doesn’t get much more intimate than that, but…” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “But I think I’m just overwhelmed.”
Napolean waited, still and unmoving.
He said nothing.
He simply remained in front of her and waited for her to raise her head, meet his eyes, and…slowly begin to relax.
“Brooke,” he finally whispered.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t you know that I would never hurt you?”
She swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”
He shook his head. “No, don’t just answer—do you really know that I would never…ever…hurt you?”
She nodded. “I think you would die for me, Napolean.” She gestured toward the crib. “And for our son.”
He brushed her hair back behind her ears and stroked the side of her cheek with the back of his hand, causing her to shiver. “Then what are you afraid of?”
She shrugged. “I really don’t know.” She swallowed hard, deliberately released the iron grip on her robe, and clasped her hands together in her lap. “It’s just too soon.”
Napolean shook his head and leaned closer. The heat of his body mingled with hers. He brushed the tips of his fingers gently along her collarbone. “Your heart says you’re ready.” It was beating like a bass drum. He traced the swell of her lower lip. “Your mouth says you’re ready.” Her lips were quivering. He glanced at her breasts, quietly admiring the two delicate peaks that revealed her true arousal, and then he gently averted his eyes to avoid making her nervous—although gods knew, he wanted to take one into his mouth right then and there through the silk. “Your body is ready,” he added. He rose up on his knees, took her narrow waist in his hands, and pulled her against him so he could whisper in her ear. “What is it that you need from me, Brooke?” The feel of her lush curves against his chest sent electricity coursing through his veins. “Tell me,” he rasped.
She groaned, melding her body to his.
Her resistance was melting like butter.
“Your soul,” she whispered breathlessly. And then she spoke so softly, her words were barely audible. “You are so strong, Napolean.” Her hands swept over his rugged chest and lingered there for a moment. “Powerful…in so many terrifying ways.” She drew back to look into his eyes. “I don’t question your desire”—a quick glance downward left no question as to what…desire…she was referring to—“but Napolean, there has been so much…violence…and pain. I need to know your heart. Your tenderness.” She sighed as if exasperated—and maybe a little embarrassed. “I need to have a clear sense of your conviction all around me…to trust it as surely as I breathe.”
Napolean rocked back on his heels, inching away—not far enough to remove his warmth—but just enough to meet her scrutinizing gaze. As he stared into her eyes—such beautiful, haunting sapphires—the truth of her words reflected back at him, and the need they revealed was as stark as their beauty.
Brooke needed to feel Napolean’s devotion beyond her five senses.
And there was nothing he could say to her, give to her, or demonstrate with his touch alone that would take the place of that deep, intrinsic knowing.
She had to feel it in her bones.
He paused, considering…wondering what under heaven could convey such deep, soul-stirring conviction.
He sighed: If only he could give her the moon, perhaps the graceful ebbing of a purple sunset, receding over snowcapped mountains. In his ancient memory, he recalled the hauntingly lovely drone of bagpipes playing on a rainy day so many centuries ago in Ireland; he still heard the heart-stopping rhythms of the Native American drums shortly after his species had arrived in the New World; he still felt the harmonious concerto of an orchestra he had once seen in New York while traveling on business—the graceful crescendo of the wind instruments, the beguiling entreaty of the strings, the cello’s bass…the viola’s allure…the violin’s wings soaring beyond the theatre…
If only he could transport Brooke to the past.
Because music was the only thing he knew of that could break down such powerful barriers, transcend fear and trepidation…reveal the heart and bare…the soul.
The corners of Napolean’s mouth turned up in a smile, and Brooke gave him a curious glance.
He began to compose a gentle melody in his heart—an allegory of such powerful longing and love that it was certain to stir her soul—and then he took her face gently in his hands and began to transfer the haunting stream of music into her mind.
She gasped, clearly startled. “You can play music in my mind?”
He nodded.
Her eyes grew large, and a look of such deep passion alighted in their depths that he was almost afraid to breathe.
“That song,” she whispered. “It’s yours…you’re composing it, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered, wondering if she understood just how exposed he truly was. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers, and then he sighed. “I want you to feel my need.” He lifted his head and gently brushed her mouth with a kiss. As their warm breath mingled together, her eyes fell shut, and her body became pliant in his arms.
Napolean nuzzled the hollow between Brooke’s chin and shoulder. He softly grazed her delicate skin with his fangs. And then he slowly kissed his way up the back of her neck to her ear, where he used his voice as both sound and touch—pitched in a sultry lilt—to caress and lure. “I want you to share my need.”
He continued to play the melody in her mind, sending the sweet, poignant chords right through the center of her body, allowing them to settle at the very core of her being. When she arched her back and moved slowly against him, a low growl escaped his lips, and he felt his arousal kick for the first time, straining for release.
He nipped her lightly on the neck then—just above her shoulder—and she moaned.
Moaned.
He shifted, trying to make room in his jeans to accommodate his growing erection. And then, his hands swept up to cup the weight of her breasts, his thumbs found her nipples, and he began to massage them…in soft, arousing circles.
Napolean Mondragon had waited an unfathomable lifetime for this moment.
For this woman.
For the refrain that continued to rise from his soul.
And as their passion grew deeper, the timeless song became richer…and purer…until a distinct set of lyrics began to emerge—
“I’ll be your moonlight in the night;
I’ll make everything all right.
I’ll give you love; protect your heart; fulfill your dreams…
Can’t you see I’ve always been
that imaginary friend,
the knight who still defends his treasured queen…”
Napolean sang the words directly into Brooke’s ear, and then he sought her mouth again, this time deepening his kiss with the full breadth of his need.
His lips teased hers in tender, passionate play, even as his tongue led her through a slow, erotic waltz. At times she followed, at other times she led. But more and more, she began to yield to his touch, moving instinctively against him with burgeoning need.
His song grew with her desire…
“And when time has come and gone,
countless settings of the sun,
my love will be the wind beneath your wings…
As we soar beneath the skies,
I’ll live a lifetime in your eyes;
the destiny who charmed an ancient king.”
He trembled from the restraint it took to complete the song…
“Won’t you listen to your heart,
for the truth lies in your soul…
in the passion that we share—
feel the hunger as it grows,
and come into my arms…
Oh, come into my arms.”
Brooke gasped, breathless, her hands moving longingly over Napolean’s body. She traced his arms, his shoulders, his thighs…until he involuntarily growled into her mouth and pushed her back against the bed, blanketing her body with his. In an effort to draw him closer, she encircled his shoulders with her arms, pressed her breasts against his chest, and coiled her legs around his hips.
Barely clinging to his sanity, Napolean Mondragon sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the gods.
twenty-four
The male sang like an angel, kissed like a demon, and stirred Brooke’s passion with an intensity she had never known in all her life.
Desperate to feel his skin against hers, she grasped at his shirt and tugged the hem free from his jeans. When he swiftly pulled the garment over his head—revealing that immaculate, chiseled chest—Brooke’s breath left her lungs with a whoosh. Her lips parted in admiration, and her mouth fell, temporarily, open.
This wasn’t a man.
This wasn’t a vampire.
This was a finely honed work of art…
Every muscle, every angle, every strong plane was perfectly formed as if sculpted from clay—molded beneath the very hands of God. Napolean Mondragon was absolutely magnificent. His skin. His coloring. His utter…maleness.
Brooke’s womb constricted like a tightened fist, and a fiery heat pulsed between her legs. Heaven help her, she was aching for him. Her body was on fire. As strong hands gently slid the silk straps from her shoulders, exposing her breasts to the cool air, she twisted on the bed and fought not to squirm beneath him: She didn’t want to writhe in supplication like one of his subjects, begging to feel his unleashed power, desperate to have him inside of her.
But she was.
And the intensity of her longing was unsettling.
His warm mouth closed over her nipple, and she almost cried out. What in the name of his species—their species—was he doing with his tongue? His teeth? She felt the slow drag of his fangs lightly scoring her skin, and she wanted to arch into him, force him to take her, beg him to just do…something…
More.
Bite her?
The primal thought startled her at first, but as her nipple stretched—as Napolean took it deeper and deeper into the warm cavity of his mouth—Brooke lost all ability to think rationally. His erection had grown huge—solid, long, and thick beneath his jeans—and it was now pressing hard against her stomach. A brief pang of fear disturbed her passion as she wondered if making love to Napolean might be…painful. After all, the man wasn’t large—he was enormous: And just where had he been keeping all of that, anyway?
Determined to appease her curiosity, she reached down to tug on the zipper of his 559’s. With a sharp inhale, he gently pushed her hand aside and then hastily wrenched the denim from his hips, kicking his snug boxer-briefs and his heavy black boots off along with the jeans. The sundry pile hit the floor with a thud, and Brooke smiled.
Despite his intimidating size—or perhaps because of it—she groaned at the feel of his bare erection directly against her stomach. It felt like tempered steel, iron sheathed in fine satin—a jeweled sword encased in silk, crowned with a glorious, thick head—and she wanted the silk nightgown gone.
Now.
In spite of her blatant, growing desire, Napolean kept up the torture: He continued to torment her breasts with ever-imaginative machinations. His hands molded, caressed, and fondled. His mouth tasted, suckled, and lavished. His teeth grazed, nipped, and teased—until the ecstasy became unbearable. Crying out, Brooke grasped at his thick mane of hair and tugged, pulling him fiercely to her mouth. She needed him like she had never needed…anything.
“Oh gods, Napolean!” She was almost crying.
Crying.
What was he doing to her?
“Please,” she whimpered.
His deep, throaty growl betrayed his satisfaction at hearing her utter the word. “Please what, Iubita mea?” he purred.
She panted in response, and they scooted further onto the bed. He sat up and knelt over her body, his massive erection standing so tall and proud, teasing her with its promise of pleasure, and then slowly, maddeningly, he released a sharp talon from his right index finger and cut through her nightgown and panties. He parted the silk from her body like a man unwrapping an expensive present at Christmas, and then he just stared.
