Bond of Blood

by Diane Whiteside

  Ah, si, now he was finding the way to her passion. He immediately soothed her with his tongue, then gently repeated the caress. She bucked against him, sobbing.

  His hands trembled, he who had pleasured women without number!

  He wrapped his arm around her, steadying her. Waited until she calmed down slightly, then slipped one hand inside the front of her dress.

  He stroked her belly gently, slow circles over her center. Gradually, her breathing matched his movements. His chest was tight, heat flushing through his body. Self-control was a distant thing, fraying under his pounding pulse. But he needed to soften and stretch her before she could hope to accept him into her.

  He closed his eyes, forcing some discipline back into himself.

  Her body's tension echoed the pressure of his fingers. He circled wider, deeper over her soft skin, her heat burning his fingers… And she moaned again, her head falling back against him.

  The sound shook him to his bones.

  He slid both hands inside her dress, moving closer so she stood astride his leg, her skirts rucked halfway up her thighs. Her hips rocked against his, her eyes shut in a sensual haze. He slid his hands up over her breasts, fondled, kneaded. He growled his approval when she reached back and stroked his hip, pulling him closer, fingers sliding over his ass. Ah, how he enjoyed that caress!

  "More, please," she whispered, rubbing her ass over his thigh.

  His breath hitched as he luxuriated in the feel of her soft flesh.

  He pleasured her nipples—plucking and strumming them, until they stabbed against his palm and she was gasping for breath. He kissed her neck again and again, teasing and tormenting her sensitive spots. His cock was hot and hard behind his linen trousers, her every wriggle a torment.

  Then he swept his hand down over her belly, repeating the circles that she'd enjoyed, savoring how quickly she found his rhythm again. He thrust his leg harder against her, opening her wider, needing to push her farther, faster, higher.

  She gasped, struggled to find her balance—and his hand slipped deep inside her utilitarian panties. He rubbed her clit hard, in the rhythm he'd seen give her pleasure, and nipped her neck, careful to keep his fangs sheathed.

  Grania screamed and climaxed, her cream gushing over his hand. His hips rolled against her, desperate to pound into her.

  ¡Madre Santa, but she was beautiful in the throes of passion! He closed his eyes, lest he be even more tempted to tear off his trousers.

  When he thought he could control himself, Rafael deliberately slipped first one, then two fingers into her. He shuddered as her orgasm's aftershocks seized him. Biting his lip, he stretched her as much as he readily could in her orgasm's aftermath. All the while, he possessively watched the dazed satiation spread over her face.

  Her eyes were heavy in passion's aftermath as she tried to stand up on her own. "Aren't you going to, ah, take your hand away?"

  A smile played around his lips, as he gently twisted his fingers inside her, widening her further for his possession. "Why, amante? You have seen me. Two of my fingers are smaller than what you'll soon accept."

  She turned even redder. "Your cock is a statistical outlier!"

  He frowned and his eyebrows drew together. If that was an insult, it was the first time he'd heard it. "Please explain yourself, querida.'"

  She wriggled, tried to get away, finally accepted that she couldn't, and settled back against him, almost with a flounce. "Your cock is so large that it's well outside the range of average men," she announced, staring straight ahead, chin held high.

  Rafael threw his head back and roared with laughter. "In other words, enormous!"

  She flushed, blushing again. He extricated his fingers and licked them clean in a salute to her. She blushed even deeper at the sight.

  She was so beautiful that he tossed her up into his arms and kissed her.

  "Caveman," she whispered against his mouth. Then she wrapped her arm around his neck and returned his passion, their tongues tangling eagerly as their mouths melded.

  "Bedroom," he announced firmly, drawing back slightly. Her eyes widened before she nodded, gulping a little.

  He carried her there too and laid her gently down on the enormous bed. The furniture here was as large and masculine as in the main room, with still more Native American rugs. Simpler windows and a stone fireplace covered one wall, with a bathroom visible beyond. This room was a sanctuary, rather than a display of wealth and power.

  Rafael toed off his shoes quickly, before attacking the rest of his clothes. Grania leaned up on her elbows, looking around—his ever-curious doctora. He paused to cup her cheek, his shirt hanging open, his fingertips sliding into her escaping tendrils of hair. "Questions, mi alma?"

  She rubbed her cheek against his hand like a cat, her fingers sliding inside his shirt to toy with his chest hair. "When you bite me, please take as much blood as you want."

  What? She, a medical doctor, would ask this of a known vampiro? He drew back slightly to consider her expression. "Are you very certain?"

  "Completely. I don't want you to feel limited in any way tonight. And, for Pete's sake, remember you're not stopping with masturbation!"

  "If you insist." He laughed and kissed her. Then he released her and pulled her dress over her head.

  Dios mió, she was beautiful with her blue eyes the color of the North Sea, the coloring Fearghus had always praised above all others. He freed her breasts from that utilitarian bra and worshipped them with his mouth. Every vein, every curve, suckling, nibbling, kneading. Blowing across her beautiful skin to enhance their sensitivity. Savoring every gasp, every time she sobbed his name, gasped, bucked.

  Every lover was unique and enjoyable and valuable; exploring those differences was how he'd survived, how he'd stayed sane across the centuries. Yet Grania was somehow startlingly familiar, as if he'd known her somewhere before, done exactly this with her before.

  She stroked his head and shoulders, pulling him to her, moaning his name. His own breathing turned ragged as her breath ruffled his hair. His chest tightened, heat raced through his veins as if desperate to find her. He fought for control, to keep a thin rein of discipline so he wouldn't hurt her.

  He pulled away, stood up, and shoved his trousers down with little art.

  "Condom?" she whispered, eyes enormous as she watched.

  "No need."

  "Really?" she muttered. "You must be so close to a different species that you can't catch human diseases or impregnate females."

  He glanced back at her over his shoulder, as he tossed his trousers onto the chair. "Verdaderamente." He spun to face her, displaying himself, stroking his cock that would soon—finally!—find its ease in her.

  Grania studied him, eyes bright with lust and approval, teeth teasing her lower lip. The gesture was familiar but this was not the time for thinking.

  His come burned in his balls, aching for release, as his cock rose and swelled still further.

  Discipline, he told himself again. Discipline. You've had thousands of women. Do not let this one distract you.

  He tilted her chin up with one finger. "Querida."

  Her tongue ran over her lips, her eyes sweeping over him in hunger, as her hands fondled his hips and squeezed his ass. "Rafael, please…"

  Sanity fled and, with it, all traces of self-control. He growled in his throat, responding instantly to her invitation. He crushed her into the bed, moving so fast and hard that he slid her back a full body's length. His cock probed her sweet, creamy pussy—and he growled again when he recognized her complete readiness.

  He shifted slightly, aiming himself, and entered. She gasped, nails scoring his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his hips.

  He pushed again and she bucked, moaning his name. His come built higher, more insistent. He groaned her name against her throat, locking his arms around her. His, maldita sea, his.

  He thrust and she took him cleanly, their bodies melding as if they'd done this hundreds of times be
fore. Their tempo increased, passion building in both of them.

  She begged for more of him, with her voice and her body. His fangs descended, pressure built higher and higher from his spine through his cock. Every inch of skin was fire bright, sensitized and alive to the feel of her skin, her muscles, her sweat, gripping and sliding over him.

  Something gleamed, just out of sight, like the scintillating pinwheel he'd felt during the conyugal bond. He concentrated—and it vanished instantly. He snarled but he had no energy to worry about seeking it again, not when his come was boiling in his balls.

  He pounded harder into her, listening only to vampiro instinct for when she'd climax, when he could taste her and trigger his own ecstasy. He shifted, desperate to increase her rapture and speed her climax. Found the point inside her that would send her into rapture—and felt her stiffen. Saw the shock of sudden bliss touch her face. Triumph touched him then, as orgasm's first shockwave swept her.

  Perfecto.

  Rafael bit down, fast and deep, on her neck. She convulsed again, as the vampiro elixir immediately strengthened her orgasm. She screamed her release as wave after wave rocked her body. He drank deep, glorying in the taste of her ecstasy, sharply brilliant on the tip of his tongue, rich and dark against the back of his mouth. It raced through him, exploded down his spine and up through his balls, shooting him over the edge.

  He shook, silently, over and over as he drank, every swallow of her blood driving a fresh rapture through every fiber of his being. Pumping his come into her as he too climaxed, still holding tight to that thin thread of discipline, lest he harm her as a vampiro could so easily do to a prosaico.

  He withdrew carefully when her orgasm ended, cuddling her as echoing tremors rocked her beautiful body. Next time perhaps, he'd unbraid her hair and thread his fingers through all its silken glory.

  He lay with her afterward under the sheets, gently licking the puncture marks on her neck. Even without additional care, they'd disappear within twelve hours. While yet again, there'd been no conyugal bond, she'd still been a remarkable amante and deserved special care.

  Perhaps he'd been watching too hard for the conyugal bond, since even that slight tension could push it away. Perhaps.

  Grania shifted slightly, caressing his back. Rafael stiffened slightly, ever wary of attention to those scars, then nuzzled her neck. "Do you want something, Grania?"

  "Just curious."

  Rafael sighed, resigned to yet more questions from his scientific amante. He shifted so both their heads were lying on the pillows and they could look at each other. "What do you want to ask me about?"

  "How old are you? You don't have to answer, of course." Her eyes were direct and sympathetic.

  Knowing Grania, he wondered what had brought the subject up, since it probably wasn't related to carnal expertise. "Why?"

  His amante promptly reverted to la doctora as he'd seen her at the raptor center, a fierce protector of the wounded. "I treated a bobcat once who'd been tangled up in a roll of barbed wire. He lost almost all his skin and nearly died but his scars weren't nearly as deep as yours. Yours must have taken years to acquire—years of being whipped, then healing, then whipped again. Whoever did that to you," she growled, her fists clenching the sheets.

  Rafael's heart turned over at her willingness to fight for him. But what could she have done against the likes of The Syrian and Beau? "Don't fret. It was over seven centuries ago," he soothed, cuddling her.

  She was rigid against him. "Brutes," she growled, thumping him. "Abusers of innocents. All of them should have been shot."

  He caught her hand and kissed the top of her head. If she tried to fight Beau… "Relájate, Grania. Don't worry about it."

  "Shoot them all," she muttered but allowed him to soothe her. Gradually, she relaxed against him, snuggling with her arm around his waist and their legs tangled together. He knew the instant her agile brain found a different thread but he couldn't quite see her face.

  "If you've been alive for centuries, how long have you been lived in Texas?"

  "Two centuries, querida," Rafael answered, wondering where this was leading.

  "Back then, Texas was a frontier with less than two people per square mile. Whether you counted Anglos, Hispanics, or Native Americans." How could a woman with her pussy tucked up against his cock sound so dispassionate?

  "St." Why was she asking about such a well-known fact?

  "There were very few people around back then and most of them were men, given the classic frontier imbalance of men to women. But you were feeding on sexual energy," she mused, stroking his waist. "So logic says you must have had sex with men. After all, would a tiger refuse a goat because it was the wrong gender?"

  Rafael gawked. Given the exigencies of hunting prey, all vampiros were assumed to be bisexual unless they explicitly stated otherwise—like Gray Wolf. However, not all prosaicos were as pragmatic as vampiros had to be.

  "That is a very scientific analysis, Grania," he ventured, extremely aware of their musks' combined scent. "Does it disturb you?"

  Her head snapped back and she glared up at him. "If your long life included encounters with brutes, like the ones who scarred your back, then I pray to God it also included some joy wherever you found it."

  He was speechless. Grania sniffed and rested her head back against his heart. "Still think the other bastards should be shot."

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  Rodrigo snarled, baring his teeth in a wolf's grin. His first time in the arena, after learning to shapeshift into a wolf.

  Diego snarled back, the ritual beginning to a shapeshifter duel. He was also in a wolf's form, something he'd mastered years ago.

  The Syrian watched from above, his hand held high. Then he dropped it and Diego lunged.

  Rodrigo dodged and bit hard at Diego's flank, gaining only a mouthful of fur. Then teeth came down hard into his leg, with a loud crack of broken bone. He fell helplessly to the ground.

  Diego stood up in human form, laughing.

  "Yaa ibni l-'aziiz, you were perfect!" The Syrian applauded. "Dodging the infidel, then leading him into a trap. Do that often enough, with ever more complex moves, and you'll train him to always be defeated by you."

  Rodrigo staggered to his feet, shifting back into human form—the rest form for healing as a vampiro. His right leg couldn't bear much weight.

  Diego bowed with a flourish. "May I do it again and feed on him this time?"

  "Certainly!"

  Hell. Rodrigo came on guard.

  "Prepare yourself, unbeliever!" The Syrian shouted genially. He raised his hand and dropped it immediately. Diego charged.

  An instant later, Diego bowled Rodrigo over, knocking the wind out of him. Then the pendejo ripped his thigh open with a ragged nail and started to feed…

  Beau strolled down the Dallas hotel's corridor, truly relaxed for the first time in centuries. Once again he had luxurious surroundings and an obsequious flunky showing him the way, after a scented bath, manicure, and pedicure. The finest of clothing caressed his skin, with soft leather shoes protecting his feet and the sweet taste of blood and terror on his tongue from that young coed. She'd unaccountably died—but no matter. The authorities would never decipher the cause.

  This was exactly how life should be spent, as it had been for those two wonderful centuries in his true home. When The Syrian had captured him at Ecija and offered to adopt him if he'd convert, he'd promptly agreed, knowing he was too poor to ransom himself. But he'd gained so much more than he'd hoped that day. He'd been safe in the care of a loving father for the first time in his life, cherished in a way utterly different from Rodrigo's eternal sermons on duty and honor.

  He'd enjoyed learning the tricks of being a vampiro, such as different animal shapes, then practicing them by tearing into Rodrigo. He'd always won, of course, since he'd matured first as a vampiro and Rodrigo's vampiro body was trained, from its earliest days, to expect defeat at his hands.

&nbs
p; He glanced at his reflection and smiled. Damn, he'd been good. He tried out a few steps, the better ones—fast, like a salsa dance. Just like the best dance partners, Rodrigo had always wound up at the perfect point in the end. It was always so enjoyable to see the sanctimonious wretch lie bleeding at his feet.

  His face tightened as he remembered all that sharmuuT had done, then relaxed. Revenge would be very sweet when it finally came.

  His grin widened further. He just needed to finish setting up that final dance and then he'd have Rafael right where he wanted him. But this time, he'd be dead.

  The hotel manager knocked on the conference room's door and Devol's rough voice answered promptly. The manager opened the door and stood aside for Beau. "Here's your meeting, sir, with everything as you requested. If not, please give me a call at this number."

  Beau favored him with a sweet smile. "You were recommended as the best and you've more than lived up to that reference. Thank you."

  "It is our pleasure to serve you, sir." The manager accepted his enormous tip with a bow then departed, without once looking at Devol.

  Beau sauntered in and surveyed the refreshments on the sideboard. Cristal champagne, as he'd requested. A variety of beers for Devol—one could not be expected to remember a brute's preferences. He plucked the champagne bottle out of its ice bucket and began to open it.

  The small conference room was lavishly paneled and designed to encourage conversations among small groups. A few paintings of expensive racehorses provided touches of color, in between heavy green curtains. The only exceptions to the atmosphere of old-fashioned masculine clubbiness were the high-tech screen covering one wall and its complicated controls set in the central table.

  A lavish, silk-draped bedroom was displayed on the screen, Madame Celeste's favorite chamber for feeding on prosaicos plucked from her nightclub. A black box, smaller than a cigarette pack, was the only hint her bedroom had any relationship to modern technology.

  "I don't see why you pamper those stupid prosaicos," Devol growled. Shit, he should have had a beer by now, not be standing there sweating. Why had he arrived so late? "Give me ten seconds and I'd have him terrorized into doing what we want."