by Juliet Lyons
“You’re too tall,” she murmurs, eyes half-closed as I push the denim over her hips.
“I know a way to rectify the situation,” I whisper, dropping to my knees and dragging her jeans and panties down over her shapely legs. She steps out of them, kicking them off across the hall.
I take a moment to savor the sight of her standing above me, fully naked, her magnificent breasts heaving as she shivers with anticipation. Then I grab an ankle and part her thighs, opening her up like a flower. Her sweet scent is intoxicating—peaches and cream—her folds pink and slick with moisture.
“Touch me,” she demands, tugging on the ends of my hair. “Ronin, please.”
“I think I like you saying my name,” I say, my voice coming out in a growl as I slide a finger into her warmth. “Fuck, you’re wet.”
Her breathing hitches. “Then do something about it.”
I begin pumping slowly, enjoying her tiny gasps as she writhes around my finger, goose bumps breaking out all over her inner thighs. Although my cock is throbbing to the point of pain, I suddenly want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days like this—on my knees in front of Catherine Adair, pleasuring every inch of her beautiful body.
“Ronin,” she mumbles, her head tipped back against the wall, fingers knotting into my hair. “Do it.”
“Do what?” I tease, gazing up at her.
“You know what.”
“Do I?”
“Lick me,” she whispers, her cheeks flushing a violent shade of crimson.
There’s something to the way she says it, an innocence that almost has me coming in my pants right away.
I flash a smile, lifting one of her legs over my shoulder and pressing a kiss into the soft skin of her inner thigh before burying my face in her delicious heat.
Groaning, I lap at her tight, wet bud. She tastes even sweeter than I remember, and as she cries out, fingers tangled in my hair, I open her wider, grasping her soft, creamy buttocks as I glide through her silken folds.
She pants breathlessly, moving against my mouth as I lick and probe, rolling her hips into the rhythm of my tongue. Working my way back to her clit, I feel her tense as unintelligible words tumble from her lips. When I suck her clit gently between my teeth, she screams, the leg that’s still resting on the floor giving out completely as a powerful climax rocks her to the core. I ride it out with her, supporting her bucking limbs as she falls apart around me.
When her hips stop twisting and she can stand again, I lower her leg gently to the floor and hold her around the waist, resting my cheek in the warm curve of her tummy. For the first time in years, a sense of peace envelops me, a feeling that I’m right where I belong. She loosens her grip on my hair, smoothing it carefully off my forehead. It’s the first tender gesture she’s ever shown me and I gaze up expectantly into her bright eyes, not wanting to spoil the moment with words but needing her to know how much this means to me.
All I come up with is, “How was it for you?”
She laughs, a lighthearted chuckle, free of bitterness and sarcasm. “I think it’s fair to say I enjoyed myself.”
I grin like an overzealous schoolboy. “I rather enjoyed myself too.”
“How is it,” she continues, twisting strands of my hair between her fingertips, her breasts still rising and falling, “that I’ve ended up butt naked and you’re still fully clothed?”
“Because if I were naked, I’d be inside you by now.”
She smiles. “What stopped you?”
I rise from the floor, resting my forehead against hers. “I wanted my mouth down there when you came.” I lean over, nuzzling my lips along her collarbone. “Plus, I want to fuck you upstairs in my bed, not in this hallway.”
She swallows, her breathing growing shallow. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Her words send fire roaring through me. I’m suddenly giddy with the notion that she’s actually here, that we’re going upstairs to do the very thing I’ve been wanting to do with her ever since that night all those years ago.
Catherine stares down into the space between us, at the hard-on straining against the front of my jeans. Suddenly, her fingers are working the buttons of my fly and my pants are pooling around my ankles, my erection springing out, hot and pulsing, into the cool air of the hall. She gasps, stroking the shaft tenderly, sending me out of my mind with the need to push deep inside her.
I grip her wrist, stopping her midcaress. “I’m not going to last much longer.”
Her lips curve into a smile as she raises a brow. “I know.”
Then she’s dropping to her knees and cupping my balls in her palm, staring up at me in the exact way I’ve been fantasizing about for so long—pink lips parted, eyelids heavy with lust. On impulse, I tug the band from her hair. Her wild curls spill around her face and tickle my manhood. Just as I think I’m about to implode, she swirls her tongue around the tip of my cock and I shudder, hands fisting her hair, my moans sounding disturbingly like sobs as I plead, “Catherine, oh fuck, please.”
“I like it when you beg,” she says with a wry smile, before taking me in her mouth. Her teeth rake lightly against my shaft as she sucks me deep into her throat.
A powerful vibration surges through me, from the tip of my cock right down to my toes, and a thin sheen of sweat breaks out all over my body. I suddenly remember all those times I longed for the woman I was fucking to be Catherine, all those disappointing encounters that left me jaded and depressed. Finally having her here—her hot, wet mouth sending spasms of pleasure coursing through my veins—is like being reborn.
I knot fingers into her dark, wavy strands, trying to slow her down but at the same time needing her to go faster. She increases suction as I thrust my hips, and then, just as there is always a calm before the storm, I freeze, teetering on the brink. Catherine’s soft groans clash with mine before a tide of ecstasy crashes over me, the room and everything in it muted by a roaring in my ears as I pump my release into her mouth.
When the storm passes and I return to the room, I lift Catherine from the floor and hold her to me, her head against my chest. I’m filled with a strange gratitude, as if I might actually thank her.
“One of these days, we might make it to the bedroom,” she murmurs, her arms around my waist.
My heart gives a pathetic lurch of hope. One of these days—surely that means she’s changed her mind about us.
Bending at the knees, I loop my arms beneath her buttocks and lift her into me, her breasts pressed up tight against my chest. “I’ll take you there now.”
I attempt to walk toward the stairs, forgetting about the abandoned jeans around my ankles and managing only a shuffle.
Catherine laughs, the tinkly noise echoing around the walls. “So that’s how you defeat an ancient—immobilize him by pulling his pants down.”
I kick them off, grinning. “If there’s a blow job from a beautiful lady vampire involved, it’s as good a plan as any. Are you ready to go upstairs?”
She nods into my shoulder, her silky curls brushing my chin. “Yes. Wait—what about my clothes?”
“You won’t be needing those,” I say, waggling my brows.
She clasps her hands around my neck. “Okay. Here they stay.”
I carry her slowly upstairs, savoring the moment, unable to believe that I’m finally taking her to bed—the woman I’ve craved day and night for the last six years.
Halfway up, she asks, “You don’t really have a shrine to Satan up there, do you?”
I twitch a grin. “Wait and see.”
* * *
Cat
Inside Ronin’s bedroom, there isn’t a shrine to Satan in sight. He sets me down beside a gigantic oak bedstead, my toes sinking into the plush fibers of a thick carpet. The mattress is covered only by a crisp, white sheet, two plump pillows neatly arranged at the top. It looks
as if it’s never been slept in. I give the rest of the room a sweeping glance, taking in cream-painted walls, gold embossed curtains that match the carpet, and a gigantic oil painting of a rugged landscape hanging from the wall above the bed. Aside from a few personal items here and there—a tie slung over the back of a gilt-frame chair, a pile of papers on one of the bedside cabinets—it could easily be a hotel room.
I’m struck by a lightning bolt of horror. What if this is the room he brings women to?
“This is my bedroom,” he says, studying my face with round, blue eyes. “The only women who’ve ever been in here before you are the cleaners.” He pauses, running fingers along the length of my arm and making me shiver. “What would you say if I told you you’re the first woman I’ve ever invited to this house?”
I arch a brow. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t drop to my knees with gratitude, if that’s what you’re angling for.”
The corners of his lips lift into a smile. “I think it’s fair to say we’ve spent enough time on our knees this evening.”
I flick a glance down to the space between us, at his thick length springing proudly from a smattering of wiry, russet hairs. I remember how it felt in my mouth, silky and powerful—like velvet over iron. My core throbs violently at the memory, and my nipples harden.
“Perhaps you should show me how the bed works, then,” I suggest, looking up to meet his blazing gaze.
His blue eyes flash. “With pleasure.”
I sink onto the edge of the mattress, staring up at him as he peels the thin, gray sweater over his head. When we slept together all those years ago, we were such a heaving frenzy of knotted limbs I never took the time to fully appreciate him. Now, here in his bedroom, it’s as if I’m seeing him naked for the first time.
He is magnificent in every sense of the word, built like a warrior—broad shoulders gently sloping to muscular arms, a sculpted chest. His abdomen is flat and rippled with muscles. Rocked by a wave of lust, I reach up to trace fingers along a thin line of hair running from his belly button to his manhood, my wrist brushing against the hard, satiny length. He sucks in a sharp breath and shudders.
Before I can stop myself, I whisper, “You’re beautiful, Ronin.”
He takes a step toward the bed so that my head is level with the tight ridges of his torso. “Lean back and open your legs,” he says, his voice sticking in his throat.
I do as I’m told for once, powerless against the need to have him inside me, scooting backward and propping myself up on my elbows.
As he kneels on the bed and looms over me, mussed copper hair spilling over his chiseled features, I tingle all over, bracing myself for his raw strength.
Except he doesn’t pin me to the bed with his body or slam his mouth to mine. He places his hands either side of me and leans in, pressing a gentle kiss into my neck and nuzzling his face into the space between my shoulder and jaw. I part my legs wider, waiting for him to fall between them. But he remains suspended above me, trailing soft kisses across my collarbone, his silky hair tickling my skin.
“You’re the one who is beautiful, Catherine,” he says, his voice brittle as he gazes into my eyes. “I haven’t stopped thinking about this since that night when I came to confront you about helping the police. You’ve consumed me for years.”
My eyes widen. Is this all part of the game? Is he trying to wriggle his way into my head until I believe he has genuine feelings? I say nothing as he continues to stare down at me, his blue eyes dark and brooding. He ducks down, placing another tender kiss into my shoulder before gripping me gently under the arms and forcing me higher onto the bed.
“Wait,” I say, as he lowers his body onto mine. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
He frowns. “Like what?”
“We hate each other.”
With a wry smile, he shakes his head. “No, Catherine, we don’t.”
Then he smooths curly tendrils of hair away from my face and kisses me.
I almost shove him away, demand to know what he’s playing at, but the kiss is so good, so deeply consuming. I yield utterly, molding myself around him like a piece of clay, legs wrapping around his hips, fingers knotting into his thick, red hair. A distant memory stirs, a long-forgotten emotion, one I haven’t felt since Jonjo almost two hundred years ago. I feel satisfied, that if the world ended right at this moment, all would be, well…complete.
But this is Ronin fucking McDermott, a tiny voice in my head screams. I ignore it and reach down, stroking his pulsing length before guiding it to the wet spot between my legs. He breaks the kiss and slides into me, his eyes locking onto mine, his mouth open as a groan escapes his lips.
I whimper as he starts to move inside me, whispering his name into the warm air of the room as he holds my gaze, staring into the depths of my soul.
Even though I want to look away, I stare back, knowing he’ll register in a heartbeat that I haven’t been with anyone else since him, knowing he’ll see from the expression on my face that nothing has ever felt as good as this. The wall I’ve always put up between us is shattered, the anger and pride I’ve been clinging to all these years scattered like ashes on the wind. My senses are completely monopolized by his gentle thrusting, my breasts pushed up against his chest, my fingers digging into the satiny skin of his shoulder blades. I marvel at how I’ve gotten up and gone to work every day since we were last together, how I’ve lain in my bed every night and not yearned for his body on top of mine.
“Catherine,” he says, his Scottish tones mellow and husky. “Are you feeling this?”
I gulp, my breath ragged as an earth-shattering warmth begins to spread around my hips. “Yes, don’t stop.”
He smiles, increasing the depth of his thrust but making no attempt to change the tempo. We remain locked together—soul, body, and mind—until it dawns on me that what we’re doing is not fucking. It’s making love.
How the hell did that happen?
I close my eyes, but even without looking at him, the connection is there. It buzzes like an electrical current, our bodies fused as if we’re made for each other.
“Open your eyes,” he murmurs, rubbing circles into my cheekbones with calloused thumbs. “Stay with me.”
I flick them open, hoping to see the old Ronin, the one I loathe with every fiber of my being. But the new version is still in the driver’s seat, the vulnerable man with soft, blue eyes who doesn’t look a day older than the body he’s trapped in. The one who appears to care for me.
“Take me from behind,” I whisper, attempting to get us back on course.
He leans his forehead against mine and shakes his head. “No.”
“Then bite me.”
His eyes scan my face. “Catherine—”
I place a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth, watching as pearly-white fangs extend over his lips. “Do it. I want you inside me in every way possible.”
I’m not lying—even if I wasn’t desperately trying to claw back a sense of hatred, I’d probably still want him to do it. I arch my back from the mattress, exposing my neck and pushing him farther inside me.
“Catherine,” he moans, grabbing handfuls of the sheet on either side of my head and using the traction to plunge deeper. Our thighs slap together in a frenzied rhythm. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this.”
If he’s lying, he’s damn good at it. I circle my hips, meeting his urgent thrusts and tugging on the ends of his hair. A thin sheen of moisture glistens on his top lip, his red hair clinging to his forehead, and as he slides in and out of me, I can only wonder how the future me will go on for all eternity knowing that such perfection exists in the world.
“Bite me,” I whimper, my breathing labored as an unbearable crescendo of pleasure begins to build between my legs. “I won’t hold on much longer.”
His groin is rubbing my clit now, hot waves of ecstas
y threatening to crash down around me. I’m suddenly not so sure I can hate him.
“Me neither,” he murmurs, grazing fangs across my throat. “I’m so close.”
The scrape of fangs is what finally tips me over the edge—a delicious intermingling of pleasure and pain. I’ve had orgasms before, but nothing like this. It’s as if I’m breaking apart from the inside out, like I’m a pane of glass imploding, shattering to pieces without the merest hope of coming together again. I scream his name, not recognizing the feral cry as my own as hot ripples of pleasure wash over me, lashing me like wind-whipped waves on a shore.
Right when I think I’ve reached my peak, he sinks his fangs into my neck and has me convulsing again, hips bucking to meet his deep thrusts as the room wavers and darkness envelops me, sending me spiraling headfirst into the vision of his bite.
When the fog clears, I’m sitting on a hillside beneath a cloudless night sky. A full moon casts a bright, silvery glow onto the rocks and bracken around us. A woman sits beside me. She must be approaching middle age, but she’s still striking, a thick rope of dark hair coiled around her head, with dazzling, blue eyes that are startlingly familiar. She puts a hand on my knee, gazing at me with love.
The scene shifts and I’m in a small, dark space, listening to a man and woman argue. This isn’t the first time I’ve lain here alone in the dim light, helpless and afraid for the person I love most. But tonight is different. Tonight, a surge of anger rips through me, a resolute rage insisting this cannot go on, that it must be stopped once and for all. The shouts and bangs finally fade into silence. I hear the woman sobbing as my fist closes around a wooden handle. With my other hand, I stroke the rough blade of an ax and, in a fit of anger, burst through a burlap makeshift curtain into a small room with a dirt floor. A fire flickers, casting gloomy shadows onto clay walls. I’m just in time to see a letter flung into the fire, the flames licking at its edges. The man turns to face me, hatred burning within his black eyes as I swing my weapon toward him.
