by Evie Byrne
“Maddy!” The sharpness of his voice cut through the fog. She opened her eyes. His cheek rested against her calf. When he saw he had her attention he turned his head and kissed her knee. “Stay with me. Does this leg hurt anywhere else?”
She shook her head no.
Cupping her heel in one palm, he raised her foot and began to cover it with slow kisses. Not just on the swollen ankle, but along the arch of her foot.
“You have stars on your toes…” he murmured, his voice throaty and rich. He referred to her creative pedicure, which she rather liked herself: one yellow cartoon star on each nail.
His tongue swirled around her big toe, and found its way into the space between her toes. She cried out. The sensation was not ticklish, as she’d expect, but deep and warm and unbearably pleasurable. No one had ever kissed her feet before.
His mouth traveled back up her foot to her ankle. There he started to lick in a slow circle around the anklebone, or where the anklebone would be if it were not hidden by the swelling. A deep humming came from him as he did this, and his licks built in intensity, his rough tongue waking her skin, waking her whole body.
Like a white hot arrow, the sensation building in her foot flew upward and pierced her between the legs. She wanted him there, eating her out. She wanted him inside, thrusting.
Suddenly she was open with longing, flooding wet. His fingers danced along the sole of her foot, his tongue flicked and probed, his kisses were deep and sucking.
Forget the damn foot, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t speak—she was coming. Her back arched, her mouth opened, and at the peak something pierced her ankle, giving her release.
Her legs jerked as the convulsion rocked through her, but Faustin held her foot tight. He was sucking on it, and the sucking felt like heaven, felt like nothing in this world.
The orgasm passed into quietness, and his sucking subsided. Then he nuzzled her foot, flicking his tongue here and there. She smiled with contentment…and bit by bit her mind cleared.
This was real.
Maddy straightened her glasses and puzzled at the man lounging at her feet with one hand wrapped possessively around her ankle.
She just had…foot sex?
With Gregor Faustin?
Who ran her over?
“This is not a dream.”
Faustin raised his head and said sternly, “Yes, it is.”
“Bullshit.” A little slither of panic passed through her. “This is too weird to be a dream.”
Scowling, he crawled over her, straddling her hips and planting his hands on either side of her head. His lips were red and swollen, his expression fierce as he stared down at her. “It is what I say it is, Madelena.”
“But—”
“Shh.” He grabbed her jaw and turned her face to one side. His tongue ran up her temple.
Maddy shouted into the pillow, “Stop goddamn licking me!”
Fingers hard, he turned her face back toward him. “Look in my eyes.”
She slapped his hand away. “Why, are you trying to hypnotize me or something?”
His jaw dropped open, in offense, or amazement, she didn’t know. Then he snapped it shut and his eyes narrowed.
“You are the most impossible—” He cut himself off and drew a deep breath. “All I am trying to do is right a wrong.”
“By exercising your foot fetish?”
“You’re the one who came. Who has the fetish?”
A hot blush raced from her cheeks to her hairline as she remembered her cry, her convulsion, her need. She wanted him still, angry as she was. Then she saw what he was doing.
“Oh, that’s right, blame the victim. Nice, Faustin.”
With great satisfaction she saw an answering flush creep over his cheeks. So he did know the meaning of shame.
Unwilling to continue this conversation on her back, she hoisted herself up and ended nose to nose with him. Their eyes locked and held. His eyes were blue, she could see that even in the dimness of her room, but up close they did not look quite…right.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispered, her heart beating a mile a minute.
He held her gaze, and the longer he did, the faster she breathed. Then he dropped his lids, his eyelashes black half circles on his cheeks. When he raised them again, a decision had been made.
“You’re dreaming.”
He vanished.
Chapter 3
Gregor crouched on the fire escape, panting, doubled over with desire. With grim determination he gathered together the scraps of his sanity. He would not go back in there. He would not free his throbbing cock and fuck her until the headboard slammed against the wall and her screams woke the neighbors. He would not sink his fangs into her jugular and taste her true heart’s blood. He would make do with the gamey, bruised blood he’d drawn from her ankle. He would get the hell out of Queens and go back to Tangiers, where everything made sense.
He’d erased her wounds. Mission accomplished. Guilt alleviated. Now he could get on with his life. If he decided later that he really wanted to settle down with a mouthy librarian…a mouthy librarian who tasted like heaven on earth and purred while he sucked on her. No. A mouthy librarian who slept in Hello Kitty sheets and dressed like she lived in a nursing home. In other words, if he ever lost his mind, he’d know exactly where to find her.
Maddy knelt on the bed, hyperventilating.
That was a dream.
That was not a dream.
His touch lingered all over her, a sticky honey stain on her skin. Her nipples tented her nightgown. Her panties were wet. If that had been a dream, it was one hell of a dream.
But what else could it be?
She took off her glasses and rubbed her face.
Here was the scenario: Gregor Faustin, owner of the most decadent club in New York, had become bored with the scores of beautiful, coked-up women gyrating around him all night every night. So he decided he’d get off instead by licking the feet of the poor schlep he’d run down earlier that day. Therefore he broke into her apartment, made her orgasm by sucking on her ankle, and vanished into thin air.
That, or it was dream.
Ockham’s Razor said all things being equal, the simplest solution is the best one.
She let out a big breath.
Some dreams made no sense at all in the light of day. This would be one of those.
Feeling much better, Maddy climbed out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Halfway there she realized she was walking, not hobbling. Her ankle was a little tender, but she was walking on it. In the bathroom she put her foot up on the edge of the tub. It looked normal.
Her heart started to beat fast again. She closed her eyes and tried to slow the racing with slow breaths. When it calmed, she propped her left leg up. The long cut was gone, along with the road rash.
She wheeled around to look in the mirror over the sink. The sight of her own wild eyes scared her. She lifted her hair. The temple scrape was gone. The skin was pink, nothing more.
For a crazy moment she wondered if she’d even been in an accident at all. Maybe it was all part of the same dream.
But no. There were her ruined pants, crumpled on the bathroom floor. She ran out into her sitting room and found the red parka, still wet and torn all along the left side.
Maddy ran back to the bathroom and turned her left shoulder to the mirror. It was blooming with bruises.
“You missed them, you bastard,” she said aloud. “Dream, my ass.”
Tangiers had never looked so welcoming to Gregor, and that was saying something, because for five years it had been the love of his life. He handed the car over the valets, instructing them to do something about the swamp in the passenger seat. The bouncers at the door stepped aside, and he passed into his sanctum.
Honey fell into step with him as he made a quick tour of the floor—a habit of his whenever he was nervous. The club was just stirring and stretching itself awake. The DJ was laying down a sultry, steady groove. He walke
d among the tables in the back, acknowledging his guests, scanning for details, sending servers flying with brief hand gestures and significant glances.
“Doesn’t some of your skin have to breathe?” he asked Honey as they wove their way past the bar. “Or is that a myth?”
Tonight she graced Tangiers in white latex—from her hood to her white gauntlets down to her wicked white boots with Lucite heels. She looked like a dominatrix from the planet Xenon. Whatever Honey wore, a fire crew had to trail behind her, beating out the flames that erupted in her wake. What most people didn’t understand was that she hid a sharp business acumen under all that flash. One day she’d leave him, start her own club, and then he’d have to kill her.
Not really.
Honey ignored his question. “Sol says you can call him until midnight, but he won’t stay up later, even for you.”
“We don’t need Sol. She won’t sue.”
“What, is she insane?”
“Pretty much.” Gregor shrugged. “She says she doesn’t want anything from me.”
The thought irked him still—that she wouldn’t accept anything from him. That frustration drove him into her room, drove him to close her wounds. Now she could bullshit all she liked, but he knew she did want something. Him. Not that he’d ever see her again, he reminded himself.
But even that little triumph over her damned self-sufficiency was satisfying.
“At least I can pay for her ruined clothes.” Gregor took a little notebook from his breast pocket and jotted down her name and address. “Send her a gift certificate that will cover a coat and a pair of pants.”
Honey nodded. “A grand, say?” Honey did not shop at the Bargain Barn. “What store do you want it from?”
Distracted, Gregor scented the air and frowned, raising his fingers to test the currents. The circulation system was supposed to have been fixed that afternoon, but it was still fucked up. “What? Oh. Wherever old men and lunatics shop.”
“Gotcha. Bloomies.”
Once all immediate business was covered Honey left him, and Gregor retired to his private back room for a little quiet before the night began to roll. As absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, he was well into the room before he realized it was not empty.
In the moment he had only a fleeting impression of a pair of pale, naked breasts and his brother silhouetted against them. Alex was feeding. Gregor turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“Gregor, don’t go.”
He recognized the languid voice rising from deep in his sofa. It belonged to Sara, a feeder. Alex and Gregor shared a fondness for willing blood donors (unlike their brother, Mikhail, who only hunted), and Tangiers provided them in quantity. Equally languid, Alex lay alongside her, lapping at her small, pointed breasts. He had opened a small vein on each of them, and the blood was pooling in the valley between.
Gregor returned to take her extended hand, crouching down at her side. “Yes, darling?” He dipped his finger in the little pool and brought it to his tongue, hoping it would block out the taste of Madelena. It didn’t.
“You don’t have to go,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
What a question after his night. His stomach churned with bruise blood. No way could he eat right now, but he was on fire. And as horny as he was, he was just as confused, because he could not place exactly what had turned him on so much about that lunatic, or why she was supposed to be his mate. All in all it was frightening.
So it was good to be on his home turf, to see familiar sights. This was his life.
Alex glanced up, giving his tacit consent for whatever Gregor wanted to do.
“I’ve just fed, Sara,” Gregor said. “But I’ll watch, because you’re beautiful.”
Sara’s lips curled into a smile. Her grip on his hand tightened, then gave way as Alex increased his attentions, so Gregor sat down in his armchair.
Gregor might be the boss of Tangiers, but Alex was its darling. His big brown eyes and puppy smile got him whatever he wanted. That, and his reputation as a lover, which was entirely deserved.
Sara’s eyes were open, but they glazed over as Alex congealed the wounds on her breasts, stopping the blood flow for the moment. Sara already had tiny wounds running down the inside of her wrist and just behind her earlobe. Alex could drag this on forever, keeping the woman in a slow crawl of ecstasy until she begged him for mercy. And that was before he fucked her.
Unlike Alex, Gregor did not have the time or inclination to make every meal a three hour orgy. There was pleasure for the donor in even the most straightforward transaction, but Alex always reveled in the process. Alex loved humans, loved pleasing them, and passed as one easily—so different from their brother, Mikhail, keeper of the old ways. Gregor went to neither extreme. He was the practical one, the middle child.
Alex lowered his face between her breasts to clean up the blood there. He swiped his face in the thickening blood, and came up with his cheek stained. That was a gesture of dominance, and an instinctive, marking behavior. Gregor’s incisors sharpened in response. A fleeting desire to challenge Alex for the girl passed through him, and was quickly repressed. It was not true desire, it was instinct. Alex claimed one of Sara’s breasts, sucking it deep in his mouth. She arched her back, rising with the suction, moaning loud.
Gregor thought of Maddy’s flannel nightgown, of how it could not hide the fullness of her breasts. He imagined unbuttoning the front, and taking one heavy breast in each hand. She’d have dusky nipples.
No.
He forced his mind back to the scene in front of him.
Alex hiked Sara’s short skirt up around her hips, exposing the tops of her stockings. Swift and sure, he punctured the soft flesh of her inner thigh, making what Gregor suspected was his final, and so deepest, bite. Sara’s body stiffened as she cried out with the pain, and then she jerked under his bite as the sucking began. This mimicking of the death throes swept all rational thought from Gregor’s mind. Now he wanted her in his mouth, full belly or no. With parted lips he sucked in the air, picking up the flavor of Sara’s blood and the rising musk of her desire. Her head rolled his direction and her eyes, glazed as they were, sought and found his. Soft feeding sounds came from Alex.
Keeping her eyes on Gregor, Sara teased her own breasts, smearing bloody fingerprints across her white skin, staining her nipples red. Some action of Alex’s made her eyelids flutter and her lips part, and it was all that Gregor could do not to jump on her.
All the way back to the city he had struggled to master his desire and now he was fanning the flames. Was it masochism, or was he just an idiot? If he had any sense, he would sit down and look over his freshly audited books and pretend he didn’t have a dick at all, and continue pretending it until Elixir opened. But there was only so much deprivation he could stand in a night. He unzipped his pants and began to stroke his cock through his boxers. Crooking her mouth into a half smile, Sara imitated him: she reached down to rub her clit with her bloody hand. Alex lifted his head, nostrils flaring.
Gregor knew what was in Alex’s mouth, the salty taste of blood and pussy combined, and the memory of it made his saliva run. His cock hardened and he pushed the boxers back so he could have full play. For an instant Sara’s dark, wide eyes fixed on his cock, and then Alex buried his face between her legs. Her eyes closed, and she was gone.
Gregor leaned back in his chair, jerking and stroking alternately, his eyes narrowing, until all there was for him in the world was the strength of his hand and the sound of Sara’s gasps and pleas in his ears. Sara’s cries became Maddy’s cries, and he was under that flannel gown, feeding off her round inner thigh, and her hands were in his hair, pleading with him to…how’d she phrased it? Move north. With pleasure he’d move north. Anything to stop that mouth of hers.
That mouth of hers.
Closing over his cock and sucking deep.
He came, each spurt reluctant and agonized.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, drawing his free hand ov
er his face, while the other still cradled his wilting cock.
Sara’s rhythmic cries told him she was about to come, too. He took that moment to disappear. Alex could have her in private.
An empty cab appeared in Maddy’s line of vision just as she was about to bite down on a steaming hot frank smothered in relish. “Damn.”
Quickly she wrapped the foil back around it and ran forward with her arm upraised. If she got it she may not be late to her herbalist after all, and that would almost make up for the sin of eating a nitrate-and-preservative-packed hot dog on the way there.
The cab slowed down and pulled over about twenty feet away. She ran for it, juggling her bag and her dinner, dodging bodies. Even a short run was proving too much for her any more. She put one hand to her chest, feeling the disturbing, lurching rhythm of her heart. Nitrates are the least of your problems, Maddy girl.
As distracted as she was, she ran straight into someone—someone trying to steal her cab.
“Oh no, buddy. This one is mine.” He was so close, and so tall, that his chest blocked her whole field of vision. Black tie, black shirt, black suit, black overcoat. Color me morbid.
“Madelena?” the wall gasped.
She craned her neck upward to see Gregor Faustin gaping at her like he’d seen his own death.
“What is your problem?” She meant it all sorts of ways. “Let go of my cab.”
Faustin recovered enough to return to his usual unpleasant self. “It’s not ‘your cab’. I hailed it.”
“You lie like a rug.” Her mind boggled trying to figure out how he could be there. How they could possibly meet again. It had to mean he was stalking her.
“What—you think I’m stalking you?” His incredulous expression, she realized, was less than flattering to her as would-be stalkee. And did he just read her mind?
“You’re right,” she snapped. “Why would you go through the trouble of stalking me when you can just break into my apartment and suck my toes whenever you like?”
