by Thalia Eames
His gaze skimmed the slight roundness of her belly. Shifting his weight to one side, Daz rested his hands on the curve of her waist and went still. Only his eyes moved, along with the soft strumming of his thumbs against her skin.
“What are you doing?” she asked, sudden uncertainty embarrassing her.
“Shh,” he whispered. “I’m bowing at the altar of your navel.”
A giggle bubbled out of her.
Daz shushed her again. “Be still.” Without looking behind him he grabbed the bottle of peach brandy off the bedside table. Twisting off the cap, he unleashed a sensually wicked smile. Then he tipped the bottle and poured the amber golden liquid into her navel. Pausing only long enough to sear her with a gaze full of promise, he bent his head, and drank her in. He poured more brandy, sealed his mouth over her navel and the piercing in it again and used his tongue this time. Jules’s hands grabbed ahold of his hair, her fingernails scraping his scalp. He loved the sensation it sent through him.
As he moved lower she opened her legs for him. He shook his head. “Who says that’s the next stop on my journey?” he asked. Instead he lifted her right leg and marked the tender skin behind her knee with love bites. Her inner thigh got the same treatment before he picked up her other leg and started again.
When he finally got onto his knees, pulling her limp body to the edge of the bed, she whimpered. Anticipation became a heated coil between them and he used it to his advantage, spreading her open with his thumbs and blowing warm breaths across her swollen clit.
The hissing “ahh” sound she made satisfied his male pride and he flicked her with his tongue until she grabbed her shins and bent her knees as far as they would go. The same as he’d done with her navel, Daz sealed his mouth over her opening and delved deeply with his tongue. It didn’t take long before her pretty body quaked with her first orgasm. Daz held her down, his hands on her belly and his mouth driving her further over the edge.
Jules wanted to scream. So she did, not caring if other hotel guests heard. She was actually a bit turned on by the idea. Daz was an impossible man. No way a mortal, even a shifter, could do the things he did with his mouth. As he went down on her it caused such a riot of sensual pleasure she temporarily lost sight, seeing only white as her body became a conduit of sensation. She wanted more of him. She said so. And he only smiled in that wicked way of his.
Leaving the bed, while she protested, he returned with a smaller case he’d packed into his overnight bag. He laid the case on the bed and warned her not to touch. Then he dimmed the lights in the room to near darkness.
Jules thought he’d come back to bed but he crossed to the window and threw the curtains that lined one full wall open, revealing the floor-to-ceiling window. Looking around, his gaze fell onto a side chair near the bed. He grabbed that and dragged it to the middle of the window bay. Once done, he looked over his shoulder at her and he smoldered. Need clenched deep inside her and fresh wetness coated her thighs.
Daz removed his clothes piece by tantalizing piece as he stalked back toward the bed. When he reached her, he only wore dark underwear and that smile she adored. Holding her gaze with his, he picked up the case and opened it. Inside were two antique gold masks. The kind she’d seen the Romans wear at elicit sex parties on one of her favorite cable shows. A sudden rush of heat for the expectation of taboo had her writhing again.
Bending over her, his breath amazingly steady, Daz secured her mask. It was more comfortable than she’d thought it would be, made of a solid yet pliable material. He put on his own mask, before he slid down his underwear and gave her an unobstructed view of what she craved.
Jules came up onto her knees ready to take him into her mouth. “Oh God,” she moaned as Daz picked her up and carried her to the chair. He set her down and took his time draping each of her legs over the wooden arms of the until he had her posed the way he wanted her.
“There are so many ways we could get caught,” Daz said, as he stroked a finger from the tip of her toes, all the way up her leg, and then finally to swirl over her heated core. He reversed his hand position, dropping his fingers down to slip the middle two into her body, and used his thumb on the nexus of nerves at the entrance.
Jules couldn’t breathe. Daz worked her body so fucking well as she looked out over his shoulders at the night-lights of the city and the buildings tall enough that someone might be able to see them. Might even be watching. Her heartbeat began to echo in her own ears and she felt drunk on sexual anticipation. Her head lolled back as her sight faded to steamy white.
“Look at me,” Daz demanded and she rose to attention. Glittering dark eyes pinned her to the chair from behind the golden mask. His hands gripped the undersides of her knees. A beat. Two beats. Then he plunged inside her balls deep.
Jules came right away. Throwing her arms around his neck, she used the leverage to push her mask up and bit into his muscled shoulders. Daz’s ass looked amazing reflected in the window as it flexed and released, joining their bodies together. He quickly found a deep grinding rhythm and fucked her hard with that big dick. Jules saw stars with each thrust, and wondered if that was why he’d inked constellations onto his skin. Her Rocket Man took her to the edge of awareness. This time around she blacked out when he growled, “I’m coming.” A hard thrust, banging into her g-spot with sweet wonder. “And after I come, I’m going to fuck you again. This time with your tits pressed against the window and me taking you from behind.”
“Fuck, yes,” she said, riding his wave. “Please, yes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Daz laid the remaining unused parts from the clock down on a white towel streaked with oil older than him. He glanced at Chaplin. Approval danced in the other man’s eyes. Then he looked at his PowerShot mounted on a tripod, and updated the Dazzlers on the status of the project. His DazDaze channel had grown in popularity since he’d started the project with Chaplin and had begun confessing his feelings about a certain blue-streaked Filipina he’d been dating.
He’d become more honest, more accessible since he’d started sharing more of what mattered to him. YouTube fandom he understood clearly. But truth be told, the mechanisms of the clock stumped him. That hadn’t happened before. He dropped his work gloves to the floor and rubbed the back of his neck. Whoever had designed the clockwork had a grand design Daz couldn’t figure out. “I don’t know, Chaplin. You got any ideas?” The other man didn’t move. Daz counted that as a no.
Heavy footfalls clanged against the iron staircase leading up to them, too heavy to be Ms. Dumbarton, the private owner of the library. Then the stink of snuff punched into his senses and Daz braced himself, moving to put his body between Chaplin and the stairs.
“What do you want?” Daz asked Larkin Grace before he made it to the top step. The wild boar shifter replied with a wheezing snicker. The sound agitated Daz’s wolverine. The animal in him wanted out and it wanted to eat pig.
Larkin appeared and sat down on the top step, leaning against the iron railing. “I want to know where my cousin-in-law and her two kids are. I figured you could help with that.”
Daz picked up a cog and studied it. “Can’t help you there, Grace.”
“But your woman can,” Larkin offered, as though they were old friends and he hadn’t said a thing wrong.
Daz tensed but didn’t give Larkin the satisfaction of getting him worked up. “You threatening my woman, Grace?”
Another snicker. “Hell naw, it ain’t a good idea to threaten a man’s lady. Tends to make the male reckless.” Larkin rested his feet on the outer edge of the stairwell. “Besides, you’re the real threat.”
The old Dashiell Warren, the one they called The Undefeated Wolverine, made an appearance on the outskirts of Daz’s mind. “Explain yourself,” he said, the animal thick in his voice.
“What would happen if poor old Amin Tahvili learned that, although he’d lost his son and a c
ouple of grandsons, a worthy heir to his empire was still alive and fighting?” Larkin dipped his head. “So to speak.”
Daz stared at the other man, now assured he didn’t want to hear the point of this game.
“Welp, I imagine he’d hop on one of them private jets and come see about keeping his crime syndicate in the family. Don’t you? Bunch of heartless thugs like them Tahvilis are liable to be real hard on LuPines. ’Course we Graces would love to partner with them but I imagine they’d take out the sheriff first and work their way through all do-gooders ’round here.”
“Do you want to walk out or take the stairs the wrong way?” Daz asked offhandedly.
Chaplin made a grunt of agreement, his body oscillating in his chair.
Larkin held up his hands, clearly unafraid. “Now, Dashiell, and Chaplin, I’m just supposing.” He tapped the lump of his broken nose that hadn’t been set properly before his accelerated shifter healing kicked in. It’d have to be re-broken to set cleanly. “After all, I owe you.” The wiry man dropped his booted feet from their propped position and continued. “Don’t seem like much of a trade. One woman and her children come back to where they belong and a whole town stays safe.” Larkin stood. “You think on that. I’ll come back for your answer in a while.”
The bastard literally moseyed down the stairs. Who the fuck did that? And what the fuck was Daz supposed to do now? He felt somewhat lucky that he now had a few people he could ask.
Daz tried to get back to work on the clock but couldn’t focus after Larkin’s visit. Plus, he needed to clean up for his rendezvous with Jules. She’d meet him at the library in less than an hour.
As Daz descended the stairs, carrying Chaplin’s chair, Louise Dumbarton came to stand at the bottom of the stairs. She smiled up at them.
“I meant to tell you, Dashiell, what a sweet thing it is you’re doing for Chaplin.”
Daz took the final step and set the chair down. Relief flooded his system. No matter what precautions he took, even through fabric, human contact beyond what he shared with Jules hurt. The needles of touch receded and the aftermath sting of sandpaper followed. Rather than laying a hand on Chaplin’s shoulder the way he wanted to, Daz settled for gripping the push handles on the back of the chair. “I’m not doing anything for Chaplin, Ms. Dumbarton. Chaplin is helping me.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Keeping you out of trouble, is it? I thought Juliana Perlas did that for you?”
“No, ma’am.” Daz grinned. “She keeps getting me into trouble. Could you get her in line for me? She’s coming by so you’ll get a chance to have a talk with her.”
“Oh, Dashiell,” the plump dyed-redhead said as she carried on. “Tell Juliana to stop by my office and I’ll congratulate her on a job well done.”
Daz started toward the door with Chaplain. “You LuPines women stand together,” he mused.
Ms. Dumbarton looked back at him. “And don’t you forget it, Mr. Warren.”
Daz walked Chaplin home, and took a shower at the Bailey’s house. He kept a few changes of clothes there for after work dates with Jules, like tonight. Dressed in low-slung jeans and a white slub T-shirt he returned to the library, headed for the lower stacks. The connection between him and Jules began to buzz with energy before he saw her sexy legs descend the stairs. He’d texted the title of the book he wanted her to find along with the name of the author.
She met him in the stacks, by the book he’d chosen. The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells. “Are you making fun of me, Truman Show?” she asked.
Once again her geekiness turned him on. “No more than you’re making fun of me, Midnight Nation.”
“Well played.” Jules gave him a fist bump. He pulled her to him and kissed her.
“I missed you today.”
“Your non-stop texts made that very clear,” she said. She pulled the book from the shelves and tried to hand it to him. Rather than take it he wrapped his arm behind her and flipped her around. With his hands on her thighs he used his body to push hers against the stack holding the works of H.G. Wells.
A sensual shudder rode her body when she heard his zipper come down. His fingers found her core through her panties and he stroked her until readiness drenched his finger.
“Open the book and read it out loud,” he told her, nipping her shoulder.
She made a sexy “mmm” sound. “And if I don’t?”
“I stop,” he said, teasing her nipple piercing with his thumb. Jules rolled her hips, inviting him inside. With shaky fingers she opened the book. In turn he pushed the crotch of her panties to one side. Cool air met her arousal and she shivered. Daz positioned himself at her entrance, the sweetness of flesh-to-flesh contact setting off his own set of tremors.
Jules began to read and he took his time pressing his aching erection into her. She stuttered over the words and he froze. Her free hand gripped the shelves and she dropped her ass on him. He grabbed her hips, blunt fingers squeezing into all that warm rose-gold flesh. “My game,” he said, “my rules.” Jules whimpered and tried to drop her hips to swallow his cock a second time.
Daz held firm, until she began to read again, and he continued his tantalizing entry. Once he seated himself, he took hold of one of her shoulders and one of her hips and claimed her in smooth upward thrusts. He rode her slow and easy for a good while, savoring the silken slide of her inner walls over the straining head of his cock.
Overcome, Jules choked on the passage she’d been reading. With a growl he snatched the book away and tossed it on the shelf. “Make yourself come, Blue.” He pumped deep interspersed with a few shallow thrusts.
She cried out, pressing her face against a row of books. “And I’ll come with you,” he said.
Her right hand disappeared, her nails briefly skimming his balls before she took herself over the edge. When she repeatedly popped her hips and dropped them on him he followed her into bliss.
Afterward, he cleaned them up and they cuddled in one of the fat cracked leather library chairs. She got to choose the book and he read Ready Player One by Ernest Cline to her until Ms. Dumbarton threw them out of the library.
Those quiet moments he spent with Jules were what made him realize he’d gone too far with her. She’d taken over. No part of him existed that she didn’t have some claim over. If there was a way back from her complete possession of him, he couldn’t see it. He didn’t know if he’d take that path even if he could.
Chapter Eighteen
Cash flew into LuPines that night. The following morning he helped Daz finish the repairs to Averdeen Manor, while Garrett watched. Cash assured Daz, fixing things wasn’t Garrett’s strong suit. The movie mogul built things or he rebuilt them from scratch. He created. He didn’t mend.
On a break, Garrett made them pancakes and breakfast burritos in the updated 1950s-style kitchen, which completely made up for his lack of skill with hammer and nails. Once the plates were passed around, Daz got down to the business he’d called the two men in on.
He told them about Mariel Grace and her children, Larkin Grace, his own supposed birth family, and the risk of letting the Tahvilis anywhere near LuPines.
Cash used a rolled-up magazine to smack Daz on the back of the head. His brother got a face full of snarl in return.
“First off,” Cash said, “that’s for forcing me to explain why my brother is sleeping with my girl to Nox.” Cash made a face.
Garrett’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling. Daz wouldn’t get any help there. “You said, while being all existential…” Daz curled his shoulders inward with a moony look, imitating a hippie, “…that you’d only been watching out for her for me in the grand groovy scheme of the universe.” He thought about it again and added, “Fuckin’ idiot.”
Cash curled his lips and yelled out, “I’m telling Mom you’re a motherfucker!”
Daz threw a clump of scrambled egg at his brother. “You
go ahead and say motherfucker to mom and see what dad does to you.” He stood up to retrieve the egg but Cash snatched it up off the counter and ate it.
It didn’t make sense how easily Cash made him act like a kid, but he did. Daz flipped him a look of disgust. “Did I mention ‘idiot’ is actually stamped on your birth certificate? Blue is mine. Get over it.”
It wasn’t until Daz had scraped his plate into the trashcan and sat back down at one of the bar stools at the kitchen island that he noticed the smug look on his brother’s face, and the “you think he’s an idiot?” look on Garrett’s.
Garrett exhaled. “I don’t have the patience for this. You two sure you can refrain from brotherly asshattery?”
Cash stretched his legs out. “Now that he’s admitted his feelings,” he smirked at Daz, “you repressed bastard, we can get back to working out this problem.” He pondered for a moment. “I could take Larkin out somewhere and kill him in boar form. Then we could BBQ him North Carolina pit style and feed him to the rest of the Graces.”
Daz glanced at Garrett, who was pinching the bridge of his nose in a silent plea for patience. “And you think I’m an idiot for thinking he’s an idiot?” Daz asked.
“My wife isn’t going to like it if I run around killing people and turning their relatives into cannibals. I’m not all that into the idea of killing people as it is,” Garrett said. He looked to Daz for his take.
Daz shrugged. “We all know I’ve got an aversion to hurting anyone. I still feel guilty about breaking the bastard’s nose.” He paused. “But I mostly say that to cover up the fact I’m afraid Jules will beat my ass.” He shivered for effect.
“True enough,” Garrett said. “Any other ideas, Cash?”
“I said, I would do the killing,” Cash said. “Yeesh. Daz, are you going to tell Jules about this?”
“Of course, I’m going to tell her.” Daz said. “My ass does not require shotgun pellet ventilation. It’s just that she’s not a shifter, despite having it in her genes. I think I should bring her a solution along with the problem.”
