Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  “Nasty piece of irony there.” Tristan crossed his booted ankles and stretched out his legs to contemplate his toes. “Wonder why Miranda hasn’t tried to contact us.”

  “How? She doesn’t have a focus. Her mother wouldn’t let her take one of my spell stones, so she’s got no way to reach me in the Mageverse. It’s like not having the telephone number.”

  “Dammit. I wish you’d been able to slip her one of those stones. It would make life one hell of a lot easier.”

  Belle snorted. “We’re Magekind. We don’t get easy.”

  Tristan took another one of those sensual sips. He was the only man she’d ever met who could look like he was making love just drinking from a wineglass. His lips shaped over the rim, and his eyes slid closed with an expression of pure erotic bliss. His head tilted slowly back. The overhead light gave his bright hair a glow and painted his hard profile with a rim of gold.

  God, he was gorgeous.

  “Quit performing cunnilingus on that glass,” Belle heard herself say. “That’s just wrong.” Oh, damn. Should have kept my mouth shut.

  He opened one eye. “Jealous, darling?”

  “Actually, I’m wondering if I should leave you two alone.”

  “You taste good.” The words emerged in a rough growl, stripped of the sarcastic sophistication of their usual banter.

  To hide her erotic reaction, she gave him a sneer. “Does that line work on those Malibu Barbies you usually date?”

  “It’s not a line.” Tristan stared at her, his direct gaze a bright, piercing green. He reached out to thread his hand through her hair, wrapping his strong fingers around the back of her neck. “It’s the truth. I want to taste you.” His eyes burned hypnotically into hers. Magi had no magic, but he seemed to work a spell on her just the same. “I need you.”

  “You spent the last month banging every Barbie in Avalon, Tristan,” Belle said, but her tone lacked bite. “You never even gave me a hello.”

  “I seem to have lost my taste for plastic. I want a woman.” He was so close to her, his lips brushed hers when he spoke. “How about you? Aren’t you tired of seducing boys?”

  God, yes. How long had it been since she’d slept with a man she wasn’t afraid she’d have to kill? How long had it been since she’d been able to enjoy a touch, a kiss, without watching her partner’s eyes for signs of blood madness?

  Belle wanted to make love to Tristan. She ached to touch him, to kiss him. She’d wanted it for weeks. But . . . “You cut me dead, Tristan. I spoke to you at the High Council meeting, and you wouldn’t even look at me.”

  “You have too much power over me. I was trying to fight you off.” His tongue flicked out, traced the seam of her lips. “But now I’m tired of fighting. Aren’t you?”

  “Dieu, yes.” Tired and stupid. She was being stupid. If she made love to him now, there was nothing to stop him from freezing her out again.

  So what? a mental voice demanded. This is just sex. I have sex all the time. It means nothing. If he decided to freeze her out again, she’d probably be too busy to notice.

  Belle was a court seducer and Tristan was a Knight of the Round Table. That was duty. And duty was all there really was. Moments like this were only a brief reward.

  She opened her mouth and let him inside.

  Tristan kissed Belle. Finally.

  God, she was good. Her lips felt exquisitely soft, and her tongue welcomed his with a seductive little curl and swirl. She tasted of spices and Cabernet and Belle, pure Belle, and she flooded his vampire senses with the smell of sandalwood and arousal.

  Tristan pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. Her breasts pressed into his chest, soft and tempting beneath the white cotton of her gown. Her nipples pushed against the lace, silently demanding his mouth. He wanted to bend her back over the table and suckle those little points through the fabric, but he wasn’t a barbarian.

  Though he was seriously tempted.

  So instead Tristan hooked one arm under her shoulders and one under her knees, lifting her with a vampire’s effortless strength. “Bed or couch?”

  “Couch.” She bit his lower lip gently. “It’s closer.”

  He shuddered in arousal and turned toward the den, carrying her down the hallway. Her tapered fingers caressed the line of his neck, the rise of his pecs through his shirt, tracing teasing patterns over the cotton. His cock pressed hard against his zipper.

  Spilling Belle onto the white leather sectional, Tristan came down on top of her, hungry for another taste. She felt exquisite beneath him, slim and surprisingly strong, her long legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his back. He kissed her slowly, not wanting to rush. The advantage of being immortal was there was no hurry. He’d found when he got an opportunity like this, a smart man made it last. Not that he’d had many opportunities like this.

  Tristan kissed with a surprising delicacy, his mouth soft as a whisper, one hand cupping her chin. His tongue slipped across her lips, tasting, stroking, tempting her to relax into him. He felt so warm and strong as he cradled her in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

  He had a way of pushing every erotic button she had.

  When Tristan eased off her and started gathering her skirts in his hands, she knew what he had in mind. She sat up, lifting her arms as he swept the gown off over her head.

  Belle hadn’t felt like wearing a bra—she really never did—instead putting a spell on her bodice to give her full breasts a little support. So when he stripped off the gown, she felt cool air touch heated flesh. It made her gasp. She felt herself cream in the white lace panties that were all she wore.

  As he tossed the gown aside, Tristan rocked back on his heels, a knee on either side of her hips. His green eyes glittered hot and wild as he stared down at her bare breasts. “Jesu, you’re beautiful.” He had a way of saying things like that that gave them the ring of raw truth.

  Belle tried to deflect his stinging honesty with a teasing smile. “That’s what they tell me.”

  “They are not me.” His stark gaze dared her to lie.

  She couldn’t. “Non.” Her practiced English tended to melt into French as she became more and more aroused.

  Belle rarely spoke French with the boys.

  Tristan settled down over her, mantling her body with his big, brawny one. When he covered one erect nipple with his mouth, sensation bloomed through her in velvety delight, vivid as a rose. His lips suckled, tongue dancing over the sensitive peak of her nipple. Teeth tugged, carefully, so carefully, yet with just enough wicked little rake that she squirmed and threw back her head. His hands stroked breasts and waist and thighs, and she luxuriated in every brush of his sword-calloused fingertips.

  Letting herself simply feel, as she never did with her boys.

  Belle usually did all the work of seduction with her Latent lovers, in part to make up for the risk she was making them run. Their sanity and their lives balanced on the edge she danced them along. If she was wrong, if they didn’t have the strength to handle the magic, it would destroy them. Then she’d have to use her knife. So Belle always made sure the pleasure she gave them was as exquisite as she could make it.

  But she didn’t have to do that this time. She could relax with Tristan. She could even climax, as she so rarely did with the boys.

  She could do everything with Tristan.

  As his tongue drew sweet patterns over her breast, Belle thought, I forgot it felt so good. Those big, warm hands of his, stroking her with the elegant precision of a man who knew how to make love from centuries of experience. His fingertips traced her skin, found hidden bundles of nerves, teased them into delicate bursts of delight.

  “I love the way you smell,” he rumbled in that deep male purr of his.

  “Ummm. Merci.” She blinked at the ceiling, then gasped as his fingers slid between her thighs, stroked lips already slick with cream. He discovered the eager jut of her clit and circled it in a teasing spiral as his mouth suckled her nipple into rosy
delight. Every nerve from breast to sex pulsed in warm syncopation. Tristan began working his way down her torso, licking, nibbling, stroking. Belle felt the points of fangs now, sliding over her skin in a ticklish rake. He pushed the thin fabric of her panties aside and slipped a finger into her sex, a deft little probe. One finger, two, in and out, thumb strumming clit. Another blinding little pleasure jolt.

  “You’re wet.”

  “Oui.” The word emerged in a pant. She threaded her hands through his hair. God, it was soft. Long and bright as gold thread, yet as supple as raw silk, sifting through her fingers.

  He looked up at her, those eyes burning up the length of her body. “You’re going to get wetter, because I’m going to eat you.”

  Excitement spiked through her at the blunt, raw words. “Oui. Mon dieu, oui, Tristan. Do it.”

  Tristan rose over her, looked down at her lying sprawled and naked, rocked back on his heels, and stripped off his shirt as if impatient to be skin to skin with her. Then he stopped. “Fuck. Pants.”

  He sounded so frustrated, she chuckled.

  “You laughing at me, wench?” One corner of his mouth curled up as he pushed to his feet. His zipper hissed.

  “Oui.” She licked her lower lip, watched his jungle eyes go dark. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Tristan slid off the couch and jerked his pants and briefs down, freeing his cock. It sprang out, a length impressive enough to make her brows climb. “I’m sure something will occur to me.”

  “I’m terrified.” She watched in appreciation as he shucked his jeans, toed off his boots, and somehow got rid of it all with a minimum of frustrated fumbling. He rose to his full height and stood there a moment, the light gleaming over broad, glorious shoulders, swordsman’s arms, horseman’s thighs, and all the deliciously chiseled brawn between.

  Belle grinned at him. “Are you posing?”

  Tristan flexed and grinned back. “Are you ogling?”

  “Oh, oui. It’s a damned nice view.”

  “Why, thank you.” He moved to kneel between her legs. “Now, where was I?”

  She lifted a brow. “Have you forgotten, old man?”

  “Oh, now you’re living dangerously, wench.” He caught her thighs, spread them wide, and dove between with a low male growl.

  Belle started to laugh, but then his mouth covered her sex and his tongue licked the length of her in one long, broad swipe. She almost catapulted off the couch. “Tristan!”

  His only reply was a growl, rumbling and deliciously feral. Tristan’s tongue swept delightful circles, as his hands reached up to claim her breasts for a teasing double caress of both her nipples at once.

  The triple sensation of tongue on sex and fingers on nipples was startling in its intensity. Hot ripples of pleasure built to rolling pulses in her belly, then to a deep thrumming that seemed to vibrate up her spine right into her brain. “Tristan.” She gasped, her hands clutching helplessly at the smooth, hard flesh of his shoulders.

  He pulled away from her sex and started crawling up the couch, muscles bunching and rolling in his arms, his chest. His face was wet, and his green eyes burned with a wild glitter. “I love the way you taste. The taste of your pussy. The taste of your blood. I can’t get enough of you.” Bracing one hand beside her head, Tristan used the other to position his cock in her opening. He thrust the smooth shaft deep in one long drive.

  She gasped, startled at his width, his silken heat.

  Tristan froze. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Non,” Belle managed. “Non. There’s just . . . a lot of you.”

  He grinned at that and faked surprise. “Is there?”

  “Wretch.”

  “Is that any way to talk to a man with his cock in your—”

  “Watch it, you.”

  “Oh, I intend to.” And Tristan began to thrust, slowly, carefully, and those delicious pulses started again as he rocked and rolled against her with the wicked skill of a man who definitely knew what he was doing.

  Belle sighed in a slow exhalation, wrapping her arms and legs around him, cuddling him close, taking him in. His ass worked under her calves, a strong, steady push, in and out.

  The pulses strengthened, grew hotter, harder as he drove, until her climax roared out of some dark, feminine part of her and shook her until she screamed. Without fear. Without death. Feeling only the delicious heat of Tristan’s strong male body surging into hers.

  His teeth found her pulse and bit down as he drove right to the balls, and froze, growling rough male music against her skin. Somehow that extra little sting grabbed her climax and twisted it, sending it raging higher, hotter. She screamed again, letting herself go as Tristan fed.

  Belle came. And came. And came.

  Lying in Tristan’s arms, she felt him suckle her throat in gentle pulls. A bead of blood rolled down the curve of her throat. He drew away before he had to, and licked the little punctures his fangs had left. She felt the dancing tingle of magic as his saliva began to heal her.

  Belle half expected him to move away, perhaps make a joke to reestablish the cool distance between them. Instead his strong arms tightened, cuddling her closer as he rolled onto his side. They lay like that for a long, floating moment, sated and warm.

  It crossed her mind that the sectional was wide and comfortable, but Tristan was a big man, and nobody would describe her as tiny. “You’re about to fall off the couch, aren’t you?”

  He was silent just long enough to tell her she was right. “I think I’m agile enough to keep my ass off the floor.”

  “No doubt,” Belle said dryly. “But there’s a perfectly nice bed upstairs, wide enough for you, me, and the offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys.”

  She waited for him to make the expected joke about her bedding football teams. Instead he rolled to his feet, scooped her into his arms, and strode for the door.

  “You know, I do have functional legs.”

  “You certainly do,” he purred, and made no move to put her down.

  It wasn’t the first time Belle had played Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett, but she’d never had a partner step so confidently or carry her as if he didn’t even feel her weight. Tristan even managed her long legs as he swept her around corners with a piratical flare she found herself thoroughly enjoying.

  “Oh, mon dieu,” Belle said as he strode into her bedroom. “You’re a romantic. I had no idea.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Tristan deposited her on her feet.

  She waited for him to deny it, getting her joke ready.

  “I’m a Knight of the Round Table. I’m romantic as hell.” He pulled back the bed covers with a flourish. “We invented romance.”

  Belle eyed him. “You and Arthur have belching contests.”

  “We’re guys. We drink beer.” Tristan swept her up again and tossed her lightly on the bed, then pounced on her, gathering her into his arms with a certain gleeful greed, like a small boy with a stuffed toy that had gone missing for a little too long. “Come here, wench.”

  “Who are you calling a wench, Fabio?”

  “Now you’re just asking for it.” He engulfed her in warm, hairy muscle and hugged her close, growling in mock threat.

  Belle giggled. The sound startled her.

  When was the last time she’d giggled like a little girl? She’d laughed, certainly—Belle had a fine, ringing laugh that turned male heads, and she used it ruthlessly in her seductions. She’d chuckled, even snickered a time or two, but she hadn’t done much giggling.

  Tristan had a talent for making her laugh. Of course, he also made her curse, snarl, and yell.

  Which meant, she supposed, that this was not likely to be a long relationship.

  Tristan curled around Belle and buried his nose in her hair. He was instantly conscious of her delightful scent—sandalwood and jasmine. The taste of her lingered in his mouth: the copper penny shimmer of her blood flavored with the fizz of magic and the musky tang of her sex. She pressed against him, firm, r
ound ass nestled against his groin, her skin soft and smooth and warm.

  He sighed. “As delightful as this is, if I don’t brush my teeth, I’m going to have a case of vampire morning breath that would strip the paint right off an outhouse.”

  Belle hooted. “Dieu, you do know how to maintain a mood.”

  “Hey, I’m just a fan of the wake-up kiss.”

  “So am I.” She gestured.

  An electric tingle ran through his mouth, and he blinked, running his tongue over his fangs. “Minty fresh.”

  “Lunatic. I am going to sleep now.”

  And in surprisingly short order, she did just that.

  Tristan was usually the first one snoring after making love, but this time he found his mind was churning too hard for sleep. His memory kept replaying the delightful buck of her body against his mouth, the scented silk of her breasts, the rich musk of her sex. The way her accent thickened into a throaty French purr that was sexy as hell. Well, he thought, I did it. I seduced her. And it had been amazing. So amazing, in fact, that he intended to do it again.

  Tristan was still planning the next seduction when the sunrise put him to sleep.

  Miranda swung into the restaurant’s kitchen and picked up the order of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn for table twelve. The cook grunted at her. She grunted back as she refilled her tea pitcher and hurried out again.

  Flo’s was a bare-bones establishment, with wooden booths and green checkered tablecloths made of tough plastic designed to be wiped down between customers. The walls displayed cheap prints of bowls of fruit and vases of ugly flowers. The vinyl flooring was cracked in places, though scrubbed ruthlessly clean thanks to Miranda’s werewolf strength. The tableware was battered stainless steel the waitresses wrapped in paper napkins between meals. Still, a job was a job, and given the economy, Randi was glad to have it.

  So she delivered the chicken and a charming smile to table twelve. “Here’s your lunch, Mr. Williams. Enjoy.”

  The burly UPS driver smiled back and nodded at Hannah, who was practically dancing around the dining room. “Hannah’s in a good mood.”