"Exactly how many times? Siete?"
His jaw dropped. "Seven times? Are you trying to torture me?"
She grinned, very pleased with herself. "Can you think of a better way?"
He shook his head. "Not at all, luz de mi corazón."
"If I fail," she added, "you must torture me."
"Grania, I would never—never!—do—"
"In your dungeon in the basement. You know, the place with all the toys, like the feathers, the dildos, the vibrators…"
He caught her up and kissed her, a salute she returned with enthusiasm.
"You are a marvel, mi vida" he murmured against her cheek.
"As are you, darling. But you're the one who's dressed."
He moved away and peeled his shirt over his head. Grania slid her hand up his chest, exploring the springiness and prickles of his chest. She caught the nubs of his nipples between two of her fingers and stopped. "Nice."
He froze. Through the conyugal bond, she felt him shudder down to his bones.
She very delicately squeezed her fingers together around his nipples. The jolt that ran through him made both of them gasp.
"Yummy," she breathed. She leaned forward and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of his chest, just below his collarbone. Slowly, very slowly, she began to kiss him with lips and tongue and teeth, along the great sweep of muscle. His chest ached but so did hers. Her breath rasped in her throat at his taste.
"Por Dios, Grania, have mercy!" His voice was ragged.
"Mmmmm." Her answer was muffled as she moved to his other nipple. "Trousers?" she reminded, more intelligibly.
He somehow managed to remove them without losing a button.
"Good man." She dragged her teeth very gently over his nipple, quivered as his gasp reverberated through her lungs, and repeated the gesture.
He sucked in his breath, then began to strip the pins out of her hair with ferocious speed. An instant later, he combed it out with his fingers, spread it over her shoulders, and caressed her head. His strong fingers felt like heaven as they kneaded her scalp. She purred, nuzzling him. It seemed the easiest thing to do to open her mouth further and draw him in with deep, hard pulls.
He groaned, shuddering, and rose up on his toes against her. She moaned, locked her arms around his waist to pull him in, and dropped her hand to his cock. She caressed it with long, slow pulls, fondling the fat mushroom cap and the thick shaft that had brought her so much pleasure. Her hands slid lower and cupped his balls. Every move of her hands was gentle and slow, a steady show of appreciation, while her mouth worked his chest and he crooned his encouragement in soft Spanish.
Her pussy heated approvingly and her clit pulsed. Her breasts throbbed with every pull of her lips on his chest.
He growled softly—and orgasm rippled through him, traveling upwards from his hips. He groaned again but didn't ejaculate, both of them savoring the waves of pleasure washing through his body like a gentle tide.
The same gentle tide caught Grania into an orgasm. She laid her head against him, moaning, and enjoyed herself.
Rafael panted softly until he caught his breath. He rested his cheek on her soft hair, triumph running through his veins at her soft warmth against his heart. His at last, in his arms forever, sharing their every breath.
"Grania, mi vida, did you seduce me deliberately?"
She didn't move. "Whazzat?"
He chuckled softly. ¡Ay de mi, how her curls tickled his arm as easily as they fell down her back! He slid his hand into the silken strands and played with them. He needed to be strong for both of them. She was such a young cachorra that she'd be sure to follow his lead.
She snorted. Do you really think so?
I thought you were trying to stay out of my mind, he observed mildly.
Oh, that's right. Sorry.
She snuggled closer. His arms tightened around her and their breathing matched again.
If she fed from him again, it would increase his emotion, of course. He'd very nearly lost control in the penthouse when she'd drunk from him so hard and so long after the duel. It was a miracle he hadn't told Ethan they'd stay there for another day while he rode her.
She kissed his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist.
He really shouldn't make love to her again. She was a very young cachorra and must be desperate for a long sleep, at least fifteen hours. Maybe eighteen or twenty, given last night's exertions.
Grania began to gently rub the small of his back.
He personally needed only two or three hours of sleep. He'd have plenty of time to talk to his men and make plans.
She stroked his ass.
¡Ay, mierda, they could wait a little longer to rest!
"Grania, mi alma." He kissed her, teasing her mouth with promises of more until she was moaning and twisting impatiently against him. He dropped little kisses along her jaw and down her throat. She trembled, arching her neck and silently begging for more.
He bunched her fragile, exquisite silk skirts up in his hands, stroking her legs and hips. She moved closer still, pressing herself against him. She arched her head back for another kiss and he pulled her dress over her head, then smoothly kissed further down her throat.
She moaned, pressing his head closer. Her fingers sank into his hair, tousling it and kneading his scalp. Spine-tingling delight leapt down to his toes. He groaned her name and nuzzled her breast.
She sobbed, pulling him closer, as he enjoyed her breasts. They were so perfectly formed for his mouth, with their rosy buds that furled so quickly under his tongue, and the blue veins for him to trace, while she shivered. His pulse raced, as his mouth dried. His balls grew heavier and fatter.
¡Por Dios but he needed her to drink from him!
He lifted her up in two strong, callused hands, braced her against the wall, and ripped her thong off.
He paused, fighting to slow down. He could not simply take her like a rutting beast. Surely they had time for some pretty words, a few kisses, some long caresses…
Grania ran her finger down his spine. His breath stopped. His cock throbbed wildly against her soft belly.
Her blue eyes opened, blazing with lust. She slid one leg over his hip, opening herself to him. His balls tucked themselves up tightly against his cock, desperate for release.
He gritted his teeth. Slowly, making the most of every moment, he slid into her. She groaned with pleasure, fluttering her sheath around him. Sanity fled and he howled, hot, wet delight bouncing back and forth between them through the conyugal bond. Cock deep in pussy, pussy kissing cock. Even their breath was in harmony when he began to move.
Rafael growled in pleasure, unable to say where either of their bodies started or stopped, only that all was ecstasy. She fitted him perfectly as she always had but now there was no fear of harming her. He was free to enjoy her without holding back, without keeping part of himself aside to keep watch lest he hurt her.
He roared in delight when he felt her womb grip his cock, then change shape as he stroked in and out of her. When her strong internal muscles gripped his cock and she sobbed her encouragement, he chanted in Galician as he hadn't done since he was a teenager. Nothing existed but the ecstasy passing back and forth between them, as the pulses built higher and higher in their blood and bones.
He slammed her again and again against the wall, their bodies locked together as they strained together for climax. It came closer and closer, the pulses faster and stronger, until Rafael sliced his jugular, growling.
Instantly, Grania bit down hard and drank.
He threw back his head and howled like a wolf as orgasm racked him to the bone. He shot jet after jet of come into her, as she simultaneously gulped his blood.
Linked at three physical points and through the conyugal bond, they were entirely one, so perfectly united the world beyond ceased to exist.
She roused when he slipped into bed with her afterward, snuggling against her back and wrapping his arms around her. "Any more
councils of war tonight? Or should I say today?"
"No, querida, not today. Jean-Marie has returned to New Orleans and everything here is quiet." For now.
Grania kissed his hand, in unspoken acknowledgment of his worry. She summoned a question from her long list, trying to stay awake with him. Being a cachorra and having to hibernate fifteen hours a day was hell, when you had a lover like him. "Why did you change your name to Rafael? Is it because I prayed to San Rafael Arcángel for you?"
He began to tuck the sheet around them. "Will you ever run out of questions, mi corazón?" His voice held only amused acceptance.
"No, never," she answered simply, hiding a jaw-breaking yawn. "And how did you wind up in Texas?"
"Those stories, querida, will have to be told another day. You, like all cachorros, need your sleep."
He kissed her hair. Amarte para siempre, no sería suficiente, he added, a catch in his voice.
Even forever doesn't seem long enough, she agreed, nestling closer. But we have it now, Dios mediante.
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
"During 2005, the Wildlife Center of Virginia admitted 2,369 animals for treatment—injured, ailing, and orphaned wildlife from all across Virginia. As expected, the 2005 total included many common species—Eastern Cottontail rabbits, Virginia opossums, and Eastern Gray squirrels—but also admitted for treatment were a number of threatened species or species of special concern, including twenty bald eagles, eleven barn owls, a peregrine falcon, and two long-eared owls.
"In April 2006, the Wildlife Center admitted its 45 thousandth patient—an orphaned Virginia opossum."
They also warmly and patiently answered endless questions from at least this author.
Thank you.
The Wildlife Center of Virginia
P.O. Box 1557
Waynesboro, VA 22980
(540)942-9453
www.wildlifecenter.org
* * *
Jean-Marie's story will be told in
Bond of Fire
coming Fall 2007 from Berkley Sensation
Hélène d'Agelet strolled into the private club in Mayfair just after sunset, very pleased with her new Stella McCartney outfit. Its crisp jauntiness, from the ridiculous hat to the miniscule purse and the high-heeled shoes, had proven to be exactly what she needed to take her mind off yet another rainy English day. After two centuries of living on this island (except for duties overseas during wars), she'd once expected to grow accustomed to the weather, but that had never come to pass.
She'd originally diverted herself from the weather by trying to out-spend her pension from the British vampiros on clothes. She hadn't succeeded. In fact, she'd become so irritated at the stodgy Britons for continuing to fund her extravagance that she'd learned to make a great deal of money. But she still enjoyed fashion more than anything else in Great Britain, except their men. And none of those had kept her attention for more than a few months. Oaths kept her here, bonds of duty, not affection.
In the main clubroom, a centuries-old hymn to carved wood, old books, and leather chairs, a dozen vampiros were gathered around a table, talking excitedly and peering over something with what looked like a magnifying glass, or perhaps a jeweler's loupe.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said sweetly.
A glass crashed to the floor. A tall decanter swayed wildly, its golden contents tumbling like an earthquake's barometer. Vampiros tried to pretend they'd been behaving like adults, not schoolchildren caught by their teacher. Their leader rose to face Hélène.
"Madame d'Agelet." Lord Simon, the current West End patrón, bowed profoundly and gracefully, as befitted a duke's son and former colonel. He glanced back at his men, raising a supercilious brow. They rushed to stand up, looking more like abashed schoolboys than deadly mesnaderos. Chairs pushed back rapidly. One fell over.
He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Hélène."
The white scar slashing his cheek, courtesy of a Prussian general in the dying days of World War I, puckered as he smiled at her. She'd heard the Prussian general hadn't lived long enough after the meeting to count his scars.
"Mow cher Simon." She smiled back at him, letting her genuine affection show.
"You look remarkably beautiful tonight. Stella McCartney, I would hazard a guess?"
Senses trained by two centuries in the deadliest profession came fully alert. Why the devil had Lord Simon, who had no fashion sense, tried to butter her up by mentioning her couturier?
She nodded confirmation, tossing her head so the silly hat's finer points could be seen.
"Please, join us for a cognac. Delamain Tres Venerable, s'il tu veux?"
A polite invitation and she'd bet a million pounds he was hoping she wouldn't accept it.
One of the men—a fit-looking fellow, probably one of Lord Simon's SAS recruits—tried to slide the paper off the table and into a leather portfolio.
Hélène promptly lit the ornamental candelabra at his elbow. He froze, obviously aware that she could have torched him as easily—or the entire house.
"Sounds good," she answered. She enjoyed using Americanisms, just to remind the British she wasn't one of theirs. "Can I have the loupe too?" She held out her hand and smiled sweetly at Lord Simon.
His eyes narrowed slightly before he gave a resigned shrug and nodded at his underling. He was eighty years old, the oldest of London's current set of patrones, while most of his men were the typical ten- to thirty-year-old vampiros. He had a good, tough set of mesnaderos that no other patrón sought a fight with, even if none of his men could stand up to her.
They'd worked together briefly in Occupied France and she still remembered his delight in the more outlandish masquerade costumes. She'd been a firestarter on his team of saboteurs, since she could kill any vampiro before a duel started or a weapon was fired.
But he'd known her long enough to be certain that she wouldn't fly off the handle. So why was he afraid?
She examined the photo carefully under the light, setting aside her eternal French bemusement at using Spanish terminology. After all, they had lived with Arabs for centuries on that peninsula and translated the great Arab encyclopedias and travelogues, thus creating the vocabulary that all vampiros now used.
The photo's creator had shot from an elevated vantage point at an awkward angle, making the print less than straightforward. Still, some things could be gleaned. Late 1920s America, somewhere that understood high fashion—New Orleans, perhaps? A festive street scene, probably Mardi Gras, given the masks and costumes. Most of the faces in the crowd were turned away from the camera or out of focus, making them unreadable.
She moved the lens methodically over the print, as she'd been taught. Somebody swallowed hard behind her and was admonished with an elbow.
A face sprang out at her. She froze, her hand clenching on the loupe until her knuckles turned white. A woman, the image of her mother.
Impossible! Maman had died during the Reign of Terror, while her little sister, the image of Maman, had been killed by French spies. If la petite was actually alive, how much of that time had been truth or lies? How many of those deaths had truly been necessary?
Lord Simon set a snifter down beside her. She gulped the fine cognac with scant regard for its quality or high cost. Nom de Dieu, if la petite was alive, answers must be demanded.
She shifted the loupe slightly to give herself time to think. A man's face appeared beside her sister. Jean-Marie St. Just? She almost knocked the loupe off the table before she could control herself.
Her mouth tightened when a second man came into focus. Don Rodrigo Perez, Jean-Marie's beau-frère. A most polite and intimidating fellow when she'd met him at Versailles two centuries ago. In this picture, he was alert and menacing, as if ready to kill the unseen photographer.
She tapped the photo and stared at Lord Simon. "Who is the woman?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Madame Celeste, now the patrona of New Orleans, who holds most of the southeaster
n United States."
Hélène gaped. La petite was a vampira patrona! Why on earth would she do that? She'd always preferred to work through the men she slept with.
And living in New Orleans? Probably to avoid her older sister. A righteous anger curled in Hélène's gut, as she considered all the deaths she had to ask her sister about. Other questions first, though.
"And the two men?"
"One is Jean-Marie St. Just, the heraldo of Texas, who I've met before. I assume that the other is Don Rafael Perez, the patrón of Texas."
Well, now, what were they most afraid of—Don Rafael's reaction or her own? Proof of vampiro immortality could spark a prosaico outcry and lead to a mob, the one thing all vampiros feared. Possessing a picture of a vampiro was therefore very unhealthy. But a photo of two patrones, especially when one of them was a vampiro mayor and notoriously thorough about protecting himself? Even one of London's patrones could fear for his life under those circumstances.
As for her own reaction, it was entirely possible that Whitehall had warned the patrones to keep her from learning la petite was alive, lest she ignore her oaths to Britain. Rage stirred deep within.
She raised her eyes to Lord Simon. "How long have they known?"
"Two years. I warned them you'd be furious."
She smiled wryly, caught despite herself by an old friend's understanding. "Bastards. They should have told me immediately."
"They were probably afraid of your reaction."
"Or Don Rafael's."
"Agreed. All of these lads have come up against his Santiago Trust before and have the bruises to show for it."
A thought flashed through her head.
"Whitehall doesn't want me to leave, do they?"
He shrugged.
"But I'll just bet they don't want Don Rafael to know about this picture either—or that they've been hiding it from him for two years."
Gasps ran around the room. Someone muttered a soft, vicious curse.
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