by Jackie Ivie
“You’re the...shy type, aren’t you?” She ventured the question.
“No.”
His answer came in an unbelievably deep tone. She’d never heard such a voice from a real throat. It sounded like he was sending it through a synthesizer or something. Gooseflesh raced along her skin. He kept his gaze fastened on something beyond the top of her head. And then she watched his Adams Apple move as he gulped.
“It’s okay if you are. Really. It...explains a lot.”
She stepped closer, daring contact, then licked her lower lip. She felt like a teen again. On the precipice of sexual discovery. Weird. She had experience. She’d done a few one-night stands. They’d left her physically satisfied and emotionally blank. She’d sworn off them. But something odd was happening here. Something beyond her grasp of understanding.
She was actually considering sex with some guy she’d just met?
Wait.
She wasn’t just considering it. She was damn near instigating it. Oh, but she felt wicked. Free. Uninhibited. And out-of-this-world excited. She felt young again and twice as giggly. This was going to be amazing fun. Stupendous fun. More fun than she’d ever had before.
She had to force the giddiness down in order to form words.
“Well, Wystan. I...have some experience. I’ve met...all kinds of personalities. I’d heard you were an introvert. And a recluse. I’m thinking shyness goes pretty much hand-in-hand with those.”
He grunted something that might be an answer. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in response. The man exuded sex appeal with every passing moment. It was juxtaposed with desire that dripped from every syllable she managed to coax from his lips. And then he sent everything ratcheting higher with how his chest rose and fell with each harsh breath.
“Look at me, Wystan.”
He shook his head. Rachel looked up to study him. She was tall. Five-nine was almost catwalk-model height. But he was a hell of a lot taller. Firelight put all kinds of definition to him, too, casting a ridge along his nose, a fringe of spiky shadow from his lashes onto his cheeks. Her entire frame pulsed toward him. Now, that she’d never felt before. She got bolder, moving her index finger toward the spot where his vest-thing met the mass of material wound about his throat.
“Why not?”
“I...can’t explain.”
He answered with a tone that sent throbs of something tangible through the room. They encompassed Munson’s snoring. The firelight. The slightest scent of rose petals lingering in the air. Rachel touched his neck cloth, and then wove her fingers into the folds, using it as a handhold to get just the slightest bit closer. Close enough to get singed.
“Why not?” she asked again.
He glanced down at her before studying something over her head. The earth shifted. The world spun. Rachel swayed in place, held there by her fingers entwined with his cravat. The look she’d received was akin to a physical force. His pupils hadn’t looked remotely black. They’d contained flame – blue-white at the center – and twice as hot. He’d shot absolute fire all the way through her. It scorched. Electrified. And she couldn’t gain any air!
Rachel’s lips parted to gain breath. Her heart pained. Her head rocked backwards. She felt like a liquid, ephemeral being.
Wild. Unfettered. Uncontrolled.
And nothing like herself
“There’s a beast within me,” he finally replied.
Rachel laughed. It wasn’t a gay sound. It resembled a harpy who’d found her mark. A siren who’d honed in on her doomed sailor. A sorceress who’d spied her victim. And he was spouting nonsense. But it was a full moon. She was on ancient soil. In an awe-inspiring castle. Amidst all sorts of arcane symbolism. In virtual isolation...with a stranger.
Anything seemed possible.
“You mean...like a werewolf?” she asked, not even questioning the insanity behind such a query.
“No.”
His hands closed about her waist in order to pull her toward him. The exposed flesh above her bodice came into contact with the smooth surface of his velvet jacket. Her fingers gripped tighter to his neck cloth, her legs slammed against his. She could swear she could feel him. Hard. Muscular. Unrelenting. Even through all the layers of fabric swathed about her. And then he lowered his head. Rachel’s eyes went wide on what looked like long, amazingly white fangs. Real...
...fangs.
Holy shit.
“Like a vampire,” he said. And then he lowered his head and stabbed them into her neck.
Rachel cried out in shock. It changed almost immediately to a long moan as absolute ecstasy overtook every other sensation. Pleasure filled her, coming in waves that matched how he sucked at her neck, pulling at her life’s fluid, sending rapture shooting through her veins. She’d never felt anything like it. The feeling encased, and enshrouded, and then demanded. Every bit of experience she ever had got shredded and then dispersed, like so many ashes tossed to the wind. Rachel was reeling. Spinning into a vortex of black.
And then it changed. Making a kaleidoscope of color.
She was falling...
Cool sheets met her back. Deep pockets of comfort supported her. Ah. She was atop an enormous mattress. In a bed chamber. A quick scan showed all sizes and heights of bureaus and armoires and dressers, their surfaces covered with hundreds of lit candles situated in dozens of candelabra.
Oh my.
Rachel had never seen anything like it. Candlelight reached through the gauzy material of the canopy, lighting the enclosure with a myriad of golden flickers. It was beautiful. Amazing. Private. Giving an instant impression of an oasis in a sea of castle; a haven in the midst of chaos; a private niche of space; a pagan altar on which to worship. Adore.
Consummate...
Her vision filled with Wystan. But it wasn’t the man she’d been conversing with. Oh. No. This was an intensely sexier version. He was on his knees, facing her. As she watched, he yanked the vest-thing over his head, ripping something, while ruffling the perfect fall of his hair. He chucked the garment somewhere behind him. He didn’t check. She didn’t either. He didn’t move his gaze from hers. And she was captivated. Mesmerized. Fascinated.
He was wearing medieval fashion. His sleeves weren’t sewn to his shirt. They appeared to be tied on at the shoulders and under the arms with little bows of like-shaded fabric. He ignored the ties, and jerked at each sleeve, sending more ripping noise into the enclosure as he pulled them off his arms and sent them over his shoulder to the same place his vest had landed.
Somewhere music started up, filling the space with a swell of sound. A drum thumped to a beat that dragged her heart into rhythm with it. An oboe sent trills along her skin in accompaniment. A flute stirred her thoughts, meshing reality with fantasy. And at the center of the orchestration was Wystan. The remaining piece of fabric he wore for a shirt was wrenched apart and discarded, making muscles ripple throughout his chest. Arms. Abdomen. This guy definitely had abs to die for. Rachel was running her fingers along them the moment he put them on display.
He caught a hand, and brought it to his lips, to place a kiss atop her knuckles. He turned her hand over and traced his tongue in a whorl shape along her palm. A blizzard of shivers raced up her arm. Hit her breasts. Sent her nipples into erect nubs that rubbed against the linen bodice. And then he punctuated everything. Before she could grasp it, he stabbed his fangs into the vein at her wrist.
And then he was sucking and licking, and sending all sorts of sensation with every flick of his tongue.
Rachel writhed and moaned along the bed. Her eyes still locked to his. But his no longer contained anything red. Or fiery. They were solid black. Deep. Dark. Sensual. Relentless. He pulled from the incision he’d made, licking it into nothing more than two, slightly pink spots, and then he lowered his chin and regarded her. Oh! That look stole her ability to breathe. Think. Do anything other than gape.
“My mate. My...one. True. Mate.”
His words ended with another bit of adul
ation, this time along her arm. His kiss moved over her wristwatch and then up her arm, under the billowy drape of her sleeve. Rachel flung her head back in a meager search for air. Any air. As much as she could gain. As quickly as she could pull it in. And then he was there. All of him. Solid male. Hard. Muscled. Spectacular. She roamed her hands about his torso, amazed and emboldened by how his skin flinched and jerked with her touch.
His mouth had hers.
Or was it the other way around?
Rachel was panting. Sucking. Dueling with his tongue. She felt a pinprick of pain. Had he really cut her? And then nothing mattered as more throes of pleasure hit. They just got more intense as the kiss deepened. Nothing had ever felt so glorious. Ever.
“How do you unfasten your corset?”
He mouthed it along her lips. Rachel licked at him, tasting something metallic. Salty.
Was that blood?
”How?”
His voice got more demanding. The kiss that followed it had the same intent. Demanding. Unrelenting. Insistent.
“Ties. At the back.”
He flipped her over without a hint of effort. But he wasn’t pulling the little bows apart. She felt the instant pressure just before the release as he simply ripped the entire cross-lacing apart. The corset thing went sailing over the side of the bed. She didn’t even miss it. He was spooned about her, his hands cupping and supporting her linen-covered breasts, while every inhalation he made sent his pecs into her back. And then he was rolling, pulling her atop him. Back-to-front. Not once did he release the torment of her nipples. His thumbs and fingers kept massaging. Kneading. And driving her absolutely mad with anticipation. Rachel’s cries tore her throat. Her thrashing gained her little. He easily held her in place atop him, while stabbing at her backside with his groin.
And that was changing.
Rachel grabbed his hands, and pulled them away. And he let her. She spun, and then she was straddling him, panting with effort as she looked down at him. Wow. There was no better word. Wystan was gorgeous. More sculpted statue than man. Rachel’s throat pinched off, her eyes stung with what couldn’t possibly be tears, and her heart pulsed with a heave that almost hurt. All of that was just ridiculous. This was an aberration...not only of time and space and her personal code of behavior.
It was also beyond the realm of possibility.
No man was this sexy. No man was this handsome.
She rose and fell with each of his breaths. Her legs were still encased in yards of material. The hips she straddled were also clothed. And it felt completely erotic. Sensual. Exciting.
“Ah. Rachel. My love. My...mate.”
The words were huffed between lips that looked swollen and stained with blood. That wasn’t likely or possible. She didn’t believe in fate. She didn’t believe in vampires. And she sure as hell didn’t believe in love at first sight. He couldn’t possibly mean what she thought he’d said. And if he was that naïve, he was in for a nasty surprise. This was a one-night stand.
Not a commitment.
Rachel leaned down to hover atop him, her mouth just out of reach. Open. Grasping. Breathing with him. She flicked a tongue out and connected with his lip. He jerked, lifting them completely off the mattress, while the moan that ensued scored through both of them.
And that was like lighting the fuse. She needed to experience all of him. Deep. And right now.
Now.
He got the message without words. Rachel rolled to her side in order to tug on the ties of her waistband with fingers that trembled. She shoved the skirts down, shimmying out of the first layer, using hands that shook. The second layer followed. Then the last. And then she was unclasping the buckle on her thigh holster. She shoved it up under one of the pillows. The boots had to go next and those buttons up her ankles gave her all kinds of trouble.
Damn medieval fashion!
She probably should have just taken her knife blade to the stupid things. But finally, it was done. Rachel tossed the boots toward the side of the mattress, watched them disappear, and heard a distinct thud as they landed somewhere on the floor. That left her nothing other than the insubstantial item Munson had called a chemise.
And...wow.
Wystan hadn’t been idle. His knee breeches were gone and he was stretched out on his back, displaying a cock that was erect, and filled, and pretty damned enormous. Rachel’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. Holy shit. Wystan was unbelievably well-built. Thick. Hard. And ready.
Rachel hiked her chemise up, flung a leg over him, aimed, and then...
Oh my!
Nothing had prepared her for the sensation of fullness. Wystan lurched upward as she encased him, the move shoving further into her, while the groan that resonated from him filled the enclosure with sound. And he was shaking. The bedstead rattled with it.
“Oh, love! Oh...Rachel. Oh...love!”
He matched the words to his motions. His hands grabbed her ass and lifted her. Held her poised above him for countless moments where everything seemed to halt, and then he hauled her back down. Impaling her. Filling. Creating.
The throbs of sound got louder. Harsher. Deeper.
Wystan must be hearing it, too, for his rhythm matched every beat. Every thump. Again. More. Harder. Every move slid ridges of definition into her. Again. And again. And then faster. Something sparked into being within her. It grew. Became an all-out wave of tension. And it came closer. Rachel grabbed onto his arms, tightened her thighs, flung her head back.
And careened into wonder.
Her cries had joy at their core. Laughter accompanied it as her body finished shuddering through throes of absolute delight. Mountains of ecstasy. Rivers of physical pleasure. And through it all, Wystan continued thrusting into her. Pulling her back down onto him. Lifting his hips to join them more fully. Raising her up again. Matching every one of her movements.
His dark eyes were waiting for her as the pleasure peaked and subsided, becoming once again a thrum of tension. Only this time, he shifted, rolling her beneath him, and pushing himself up, to put all that physique in perfect line-of sight.
And what a view!
Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth, and ran both hands along every inch of him she could reach, before gripping her fingers into his upper arms. And still he continued pumping into her. Again. More. Harder. Rachel tightened her legs, and met each thrust.
Little grunts began to accompany his movements. They began as short pants of sound. They steadily grew in length and volume. Her heart heard them first. Then her ears. And then her entire body. They accompanied his movements, pumping with a strength that shook the bed-frame, and jolted the mattress. Again. Harder. Deeper.
The mattress became a storm-tossed raft. An avalanche-tossed boulder. A tree in a hurricane’s path.
Wystan’s grunts grew keener. Sharper. Every muscle on display went tighter. Even more defined. And then he shoved a final time, and arched backwards, lifting her, while the longest, deepest groan emitted from his throat. Snakes of veins stood out just beneath his skin.
His entire body pulsed volcanically, beginning within him, but ending in her.
Rachel was spellbound. Rapt. It was impossible to look away. Her heart was hammering like a wild thing within her chest as she watched.
And was caught watching.
She’d had sex before. She’d been the naïve one. She’d never had anything like this.
CHAPTER NINE
“Hey! Berne? You ever waking up? Or, do I have to come in there and fetch you?”
Rachel opened her eyes groggily. Blinked on a span of what looked like striped mattress ticking. Despite the dimness, she didn’t have any trouble seeing perfectly. Better than perfectly. She could make out individual threads in the fabric weave.
Where the hell was she?
“You’re missing some fantastic grub out here!”
Munson’s voice filtered through the drapery framing the bed. The room was windowless and dark, except for the sliver of l
ight where the door had been cracked open. It didn’t hamper Rachel’s vision at all. She could pick out all kinds of furniture pieces without squinting. There was a myriad of silver candelabra atop every surface. Everywhere. Man. That Wystan sure did know how to impress a girl. Dried wax had congealed in drip patterns all along the candle holder and trays. That was messy. Looked difficult to clean. Somebody was not going to be happy with that chore.
Rachel stretched. Sat. The comforter wrapped about her slid off her shoulders to her waist. She jerked it back up.
She was naked.
Oh. Shit.
Images of Wystan were immediate and fierce. All that man. All that muscle. All that bare flesh. Secured between her thighs. She almost expected to see him.
“I’m having a real English breakfast out here. I could use some help! I’ve got fried back bacon. English sausage. Grilled tomato. Fried bread. Poached eggs. Beans. And they delivered it on silver platters! This has got to match anything served at a five-star hotel! I am so not joking. You coming sometime today, or what?”
Rachel fought a gagging reflex. Everything Munson described came with an instant aroma. It smelled horrid. Stomach-turning. That was odd. She loved bacon. She rolled onto her belly, fishing beneath the lone pillow at the headboard. Her stun-gun was missing. Not a problem. So were the other eight or so pillows. She and Wystan had done some pretty fierce rocking in here. More than once. No doubt it had fallen somewhere. She’d just have to check...
An instant later she was standing at the side of the canopied bed. Rachel pushed the hair off her shoulder. Oh yeah. She remembered. Wystan had taken the braids out and finger-combed her hair. That had been erotic. A shiver whispered across her skin as she remembered. The man was amazingly gifted, packing some serious equipment, and majorly talented. It was almost a shame to relegate what had happened with him to the one-night stand file in her head. She really needed to get dressed, though. Find her taser. Join Munson.
Get back to reality...
She held the blanket about her with one hand while the other lifted the mattress. Nope. Nothing. She lifted the bed frame next, bending at the waist to look beneath it. Her holstered taser was just in sight. She reached in and snagged it. The structure creaked. It did worse when she released it. The posts thumped when they hit the floor. Now. To find her attire. No. Probably not. He’d shredded the chemise. The corset was a wash. The skirts were crumpled somewhere, but how could she wear them topless? And she could only see one boot. Maybe he had clothing in some of the drawers. Or the wardrobe closet-things. She was starting to get annoyed. This was so not funny.
