by Jackie Ivie
Massively.
Oh. Hell.
She still was.
What was wrong with her? She was a professional. She’d done a couple of articles on male strippers just last summer. Blown the lid off how competitive, narcissistic, and all-out fragile their egos were. That exposé wouldn’t get her invited back anytime soon, but it had gotten her noticed. She was hardnosed, played hardball, and wasn’t afraid to ask hardline questions. And then write about them.
But the reason she remembered that now? She’d been up to her eyeballs in barely clad, handsome, muscled, sexy guys. None of that had raised one iota of interest in her. Yet, with this Ethelstone fellow, she was nearly panting? This level of arousal didn’t make sense. He wasn’t even her type. She didn’t fancy super-tall guys. Steph liked men closer to her height. Nose-to-nose, toes-to-toes. She was also drawn to brunettes, the swarthier the better. And she liked her guys on the lean side. She wasn’t interested in a muscle-bound hunk.
Actually...
She had to rephrase that. Despite her research on male strippers, she’d never even seen a man with as much muscle and definition as Ethelstone. And he wielded it so easily! Every time he’d tensed his thighs beneath her, she’d fought one hell of a reaction. She only hoped she’d been good enough at hiding it.
At the thought, more weirdness happened. The world about her did a slow rocking motion. Her knees wavered. She stumbled as a big dose of warmth slipped through her midsection, leaving a tingle in its wake. Her eyes widened. She had to conquer this. She was on the story of a lifetime. All she had to do was get some hardline questions answered, get proof...and hope like hell that she wasn’t dreaming here.
That was a deflating thought, but she had to consider it.
Dreams did transcend reality. She could be locked in one now. The pampered luxury of a limousine ride while she snuggled in an ankle-length mink coat might be imaginary. Or maybe the fur was sable. Steph didn’t know furs, but the coat was unbelievably soft and warm. This had to be how royalty was treated, starting with the greeting at the front door of a very classy hotel by not one, but three fellows, in sharp suits. One carried a bottle in a bucket of ice in one arm. His other hand held two champagne flutes. Another fellow had an armload of blood-red roses that blocked his entire upper body. The last one had offered her his arm.
Wow.
If she was dreaming, it was some dream. The only thing missing was the massive hunk named Ethelstone, and...
Oh shit.
There went the weird physical episode again, only this time the tingle stayed a lot longer. If she was on a story, it just got difficult. Ethelstone was sex appeal atop muscle atop more sex appeal. She was in major trouble. And getting escorted there.
The suited fellows accompanied her to an elevator and from there to double doors that fronted a probable penthouse suite. She checked out the black lacquered doors as one of the gentlemen tapped some code in the side wall. She looked up. There was a placard above the door. She read it aloud.
“The Inferno Suite.”
“Yes. We fondly call this room ‘Fire on Ice’,” the champagne guy informed her. And then the doors opened.
Steph’s jaw dropped, rendering her speechless for the moment. Mister Roses walked in first, followed by Mister Champagne. Stephanie trailed them slowly. Her hand tightened on her escort’s arm for stability. Balance. The floor was a span of black tile, covered intermittently with pristine white furs and woven rugs of black and dark red. The ceiling matched the floor in shade –extremely glossy, and glinting with a thousand little lights from dimly lit crystal chandeliers. A span of dark rock fireplace took up the entire inner wall on her right, a fire within it beckoning warmth and shedding more light. The back section was a mass of blackness that probably led to the rest of the suite. But that wasn’t the most stunning part. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The walls looked like ice. Real ice. But that wasn’t possible. Flames were flickering within them.
“Welcome to the Inferno Suite.”
Her escort said it. The roses’ guy had walked across the room to a span of black lacquered table. Her eyes followed him. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was an arrangement of chocolate-dipped goodies in a silver dish in the center of the table. He moved the sweets to one side to place his burden in the table center, arranged the blooms slightly, and then walked past her toward the door. The champagne guy was next. The only sounds were the slight tinkle of the bucket and wine glasses as he placed them next to the bouquet, and the snap and crackling of the fire in the fireplace. He followed Mister Roses with his exit.
Steph didn’t even acknowledge their departure. That was incredibly rare and wholly disconcerting. If she was sleeping-walking, this just hit wet-dream level. She never wanted to awaken. Her escort lifted her hand from his arm, releasing her. He tipped his head slightly before following the others. Stephanie turned to watch. He stopped at the door, turned around, and smiled. She still hadn’t closed her mouth.
“Enjoy your stay, Miss Bowker. Call if you need anything.”
He exited, shutting the door behind him. A log fell. Stephanie jumped. Her heels thumped quietly against the floor. She considered the noise as it faded. It was extremely quiet in here, the silence broken only with the sound of the fire. It was also growing warm. She unhooked the coat as she walked toward one of the walls. Touched it. And had her answer. It wasn’t ice. It wasn’t remotely cold. They’d incorporated a lot of little lights and mirror shards within clear material.
Wow.
No.
Double wow.
Stephanie shed the pilot’s fur and draped it over her arm. She had to pull it close to her body. She hadn’t realized it was this heavy. It was almost unworldly quiet. She approached the table with a stealth that matched. She’d been right. The silver platter held a selection of chocolate-dipped fruit. She’d never seen strawberries that large and luscious. She selected one and had it halfway to her mouth, when a muffled click sound came from the depths of the suite.
Stephanie dropped the fruit and spun, holding the coat at her belly. Mist poured into the room, rolling out along the floor before dissipating. Her eyes widened as the large hulk of Ethelstone strode through it, muscles rippling. He came right for her. He’d obviously been in a shower. A hot one. He wasn’t quite dry, either. His hair was slicked back, his skin glistened, and he was a lot more defined than she’d given him credit for. She couldn’t help noticing all of that. He was wearing a little towel tied low on his hips.
That was it.
A towel.
“You’re here. Finally.” He spoke as he neared. As if that helped.
Holy hell.
Her throat closed off and her mind went on hiatus. The man was way too masculine and entirely too naked for conscious thought processes and verbal action. Motor skills were malfunctioning, too. Stephanie backed into the table, rocking it so that the floral arrangement fell. The silver platter rattled and the ice bucket tipped over next, spewing crushed ice onto her backside. She didn’t know where the champagne bottle went. Stephanie squealed and shimmied sideways, hugging the fur coat to her. Ice slid off the table like a waterfall of crystals. And none of that stopped Ethelstone. The guy smelled wonderful. That same blend of scents she’d caught earlier. Woodsy oak. Warmed amber. Vanilla. Caramel. He hovered inches from her, breathing heavily onto her forehead and nose from his height, and sending all kinds of electrically charged pulses from the proximity. And all of it was accompanied by a truckload of heat.
“And you took forever.”
His upper lip lifted with the words, displaying two long, sharp fangs where his canine teeth should be. Stephanie gasped, and held the exhalation back but her eyes went so wide, the air stung.
“My brother was wrong.”
His hands slammed onto the table at her sides, effectively caging her. Each of his breaths came hard and fast, the match to hers, while his towel proved absolutely worthless as a covering. The man was as turned on as she was. The towel delinea
ted it. He was huge. And hard. Stephanie moved her glance before she did something completely wild. And raw. Her heart became a wild thing. It was going to leap right out of her breast at the rate it was pounding.
“You are not pretty. You are very. Very. Beautiful.”
He lowered his head to breathe the last two words onto her throat, raising all kinds of shivers. They targeted and then found every erogenous zone she possessed. This was unbelievable. Completely out of her scope of experience. Beyond dream-worthy. Her mind wouldn’t form intelligent words. And even if it did, she wasn’t sure her throat could utter them. But she had to say something. Anything.
“You...showered.” She stated the obvious.
“I was covered in blood.”
“I know. I was there...and—.” She gulped. “You need...to get dressed. Okay? I can’t, um. Talk like this.”
He smiled and sun-kissed laugh lines crinkled at the sides of his eyes. Damn everything! He was already rocking her world sideways. That grin of his was complete overkill.
“Oh. I don’t think so.”
His voice could sculpt stone. Without a chisel. Or any other tool. Her thighs quivered. Her knees sagged. It was a good thing the table was stoutly made. It only groaned slightly as she leaned into it. She felt what actually might be his lips at her throat, his tongue sliding along the skin.
Or his fangs.
“You don’t...understand. I...can’t concentrate.” She swallowed. “Ethel...stone.”
Her voice had become a breath-filled caress. A low murmur of sound. A well of passion. She was close to lunging for the wealth of skin he was displaying. Pushing his towel aside. And grabbing absolute heaven.
She didn’t even question that she’d find it, either.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Do you know why my brother attacked you?”
His breath touched the skin he’d tongued. The words iced, creating more shivers before sparking all kinds of tingles. They weren’t hitting in just one place. They were rocketing through her.
“Athle—?”
She licked at her lips. She couldn’t remember the last part of his name. And she didn’t care, either. A fluttery sensation was overtaking her core, while her thighs alternated between sleekly toned appendages, and limbs with the consistency of barely-set gelatin.
“Yeah. Him. Athlerod.”
“Maybe he’s a...psychopath? Um. Look. You...need to dress. Now.” She didn’t recognize her voice. She’d never heard it at that depth of tone before.
“My brother reacted...because he is still undead.”
“Undead?”
“Vampires are walking corpses. Cold. Heartless. Emotionless.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t you a vampire?”
“Yes.”
“You are not cold. And...um. That is a definite hard-on.” She glanced down and back up as she said it. And then she blushed furiously.
He grinned again. Her heart did a flip.
“That’s because I am supremely lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“There is one thing that changes living death.”
“One?”
He nodded.
“What?”
“We find our other half. And mate with them.”
Mate?
Oh. Balls.
She had to have heard it wrong. The word conjured up all kinds of images. Primal. Bestial. Feral. Passionate. Harsh. And like nothing she’d ever put into an article for anyone to read.
“Ethel...stone? Please. Um. You need...to dress.” Great. Now, she not only didn’t sound like herself, she was shaking so much, her words stuttered.
“You are not in charge here, Stephanie.”
“And...you are?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t understand. Who is in charge, then?”
The words scraped her throat. She was going insane. Or something worse. She’d never been at this level of want. Felt this crazed with need. Been this desperate for sex, and lots of it. Hard. Heavy. Pounding. Gut-clenching. World-shaking.
“Not who. What.”
He was lunging against her, pushing his erection into the crotch of her jeans each time. And she was clenching as if he was already through the material. And sheathed. Deep.
“Okay. I give. What is in charge?”
“This.”
He bared his fangs, lowered his mouth to her throat. And bit her.
~ ~ ~
Pleasure flooded his mouth, bringing strength. Energy. Vitality. And something he’d never dealt with. Danger signals accompanied it. It was volatile. It contained elements that sent everything to fever-pitch level. His heart pounded. His pulse sang. His cock throbbed with a sensation nearing pain. It wasn’t just demanding succor. It required it. Ethelstone yanked his teeth from her, arched upward, and yelled. Loudly. At great length. The sound was harsh. Primal. Throat-tearing. He didn’t stop until his breath ran out and then he just stood there. Shaking.
The room had given him an accompaniment. Every light had flickered and then dimmed. The fake fire in each wall went brighter. Redder. The flames in the fireplace roared upward, shooting light and warmth up the chimney and into the room. The table he held onto warped beneath his hands and then cracked.
He brought his head back down. Met her gaze. Got snagged by the mirror-looking finish of her silver eyes. The tip of her tongue slid across her lower lip. He jerked in place. Caught a quick breath. And then he snarled.
“Oh. Holy hell,” she said.
“Vif.”
“What?”
“Woman,” he translated.
She tossed the fur cloak and launched herself into his arms. Her legs encircled his hips, her ankles hooked behind his buttocks. Her arms looped about his neck. She slammed her lips to his, joining their mouths as she kissed him.
He thought his head might fly off.
Ethelstone’s groan almost separated them. He choked the last of it back. He wasn’t allowing anything to stop this. Her lips sent liquid fire. Shards of lightning. An explosion of sensation that rocketed through every vein. He couldn’t believe it. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced.
Ethelstone tried desperately to collect himself. He was pure Viking. Through and through. He’d killed without compunction. Raided without conscience. Gone berserk with the lust for battle. He’d seen women taken, but he’d never had one. And he’d never been kissed. The scope of sensation he was experiencing altered everything. He was stunned. His thighs wavered before he subconsciously locked them. And this from just a kiss?
There was no descriptor vast enough. His entire being vibrated with something so intense, it neared pain. He blamed the Vanir, the fertility gods. They had to have a hand in this sensation. They’d created this feeling before sending the twins, Freya and Freyr, to orchestrate it into heights heretofore unknown. Made certain it was blessed by the war god, Odin. Before it got hammered into the consistency of steel by Odin’s son, Thor.
Her panting breaths ended the kiss and she shimmied about, her denim-clad core sliding along him, alternately connecting and then moving away from his abs. Lower belly. His cock. Ethelstone grabbed her buttocks and yanked her back into contact, so he could slide his rod along the cursed fabric, while she gyrated in his arms.
“I need...some room.”
She muttered it between gasps of air that he matched. Her breath was an unbelievable force. She must not realize the power she wielded. His skin responded instantly, lifting goose bumps.
“Ethelstone!”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
He shoved deeper between her legs and stopped, shuddering despite how he’d locked his muscles against this torment. She didn’t know? Was she immune to his suffering? The strain of holding back was beyond imagining. He might not be strong enough. He was already close to losing. Ripping his way through her clothing. So he could plunder. Pillage. Take.
So. Very. Close.
“I can’t get...this off!�
��
Ethelstone shifted, leveraging one arm to support her. The other hand grabbed the back of her shirt, his fingers sliced into the fabric, and he tore it apart. She was watching him with wide silver eyes when he’d finished. It was a mistake to know that much. The instant their gazes connected, his entire frame lurched. He stumbled, and heaved a step. Somehow he kept her from shifting. The room wasn’t helping, either. The walls appeared to be melting and the floor tilted. He rose from the tiles. And that took his concentration off what he’d been doing.
And that was really stupid.
His grasp on control slipped. Ethelstone looked away. Wrenched every muscle taut. Sucked in a gasp. Held it. Silently begged the gods for an assist. He clamped his jaw so tightly, his fangs sliced skin. He didn’t even feel it. His entire being was focused. Intent. Desperate. He somehow had to rein back something that didn’t just frighten him.
It terrified.
A sob escaped his lips.
“I hope...you have...a bed...close by. And I mean...really close.”
Ethelstone’s head snapped back to face her. A bed? What in Loki’s name for? He had a fireplace, a lot of floor, and a thick fur rug. He’d never make it to a bed. This need was consuming him.
“You know...a bed?”
She made a kissing motion. Ethelstone’s back slammed into the rug. It skidded several feet before his shoulder hit the hearthstone. He grunted at the impact and then ignored it. He didn’t know how they got there. He didn’t recall moving. He didn’t care, either. He grabbed the back pockets of her skinny jeans and used them to yank the seams apart. She didn’t help. Her top was hanging in shreds from her shoulders as she ran her fingers along his chest. Every inch of skin he could see was a lightly tanned shade. Glistening in the firelight. Her touch branded him. Up. Back down. She shoved against his pecs. Followed the muscles in his abdomen, creating friction he didn’t need, added to the need he fought to contain. Her fingers reached the edge of his towel. She fussed with the tie he’d knotted.
Ethelstone gritted his teeth harder. Blood pooled inside his lip. She pushed the cloth aside, gave a moan that sounded like it contained pleasure, and then she had him. Long fingers enwrapped him. Testing. Enveloping. Her hands slid down his shaft and Ethelstone arched upward, his mouth went wide as he howled. Blood sprayed from his fangs. His cry was lengthy. Loud. And completely bestial. It echoed about them while she gripped her thighs about his and continued her ministrations. Ethelstone began pumping, smacking into the floor, making heavy thumping noises. And if this kept up, he was going to reach Valhalla a lot sooner than he wanted to.
