The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

Jane couldn’t believe she was getting hot, considering what she was doing. But with V stretched out and pinned and orgasming for her, it was hard not to jump on him.

  She used the cane lightly on him, no doubt less than he wanted, but hard enough to leave marks on his thighs and his belly and his chest. She couldn’t believe he liked it like this, considering what he’d been put through, but in fact he loved it. His eyes were focused on her and glowing bright as bulbs, casting white shadows over the buttery light of the candles. As he came yet again, that dark, spicy scent she associated with him wafted up anew.

  God, it shamed and fascinated her that she wanted to go even further with what was available…that she eyed the box of metal clips and the whips on the wall no longer as aberrant but as representative of a host of erotic possibilities. It wasn’t that she wanted to hurt him. She just wanted him to feel as intensely as he did now. The point was taking him to his sexual limit.

  Eventually she got so worked up she pulled off her pants and her underwear. “I’m going to fuck you,” she told him.

  He moaned desperately, hips swiveling and pushing upward. His erection was still rock-solid in spite of the number of times he’d ejaculated, and it pulsed as if he were going to go again.

  As she got up onto the rack and split her thighs over his pelvis, he breathed through his nose with such force she grew alarmed. With his nostrils sucking in and out, she reached forward to undo the gag, but he jerked his head away and shook it.

  “You sure?” she asked.

  When he nodded fiercely, she eased down onto his semen-slicked hips and settled on the hard ridge of his arousal, her core parting over him, gripping him. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and his lids fluttered like he was about to pass out as he rocked against her to the extent he could.

  While she rode back and forth on him, she took off her shirt and pushed her bra’s cups to the side so that they molded her up and out. There was a mighty creak as V strained against the binds. If he’d been free, she was quite sure he would have had her on her back underneath him in the work of a moment.

  “Watch me take you,” she said, running one of her hands up to her neck. When her fingers coasted over the remnants of his bite mark, V’s lips pulled back from the ball gag and his fangs elongated, digging into the red latex as he growled.

  She kept touching herself where he’d bitten her while she rose on her knees and stood up his arousal. She sat on him good and hard, and he orgasmed as soon as he entered her, kicking deep inside, flooding her. He was still fully erect afterward, even as he stopped twitching.

  Jane had never felt more sexual in her life as she began to grind on top of him. She loved that he was smeared with wax and the result of his orgasms, that his skin was gleaming with sweat and flaming red in places, that there was going to be a mess to clean up. She had done the whole of it to him, and he adored her for what had happened, and that was why it felt right.

  As her own release came barreling in, she looked into his wide, wild eyes.

  She wished she didn’t ever have to leave him.

  Chapter Thirty

  As Fritz pulled the Mercedes into the short driveway of a condo and put it in park, V looked out through the front windshield.

  “Nice place,” he said to Jane.

  “Thank you.”

  He fell quiet, getting lost in what had gone down back at his penthouse for the last two hours. The things she’d done to him…Christ, nothing had ever been that erotic. And nothing had been so sweet as the aftermath. When the session was finished, she’d released him and taken him into the shower. Under the spray of the water his come had rinsed away and the wax had flaked off, but the cleansing had really been on the inside.

  He wished the red marks she’d left on his body would stay. He wanted them in his skin permanently.

  God, he couldn’t stand to let her go.

  “So how long have you been here?” he asked.

  “Since my residency. So, ten years.”

  “Good area for you. Close to the hospital. How’re the neighbors?” Such nice cocktail, blah-blah conversation. Meanwhile, the house the party was in was on fire.

  “Half of the people are young professionals and the other half are old. Joke is that you leave either because you get married or you go into a nursing home.” She nodded to the unit next to hers on the left. “Mr. Hancock pulled out two weeks ago into assisted living. The new neighbor, whoever-it-is, will probably be just like him, because the one-floor units tend to go to the elderly. By the way, I’m rambling.”

  And he was stalling. “Like I said, I love your voice, so feel free.”

  “I don’t do it except around you.”

  “Which makes me lucky.” He glanced at his watch. Shit, time was draining out like water from a bath, leaving a whole lot of cold in its absence. “So can I have a tour?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He got out first and scanned the area before stepping aside and letting her stand up. He told Fritz to take off, as he’d just dematerialize back home, and while the doggen pulled out of the driveway, V let her lead up the walkway.

  Jane opened the door with nothing but a single key and a twist of the knob. No security system. Only one lock. And on the inside no dead bolt or chain. Even though she didn’t have enemies like he did, this was not safe enough. He was going to—

  No, he wasn’t going to remedy it. Because in another few minutes he was going to be a stranger.

  To keep from losing it, he looked around. Her furniture didn’t make sense. Against the ivory walls of the condo, all the mahogany and the oil paintings made the place feel like a museum. From the Eisenhower era.

  “Your furniture…”

  “Was my parents’,” she said as she put down her coat and duffel. “After they died, I moved what could fit here from the house in Greenwich. It was a mistake—I feel like I’m living in a museum.”

  “Um…I can see your point.”

  He walked around her living room, checking out the kind of stuff that belonged in a doctor’s Colonial house in a Bruce Wayne part of town. The shit dwarfed the condo’s lines, choking rooms that might otherwise have been airy.

  “Don’t know why I’m keeping it all, really. I didn’t like living with it when I was growing up.” She took a little spin, then stalled out.

  Shit, he didn’t know what to say, either.

  He knew what to do, though. “So…your kitchen is that way, true?”

  She walked over to the right. “It’s not much.”

  But it was nice, V thought as he walked in. Like the rest of the condo, the kitchen was white and cream, but at least here you didn’t feel like you needed a docent: The table and chairs in the breakfast nook were pale pine and the right size for the space. The granite countertops were sleek. The appliances were stainless steel.

  “I did it over last year.”

  There was more cocktail blah-blahing as they both ignored the fact that GAME OVER was flashing on their screen.

  V went over to the stove and taking a chance, he opened the upper cupboard to the left. Bingo. The hot chocolate mix was right there.

  He snagged it, put it on the counter, then went to the refrigerator.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You got a mug? Pan?” He grabbed a container of milk from the icebox, cracked the top, and gave it a sniff.

  As he walked back to the stove, she told him the where’s-what in a low voice, like she was suddenly having trouble holding it together. He was ashamed to admit it, but he was glad she was upset. Made him feel less pathetic and alone in the midst of this hellacious good-bye.

  Man, he was an asshole.

  He took out an enameled saucepan and a thick diner-style mug, then popped up a low flame on the stove. As the milk heated, he stared at the assembled crap on the counter and felt his brain go on a little vacation: The setup looked like a commercial for Nestlé, the kind of thing where Suburban Mom was holding down the fort while the Kids played in
the snow until they got red noses and cold hands. He could just picture it: the chilly crew would come screaming in just as the self-satisfied mominator put out the kind of warm-up spread capable of cranking Norman Rockwell into a saccharine submission hold.

  He could just hear the voice-over: Nestlé makes the very best.

  Yeah, well, no kids or mom here. No happy hearth either, though the condo was nice enough. This was real-life cocoa. The kind you gave someone you loved because you couldn’t think of anything else to do and both of you were a mess. It was the kind you stirred while your gut was knotted and your mouth was dry and you were thinking seriously of crying, but you were too much of a male for that kind of display.

  It was the kind you made with all the love you hadn’t expressed and might well not have the voice or the chance to speak of.

  “I won’t remember anything?” she asked roughly.

  He added a little more powder and circled the spoon, watching the swirl of chocolate get absorbed in the milk. He couldn’t reply, just couldn’t say it.

  “Nothing?” she prompted.

  “From what I understand, you might get feelings once in a while that are triggered by an object or a scent, but you won’t be able to place them.” He stuck his forefinger in to test for temperature, sucked it clean, and kept stirring. “You’re more likely to have vague dreams, though, because your mind is so strong.”

  “What about the missing weekend?”

  “You won’t feel as if you missed it at all.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Because I’m going to give you a weekend to replace it.”

  When she didn’t say anything further, he glanced over his shoulder. She was standing against the refrigerator, arms wrapped around herself, eyes shimmering.

  Fuck. Okay, he changed his mind. He didn’t want her to feel as bad as he did. He’d do anything to keep her from being this heartbroken.

  And he had it in his power to fix her, didn’t he.

  He tested what he was warming, approved of the temp, and killed the flame. As he filled the mug, the gentle gurgle promised the relaxation and satisfaction he wanted for his female. He brought the mug over to her, and when she didn’t take it, he reached out and unhinged one of her forearms. She palmed the hot chocolate only because he made her, and she didn’t drink it. She cradled it to her collarbone, curling her wrist in, twisting her arm around the thing.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered, tears in the achy pitch of her voice.

  He put his bare hand to her cheek and felt the softness and warmth of her face. He knew that when he pulled out of here, he was leaving his stupid fucking heart with her. Sure, something would beat behind his ribs and keep his blood moving around, but it would just be a mechanical function from now on.

  Oh, wait. It had been like that before. She’d just given the thing flesh and life for a short time.

  He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. Holy hell, he was never again going to smell chocolate and not think of her, not pine for her.

  Just as he closed his eyes a tingle ran up his spine, trembling along the back of his neck and shooting to the anchor of his jaw. The sun was coming up, and that was his body telling him the time to go was no longer a future thing, but a now thing…an urgent now thing.

  He pulled back and pressed his lips to hers. “I love you. And I’m going to keep loving you even after you don’t know I exist.”

  Her lashes flickered, catching her tears until there were too many to hold. He brushed his thumbs over her face.

  “V…I…”

  He waited for a heartbeat. When she didn’t finish, he took her chin in his palm and looked into her eyes.

  “Oh, God, you’re going to do it,” she said. “You’re going to—”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Jane blinked and looked down at the hot chocolate she was holding. Something was dripping into it.

  Jesus… Tears were pouring down her face, falling into the mug, getting her button-down shirt wet. Her whole body was shaking, her knees weak, her chest screaming in pain. For some crazy reason she wanted to fall to the floor and wail.

  Wiping her cheeks off, she glanced around her kitchen. There was milk and cocoa mix and a spoon on the counter. The pan on the stove still had a little steam rising up from it. The cabinet to the left wasn’t shut all the way. She couldn’t remember taking the stuff out or making what was in her mug, but then, that was often the case with repetitive, habitual actions. You space-shotted them—

  What the hell? Through the windows on the other side of the breakfast nook, she saw someone standing in front of her condo. A man. A huge man. He was just outside the glowing pool of a street lamp, so she couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was staring at her.

  For no evident reason her tears ran harder and faster. And the outpouring got worse as the stranger turned away and walked off down the street.

  Jane all but threw the mug onto the counter and bolted out of her kitchen. She had to catch him. She had to stop him.

  Just as she came to her front door, a vicious headache took her down to the floor sure as if she’d been tripped off her feet. She sprawled out on the foyer’s cold white tile, then twisted onto her side, grinding her fingers into her temples and gasping.

  She lay there for God only knew how long, just breathing and praying for the pain to back off. When it finally did she eased her upper body off the floor and leaned against her front door. She wondered if she’d had a stroke, but there had been no cognitive interruptions or visual disturbances. Just one hell of a quick-onset headache.

  Must be remnants of the flu she’d had all weekend. That virus that had been around the hospital for weeks had taken her out like a dead rosebush. Which made sense. She hadn’t been sick in a long time, so she’d been overdue.

  Speaking of overdue…Shit, had she even called to reschedule her interview at Columbia? She had no clue…which meant she probably hadn’t. Hell, she didn’t even remember leaving the hospital on Thursday night.

  She wasn’t sure how long she made like a doorstop, but at some point the clock on the mantel started to chime. It was the one that had been in her father’s study in Greenwich, an old-fashioned Hamilton made of solid brass that she’d always sworn rang the hours in with a British accent. She’d hated the damn thing forever, but it kept good time.

  Six o’clock in the morning. Time to go to work.

  Good plan, but when she stood up, she knew without a doubt she wasn’t going into the hospital. She was light-headed, weak, exhausted. There was no way she could administer care in her condition; she was still sick as a dog.

  Damn it…she had to call in. Where were her pager and her phone…?

  She frowned. Her coat and the bag she’d packed to go down to Manhattan were sitting next to the front hall closet.

  No cell, though. No pager.

  She dragged her sorry ass upstairs and checked by her bed, but the pair weren’t there. Back down on the first floor she went through the kitchen. Nothing. And her shoulder bag, the one she always took to work, was missing, too. Could she have left the thing in the car all weekend?

  She opened the door into the garage and the automatic light came on.

  Weird. Her car was parked headfirst. Usually she backed it in.

  Which just proved how out-of-it she’d been.

  Sure enough her bag was in the front seat, and she cursed herself as she went back into the condo while dialing. How could she have gone for so long without calling in? Even though she was covered by other attendings, she was never out of touch for more than five hours.

  Her service had a number of messages, but luckily none of them were urgent. The important ones concerning patient care had been turfed to whoever was on call, so the rest of it was stuff she could handle later.

  She was heading out of the kitchen, making a beeline for her bedroom, when she looked at the mug of chocolate. She didn’t have to touch it to know it
had gone cold, so she might as well ditch the thing. She went and picked it up, but paused over the sink. For some reason she couldn’t bear to throw it out. She left it right where it was on the counter, though she did return the milk to the refrigerator.

  Upstairs in her bedroom she ditched her clothes, letting them land where they did, pulled on a T-shirt, and got in bed.

  She was settling between her sheets when she realized her body was stiff, especially her inner thighs and lower back. Under different circumstances she would have said she’d had a lot of terrific sex…either that or climbed a mountain. But instead it was just the flu.

  Shit. Columbia. The interview.

  She’d call Ken Falcheck later this morning, apologize for what she hoped was the second time, and reschedule. They were hungry for her to come onboard, but not showing for an interview with the chairman of the department was insulting as hell. Even if you were sick.

  Rearranging herself against her pillows, she couldn’t get comfortable. Her neck was tight, and she reached up to massage it, only to frown. There was a sore spot on the right side in front, a real…What the hell? She had a pattern there, some raised bumps.

  Whatever. Rashes were not unheard-of with the flu. Or maybe a spider had done her in.

  She closed her eyes and told herself to rest. Resting was good. Resting would get rid of this bug faster. Resting would bring her back to normal, a reboot for her body.

  Just as she drifted off, an image came to mind, an image of a man with a goatee and diamond eyes. His mouth was moving as he looked at her, framing the words…I love you.

  Jane struggled to hold on to what she saw, but she was sliding fast into sleep’s dark arms. She fought to stay with the image and lost the battle. The last thing she was aware of were tears flowing onto her pillow as the blackness stole her away.

  Well, wasn’t this awkward.

  John sat on the bench-press in the weight room and watched as Zsadist did bicep curls across the way. The huge loads of iron made a subtle clinking sound as they went up and down, and that was it for noise. There had been no talking so far; it was just like one of their walks, only without the woods. The convo was coming, though. John could sense it.