by Jackie Ivie
Oh.
Holy crap.
This was incredible. Unprecedented. Unbelievable. And inescapably wonderful. Her eyelids lowered. Her breath caught. And shivers erupted everywhere. A different Marla Sanders had taken over somehow. There wasn’t a thing she could do to change it. Nor did she have any desire to do so. She’d never been this forward, felt this uninhibited, and she’d never done anything so free and unfettered. She should be cringing in embarrassment, rather than clinging to his leg almost like a stripper would a pole.
“Will there be anything before we retire? Would your lady fancy a light repast? Perhaps a bottle of chilled champagne?”
“Anam-charaid?”
He tipped his head to look down at her again. He didn’t have his hair pulled back now. She’d never been a fan of long-haired men. She was rapidly changing her opinion. His hair framed and shadowed his face as he looked at her. Their eyes met. His were dark bluish green. Hers, the same brown shade as her hair. Her heart stopped. The entire world disappeared. There was just him. And her. And an endless fascination behind his gaze.
I’d like to know where the bedroom is.
He grinned, as if she’d said it aloud. His eyes flickered strangely. She couldn’t tell the color, but there was definitely a depth that tempted and then ensnared. There was something different about his mouth, too. Something...odd. Her eyes caught it, but her intellect dismissed it. He still had the most kissable-looking mouth she’d ever seen. She couldn’t wait to taste it.
But...were those spikes????
No. No, Marla. You are imagining things.
Again.
Still.
She probably should have paid attention to more than his eyes, the connection of her arms wrapped about him, how strong his thigh felt where she gripped it between hers. Because she didn’t notice how the décor changed. Nor did she note when the attendants left or to where. The room she found herself in was candlelit, flickers bouncing off lacquered black surfaces, filtering through darkness with light from a myriad of sources.
“Where...are we?”
The words came out in such a husky timbre, they scratched her throat. Was that voice really hers? She sounded like thick desire on warm flesh. It matched exactly how she felt. Hot and bothered, anxious and edgy, wound up to breaking point...and not one bit like herself.
“’Tis a bedroom.”
Oh hell. His brogue colored the statement. She was in way over her head here, and heading into deeper territory with every passing moment. And she didn’t even care. He pressed what had to be his lips to her forehead before lifting her in his arms, gaining her a vantage point so near the ceiling she almost bumped into it. Then he twisted. Moved. Her back met a wealth of mattress, slick with silken sheets that warmed almost instantly. And then he dented the structure with his frame as he joined her.
She’d suspected he had a fantastic body. The actual discovery was beyond comprehension. Her hands roved him, fingers molding about the indentations of washboard abs, the swell of pecs, the ripped biceps in his upper arms. And everywhere she touched, she garnered a growing tempest of reaction. Her frame vibrated with longing. His wasn’t far behind. The groan he put into play carried every bit of his shuddering. And when he spoke words against her throat, he sent a blizzard of shivers in their wake.
“Oh, lass. Lass. Anam-charaid. I’ve waited so long. You ready?” he asked.
“For...what?” The sex siren named Marla asked.
“Me.”
And then he bit her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cullen had a long memory. And a lot of years to fill it. Back when Akron had first approached with The Offer, the man had been cryptic. He’d made it sound like a decision that needed careful pondering. Becoming a member of the Vampire Assassin League wasn’t entry to eternal life. It was the same as death. And it was forever. You stayed the same physically. You would never thirst, hunger, need medical attention. But there was a price to pay. Vampirism meant you lost all emotion. Feeling. Sensation. No longer would you feel joy. Suffer lust. Experience pleasure.
Still, Cullen MacCorrick hadn’t hesitated. He was young. Hale and hearty. Fit and virile. He was a man who did everything by reflex. Pondering, reasoning, and weighing decisions were an old man’s way of life. He’d accepted Akron’s offer with alacrity. His other choice was a scheduled execution the following morn, and, according to his guards, the Sassenach had an especially gruesome one planned for him.
He hadn’t fully understood what Akron had been describing until it happened. He hadn’t realized what lack of pleasure actually meant. Cullen had taken the act of lovemaking as a given. A supreme gift to all mankind. He’d been wrong. Losing that had been akin to purgatory. And it was forever. Akron had been off on his description, too. Not about the dead part. Lack of function and ability was instantaneous. That was true. But lust? That was another issue entirely. The ghosts of passion and desire and interest had still been there. As well as the memories.
Then even those faded.
Until the night at Stonehenge. When he’d met his soul mate. His Anam-charaid in his native Scot Gaelic. Her. Marla.
Being near her was an astounding experience. Touching her was tantamount to achieving paradise. Even when he’d lived, Cullen couldn’t recall experiencing things to such an extent. It was better than the first lungful of air after a deep dive into a loch. Larger than the thrill of battle. It soared beyond what winning a clan skirmish had felt like. Or a midnight cattle raid. It was better than the moment when he’d earned his father’s respect and been named heir.
And then he tasted her blood.
By the goddess, Druantia, Queen of the Druids! The deity who ruled passions. Sex. Creativity...
Cullen’s groan carried some of the rapture as he sucked at her throat. He was instantly hooked. Completely enmeshed. Totally absorbed. She tasted of pure bliss! Light! Wonder! He shuddered, blinked rapidly at the instant stab of tears, and pulled her closer, tucking her body alongside his. She was wondrously sweet. Warm. Perfect. He couldn’t get enough, nor could he do it quickly enough.
Her moans alerted him.
Cullen yanked his fangs from her with the reflex action. Blood spray filtered through his vision, coating the sheets. Walls. Creating a hiss and sputter as it met candle flame. His heart was giving him trouble. It matched hers. It wasn’t pounding in strong, quick, fierce beats like it had been moments before. His heartbeats were coming much slower. And they were weak. She was rocking her head from side-to-side, too. She looked pale. Her lips had lost color. She was no longer warm. And she was trembling.
Oh, bollocks.
Cullen called himself every kind of fool. He’d gone insane. What was he doing? He mustn’t drain her. Not yet. He had legions of time to change her. Vast spans of existence for that. He slashed a canine along his wrist, opening an artery, and then placed it above her mouth.
“Drink, my anam-charaid.”
Oh! How he wished he’d been gifted with a silvered tongue rather than warrior strength and agility! Or had any reason to work at his orating skills in the intervening centuries of existence. Cullen wasn’t a man who sought companionship. And he was a man of action. Words had seemed a waste of time. Until now.
“Marla-love? Please? Drink.”
Her lips touched him, erasing every thought. It took an act of will to stay motionless as her moans turned to mews of pleasure while she took from him. But he had to stop this before she went too far, and they had the opposite problem. Cullen moved his arm away with the same sense of reluctance she released it, licked at the cut to close it, watched her as he did so. And somehow contained the joy. Oh! He was so favored. Incredibly so. His mate was incredibly beautiful! Fresh. Without artifice. A dark fringe of lashes shielded her eyes from him. The sable color matched her hair. She had a lot more of it than he’d suspected, too. She’d worn it in braids, wrapped about her head. They’d come unfastened. Three long braids were entwined about him at least twice, acting as bondage...a
s if he needed it.
Her skirt had ridden up her thighs as she clutched at him. His kilt had done him the same favor. The combination of material bunched about their hips creating a bumper he didn’t need and a sight he couldn’t ignore. Cullen glanced down and couldn’t look away. His mate had spectacular legs. Slender. Trim. And...was it possible? She was hairless? He’d heard of women who shaved their legs. Seen an advert or two about it. He’d never actually known what it meant, and how it sculpted and defined feminine curves. Cullen caught another groan but it rumbled through his chest anyway. The view surpassed anything he could have imagined.
Ah.
This mate of his was beyond perfection. She was desire wrapped in excitement. Allure sheathed in beauty. Enticement swathed in fantasy and imagination he hadn’t realized he possessed.
She had a very nice bosom, too. He felt every nuance as she lifted off the mattress and pressed that perfect bosom against his chest. He’d already noted the flimsy-looking brassiere she wore. It was beneath a gauzy bit of material. That shirt didn’t conceal much. It was as effective as mist since they’d been in the elements. And she’d been wet. Neither clothing item did a thing to alter how anything felt. Having her breasts against him just added stimulation where he didn’t need and desire he was having difficulty containing.
The need to cleave with her was overwhelming. Throbbing through his veins with every beat of his reawakened heart. Demanding. Expecting. Stimulating. Cullen fought to control it. It was nearly impossible. Still, he did it. He didn’t even know why. Something else was orchestrating this. Something massive. Beyond contemplation. Supreme. He’d waited too long for her. Finding his mate was too special. How consummating their union would feel was beyond his imagination. He wasn’t taking her rapidly. He refused to allow a testosterone-fueled frenzy to dominate any part of it.
Cullen scrunched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, snarling slightly as he held himself apart from her. Taut. Hard. Constrained. The bedstead shook beneath them while his sporran took the brunt of his arousal with the repeated lunges he made. Even the railway car worked against him. Every continual sway hammered at his self-restraint, synchronizing the natural rhythm his body was begging for. Each move sent his loins hammering toward hers. Over and over. Separated by a fraction of space, seeming yards of material, and one sporran.
“Cullen?”
Her breath touched him, raising goose bumps. She sounded hesitant. Unsure. Excruciatingly young. She’d loosened her hold about him too, sagging back to the mattress while he’d held himself in check. And he hadn’t even noticed? Cullen opened his eyes, sucked in a breath, and moved his gaze to meet hers. She had a patina of moisture atop her eyes. The tip of her tongue touching a blood-stained bottom lip. The slightest line between her eyes as if she was worried.
She worried?
Cullen dropped onto her, pushing air from her ribcage with his weight. He couldn’t help it. The loss of control was instantaneous and complete. She had the body of his dreams and lips made for kissing. He wasn’t just kissing, though. He was gulping, and sucking, and marauding. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, shocking him. The world halted. Everything poised for the longest moment while he absorbed the play of her tongue against his. And then, like a tide that had been dammed up for too long, everything started back up again.
Oh! By all the gods! This was wondrous! Unbelievable! Incredible!
Cullen pushed up onto his elbows, cupping her face in his palms for leverage, using the motions she’d just taught him. This mode of kissing was new to him. He’d completely missed this when he’d lived. It went beyond thrilling – as if the top of his head might fly off. He couldn’t get enough. Her hands moved all about his back while she writhed beneath him, her motions accompanying the sway of the car. Her fingers seemed to shoot heat clear through him. Everywhere she touched. She went lower. Her fingers grazed the back of his belt. Her touch singed. Ignited. She delved beneath his kilt...grabbed at his ass, and Cullen responded instantly with a solid, uncontrollable lurch that separated their mouths.
His sporran got shoved aside. Yards of MacCorrick kilt and her skirt followed. Where it hampered, he tore. Questing fingers found her thighs. The top of a stocking. The sweet firmness of flesh. A strip of material he pushed aside, and...what was this? She didn’t have any hair on her loins, either?
He explored, his fingers completely overcome. Interested. Fascinated. The growl he gave might’ve frightened her. It scared him. He’d never felt anything like this. He reached her center. Found the entrance to her cavern. Heat and damp surrounded him, suctioning him toward paradise. Cullen’s fingers started vibrating. Furious and fast. Inexorable. Relentless. Her response was to say his name over and over, interspersed with the word ‘wow’. Like a chant.
“Cullen. Wow. Cullen. Oh, wow. Cullen.”
The final recitation was accompanied by her body arching upward, lifting him with the power of her release. Her cry rent the air and teased his ear before it dissolved into laughter. He caught her mouth with another deep kiss as he yanked her hips into place. He wasn’t waiting another moment. She was hot. Ready. She had exactly what he craved. And what he most wanted.
He needed to be sheathed. Enwrapped. Enveloped. And he needed it now.
Right now.
Cullen held her in place with one hand and guided with the other. The moment he was aimed, he shoved. He wasn’t a small man. Anywhere. And she was so small. Tight. And unbelievably hot. He was close to erupting as he pushed, every inch gaining him a plethora of flesh-pleasing coils. Squeezing. Enclosing. His grunts matched her squeals as she stretched to accommodate his size. Width. Length.
“Oh...Cullen. Oh. Wow.”
Her voice lowered on his name and the last word was choked. And that was before Cullen started his withdrawal, pulling out just far enough so he could ram back in. Withdraw. Return. Again. And again. Each time, he gained a gasp from her lips, another recitation of his name, and another gasped ‘wow.’ Cullen grinned and increased his efforts. Using harder strokes. Going deeper with each one. She was right with him every time, her legs gripped about him so she could lift to meet him, and assist with the withdrawal. His canines lengthened, slicing lip flesh, opening fresh cuts. Cullen barely felt it.
Drops of blood hit the scene. Dark. Thick. The temperature rose, matching the inferno they were creating. Candlelight fluttered through the area, glinting off black lacquered walls, highlighting her cheek, the shadow of her cleavage, the curve of a thigh. Cullen didn’t dare blink for what he might miss. She tossed her head back more than once, sending cries of pleasure out to surround them. And each one felt like it reached his heart. He increased his efforts. Thrusting. Withdrawing. Again. Harder. Faster. The bed started jumping with their movements, rocking faster than the rail car was swaying, making a whirlpool of movement that was centered by her.
His mate. His one and only.
His woman.
A sliver of sensation built along his spine, pulling his ribs into the fray. It slid down his back, joining the knot of pressure already there. Building on it. Adding to it. The hammering motion of her heels stopped it momentarily, before something tipped the scale, as if sparking fire to a fuse. Then nothing stopped the surge of absolute pleasure, pain, and bliss that rocketed through him. Cullen went airborne with his release, grabbing her to him and holding her tight as the car’s ceiling stopped his ascent. His head and backbone thumped into the wood as he shimmied along it. He didn’t notice. He was pulsing and sobbing and groaning aloud with absolute ecstasy as he emptied into her.
He’d lost control over everything. And he didn’t remotely care.
CHAPTER NINE
Uh oh.
Whenever one went against the inert characteristics of their birth sign, there were certain things that would happen. She’d given the warning enough times. She didn’t have to think about it. There would be a lost feeling. A sense of vulnerability. A squirm of fear might develop deep in the sub-consciousness. It cou
ld join a seed of doubt that would germinate and grow, eating away at self-esteem. Things became dark. Worrisome. Trying to be something you weren’t was a sure-fire path to disenchantment and unhappiness.
She’d given the warnings. Described what it would feel like. Well. Now, she got to experience it. Only she hadn’t known there was a tremor attached to each movement, as well. And she felt chilled.
Marla opened an eye, then both of them. She was lying on her belly, her head cocked to one side, her cheek pressed to the hard surface beneath it. She never slept in this position. That was odd. The view was disquieting, as well. It did not look like a span of silken sheet speckled with all kinds of ‘don’t go there, Marla’ stains. Nor was she atop a nice-sized mattress. Aboard a swaying train. Alongside a hard-bodied virile male. After enjoining a fantasy-level sex romp with said hard-bodied male for what felt like hours.
Wow.
Now, that had been something. It might be worth any consequences. Of course, that might depend on what they were. And where she was. And what else she had to face.
Marla tried squinting next. It didn’t help. There was illumination coming from somewhere above her. It resembled weak daylight attempting to filter through a gray-colored fog. The space beyond arms-length was indistinct. Blurred. Shadows and lumps of objects could be seen, hovering just outside the filmy effect. Everything closer was in unbelievably clear focus. She was looking over a mass of tangled, wavy hair. Oh. She remembered. Cullen had unfastened every braid and combed his fingers through her hair after their last lovemaking session. Apparently she’d been through some humidity since then. What did she know? He might have taken her for another flight through the rain or something.
