by Juliet Lyons
I suddenly wish I’d offered to help Melda polish the silver.
I step backward, motioning to Harper with a jerk of my head. “A word.”
Steering him roughly by the elbow, I shove him into a dark corner of the room.
“Boy, are you in for a treat,” he says as soon as we’re out of earshot. “I’m happy to report that as far as these ladies are concerned, the word Brazilian does not just refer to their nationality. Get my drift?” He waggles his brows suggestively.
“How dare you?” I growl.
His smile falters. This is cruel, but if I want to save face, it needs to be done. “I’m in my office,” I continue, “working flat-out to solve these vampire deaths, and you interrupt me on my break to bring me these women. Is this how you imagine I keep the vampire community of London ticking over day by day? Do you think the friends of the dead vampires would be pleased if they knew that instead of trying to track down those responsible for their loved one’s death, I was shoving my dick into as many women as possible?”
Harper swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I can see the red of my eyes reflected in his dark-brown orbs as he stutters, “I-I thought it was what you wanted. You seem so bored lately and you said…” He trails into silence, staring at his pointy, brown shoes like a disgraced puppy. “I’ll send them away,” he mutters.
I flick my eyes to where the exotic trio is waiting patiently. The short one with a pierced lip waggles her tongue at me suggestively. Is this seriously how I used to get off?
“You’ll offer them a drink and then you’ll send them on their way,” I growl. “In the meantime, I have to visit Roger Devine’s old apartment in East London.”
“I’ll go with you,” he offers.
“I’ll go by myself.” I cut him a cold glare before dropping a nod to the Brazilians as I prepare to make my dash across the city.
The Roger Devine thing isn’t a total lie. I do intend to drop by the place at some point today. But first I plan on taking a detour to Miss Catherine Adair’s place, and damned if I’m willing to wait a minute longer.
* * *
When I reach her building, the urge to pay Catherine a second visit within twenty-four hours is starting to feel like the silliest decision known to mankind. Unfortunately, it isn’t enough to keep me from stepping through the main door behind a woman dressed in gym gear, acting like I’m a full-fledged resident of the building.
“Cold today, isn’t it?” I say, exaggerating my Scottish tones. I heard once that people are more likely to trust strangers with accents.
She smiles, sizing me up. “Freezing.”
There isn’t a flicker of suspicion, only attraction and interest. Now, if I can just make it past the troll upstairs, I’m home free. I whip past the young woman before she can lure me into conversation, taking the next three flights of stairs in several effortless bounds. Unlike the everyday vampire, daylight doesn’t affect my speed in the slightest—just another reason why ancients are always at an advantage.
When I make it to Cat’s floor, I pause outside her neighbor’s apartment, lips pulled back in a snarl. He is inside, alone. I can hear the tinny sound of a personal music player.
Dumbass.
At Catherine’s door, there is only the low rumble of voices from a television. Which means she’s at home. I exhale sharply before knocking.
She flings the door wide, her beautiful eyes widening as they land on my face. She is dressed casually for once, black leggings that cling to her slim legs like a second skin, with an oversized cream sweater hanging loosely off one shoulder. Her feet are bare, her dark hair loose and wild about her face. She is a vision. A goddess. I feel about as worthy of gazing at her as a beggar staring through a Tiffany & Co. window.
“Surprise,” I say, attempting a smile but grimacing instead. “Did someone speed-dial a demon?”
She sighs, shaking her head, but miraculously doesn’t tell me to get lost. Instead, she steps back into the room, leaving the door open. I trail inside, closing it behind me.
“Wentworth, your new best friend is here,” she says, staring at the green-eyed tabby cat draped across the table as she grabs the remote and shuts the TV off.
The cat looks up disinterestedly before going back to staring out the window.
“For the record,” I say, “I didn’t glamour your pussy.”
She bites her lip and does something extraordinary—she smiles. Granted, she frowns immediately afterward, but it’s a smile nonetheless.
“Please never say the word ‘pussy’ again in my presence, whether you’re actually referring to an animal or not.”
I quirk a brow. “Are you harboring a filthy mind behind all that Victorian innocence, Ms. Adair?”
Narrowing her eyes, she says, “Don’t play games with me.”
I pull myself to full height, feigning confusion. “Is this flirting? It feels like flirting.”
She snorts in derision. “You wish. I suppose you’re here about my message?”
On the pretense of peering out of the lounge window, I take a step closer. “Yes,” I say quietly. “We should talk about that.”
“We should,” she says with a sigh. “Though I’m not sure I’m in the mood.”
Music to my ears. Now that I’m inside her flat and she’s not screaming at me, all desire to discuss the past has flown right out of the window.
From this distance, her scent is intoxicating, floral and soapy, but as I inhale, I get a whiff of a deeper, masculine aroma. A lot like the one coming from that apartment next door.
My mood darkens faster than a cloud blocking the sun. “You’ve been with lover boy,” I say in a low voice. Not a question.
Her brows knit. “Since when is my personal life any concern of yours?”
I take another step toward her. “He’ll never see you the way I see you.”
She places a hand on her hip. “That’s a good thing.”
“Is it?”
I’m close enough now to notice a tiny pulse throbbing in the space between her collarbone and her pale, creamy neck. I stare into her eyes, mesmerized by the amber flecks flickering like gold dust at the center.
“Stop staring at me like that,” she says, averting her gaze.
“I can’t help it,” I murmur. “There are whole worlds in your eyes, Catherine—a million battles won and lost.”
I hear a breath catch in her throat. The room is silent apart from the quiet tick of a clock.
She meets my stare, a brief flicker of vulnerability flashing behind her eyes before they harden to stone. “Save your crap for the girls at work.”
“He kissed you, didn’t he?” My voice is little more than a growl. I sense my pupils dilating, burning red, but there is nothing I can do to stop it.
I brace myself for a verbal slap down, possibly even a physical one, but she continues to watch me. For the first time in centuries, I don’t have a clue what the person before me is thinking. Then she does something utterly unimaginable. She closes the distance between us, placing her hands either side of my face, and kisses me.
But instead of kissing her back, I freeze. There is no anger in the kiss, no sexual tension snapping. Her lips are gentle and soft, her fingers brushing my cheekbones. My trousers tighten, but the upper half of my body remains impassive, as if it can’t quite believe its luck. She tastes of warm coffee but also a little of the asshole living next door.
Sensing my lack of response, she pulls away. “I guess without the fighting, you’re not so interested,” she says with a sniff.
That does it. I reach out and snatch one of her wrists, dragging her to me so forcefully her body slams into mine, her breasts pushed up tight against my chest. “I don’t fucking think so.” I wind my hands into her thick curls, tilting her head backward. “I was just thrown by the taste of lover boy, that’s all.”
/> Her pupils dilate. “Don’t call him that.”
“Fine. I was distracted by the scent of the soon-to-be-dead man living in the apartment next door.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses.
“I might be tempted if he touches you again. The least he could do is kiss you properly.”
Her jaw drops. “How do you know he didn’t? Maybe we fucked all morning.”
I laugh, deep and hollow. “If that were even a tiny bit true, you wouldn’t be putty in my hands right now.” I lean in to brush the tip of her nose with mine, a tingle shooting straight from the point of contact into the tip of my cock. “Let’s not forget you definitely kissed me this time.”
When I make no attempt to lean in farther, she breathes, “What are you waiting for? Do it, then.”
“Say ‘please.’”
“How about ‘fuck you’?”
I chuckle. Before fastening my mouth to hers, I murmur, “With pleasure.”
Chapter 9
Cat
I blame the bad kiss with Peter for this ridiculous lapse in personal judgment. If that unsavory encounter had been at all decent, there’s no way I would be pressed up against a creature I loathe, relishing the sensation of his warm tongue sliding across mine, his hands tangled in my hair, our bodies glued together as if our lives depend on it. No fricking way.
The bad kissers of the world have a lot to answer for.
Our mouths are locked together, tongues thrashing as I trail my hands over Ronin’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. He tastes like malt whiskey and mint, his masculine, musky scent filling my senses like a fog. When my hands come to rest on his steely butt, I draw him closer, a thrill zipping through me as I feel his thick, hard length pulsating through the fabric of his trousers. A heavy ache is building between my legs—I want him in me, under me, on top of me. The need for him is so overwhelming that eventually, for my sanity’s sake, I pull away.
His blue eyes are drowsy with lust, lids half-closed. “Catherine,” he whispers as if woken from a deep slumber. “My God, Catherine.”
Usually the way he uses my full first name irritates the hell out of me, but right now it only makes me crave him more. “Why do you want this?” I ask, startled by how fragile my voice sounds.
His eyes latch onto mine. They are as warm as the midday sky outside the window. I marvel at how I ever found them cold.
“I don’t want this,” he says, his voice as rough as sandpaper. “I need this, and so do you.”
God, he’s right. My whole body is ready for him, from the tips of my rock-hard nipples to the heat blooming between my legs. The knowledge that poor, innocent Peter is just on the other side of the wall does nothing to cool my ardor. Ronin could probably announce he’d just murdered Mrs. Colangelo out in the hall and I would still want to fuck his brains out.
“Put your hands on me,” I command.
He loosens his fingers from my hair, circling my waist. “I think they already are,” he says in gravelly tones.
I slide through his arms until my feet touch the wooden floor. I’ve been so out of my mind with lust I didn’t even realize he was holding me six inches off the ground.
I shake my head. “I mean properly. Skin to skin.”
My words appear to throw him off balance. A vertical line forms between his brows. “Do you still hate me?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle, smoothing hair away from my face with long, tapered fingers. “I’m going to undress you now,” he says, reaching for the hem of my sweater. Needing no further encouragement, I hold up my arms as he peels off my sweater, discarding it in a heap on the floor. I’m wearing a white, no-thrills, cotton bra, but the way his gaze locks on it, you’d think it was red lace with holes cut out around the nipples.
I frown, pondering why he wants this so badly when he could be in bed with a Victoria’s Secret model. I suppose it’s the challenge of bedding a woman who hates your guts. Men are odd creatures.
“What is it?” he says, tracing the backs of his fingers across my collarbone and making me shiver.
I gulp. “Nothing. Keep going.”
His eyes flicker briefly to the table in the corner. “Your cat is watching us.”
I roll my eyes, stifling a smile. “Keep the fuck going.”
Tutting his tongue, he grasps my hips, the warmth of his fingers burning through the thin material of my faded yoga pants. But instead of tugging them down, he slides a hand into the waistband, rubbing circles into my skin with his fingers. He’s barely touched me, but it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to keep from groaning loudly. I break eye contact, my head level with his chest, the sound of our labored breathing all around us.
He moves his fingers farther into my pants, torturing me with slow, circular caresses, my core throbbing so hard it’s like it has its own heartbeat. He lifts my chin with his free hand, and I stare up into his eyes.
“I want to watch you come,” he says. The lighthearted voice he used when he spoke about the cat is gone. He is once again the cocksure man I’ve always despised, and dear God, it turns me on.
Maybe because his tone has changed, I alter mine too, taking us back to familiar ground. “What makes you think you can?” I ask in a snarky voice.
His blue eyes flash, his fingers inching ever closer to the burning spot between my legs. I close my eyes, biting down hard on my lip to keep from crying out. When he slips his fingers into my knickers, the game is up—I emit a low hiss of satisfaction from between my teeth as a calloused finger grazes my clit, disappearing between my slick folds. A whimper escapes me, and before I can get a grip on myself, I’m opening for him, grabbing his shoulders and rubbing against the palm of his hand as he slides one, then two fingers deep inside me. My eyes open, and he leans down to place his cool forehead against mine.
“Don’t you dare stop, you bastard,” I mumble, panting as an unbearable wave of pleasure threatens to spill over me.
“Do you really think I want to?” His jaw is slack, his brows pulled low. I suddenly wonder how on earth I’ve been living without this all these years. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? The fact that he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met is the prime reason I’m so turned on. This is why things never work out between nice guys and me. I have a button that only super-idiots can reach.
He increases the pressure on my aching nub, his long fingers sliding in and out of me in torturous rhythm. My fangs slip out, but I don’t try to hide them like I have in the past. There’s no point when you’re sexually tangoing with a demon. Ronin groans at the sight of them, nipping at my mouth with his lips.
“Bite me when you come,” he murmurs.
I tingle all over at his words, and then it’s suddenly too much. I tighten around his fingers as a powerful release pounds through my veins, warmth erupting from my core, my breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. I come all over his hand, and unlike the times I’ve had sex in the past, there’s no sense of shame or embarrassment. I take my time, riding out the pleasure, enjoying the white-hot spasms of orgasm surging through my veins. When my breathing slows and I return to my body, I open my eyes. Ronin is still there with me, his forehead on mine, his gaze intense. He slides his hand from my underwear.
“Bite me,” he commands.
I nod mutely, brushing fingers over his face, exploring the delicate planes and angles of his features. He is so beautiful and yet utterly masculine, as if chiseled from stone—square jaw and jutting brow, a carved hollow beneath sculpted cheekbones. A shiver of anticipation zips through me as I focus on his neck, at the pulsing vein sitting neatly in the juncture between his shoulder and jaw.
He bends at the knees, lifting me up and wrapping my legs around his hips to allow me better access. When I bury my head in his throat, it’s as though we’re two puzzle pi
eces slotting together.
Suddenly, I want nothing more than to give someone the very thing I’ve always tried to keep hidden. Here, in broad daylight, without shame or apology. I tilt my head sideways, my gaze flickering between the place I’m about to sink my fangs into and his smoldering gaze. At the last second, he ducks to kiss me, capturing my lips with his and gently sliding his tongue across mine. There’s something in the kiss that’s different from our usual kind, a tenderness. If I didn’t know Ronin as well as I do, I would go as far as to call it affection.
He breaks away, nuzzling his nose in my hair. “Do it, Catherine.”
Needing no further encouragement, I grab a handful of his thick, red hair to hold him steady and sink my fangs into his creamy flesh. He moans, his grip on my thighs tightening, rubbing his burgeoning hard-on against me as his blood flows into my mouth.
I’ve never tasted demon blood before—my maker, Anastasia, often made her “foster children” drink from her, but luckily I was spared—and I’m pleasantly surprised as it hits the back of my throat. The metallic tang of human blood is absent—he tastes of warm fruit, ripe in the sun, and his groans of pleasure fill the room as I drink. I’m not sure how long we stay locked in the embrace, but suddenly I realize his hands have loosened around my thighs and the moaning has stopped. I withdraw my fangs from his flesh to see blood so dark it’s almost black oozing from two tiny holes on his neck. The two bite marks don’t just heal; they evaporate—there one second and gone the next. I extract myself from him carefully, my legs like jelly as I drop onto the floor.
He doesn’t speak, and when I meet his eyes, he’s looking at me as if I’m a stranger. For a moment, I’m blinded by confusion, and then the realization punches me square in the gut. My life essence. It’s been so long since I’ve bitten anyone, I hadn’t given it a second thought.
When a vampire bites a human—or, in this case, a demon—an exchange takes place. The vampire takes their blood and the giver enters a sort of trance, seeing a montage of the important parts of a vampire’s past in quick succession. It’s like a supernatural yin and yang—a cosmic give and take.
