Sworn (Blood Duet Book 1)

by Maria Luis

  It was . . . erotic.

  So simple to put it that way and yet so very accurate, and as I sat on that settee, I became aware of the way my hand loosened and re-gripped the armrest of the sofa, as if in time to her moans that we did not hear.

  Asher’s hand landed on my naked thigh, my dress having ridden up. He leaned over, his voice a deep rumble that made me shiver. “Are you sure you want to stay?”

  The man on the stage, with his face still buried between the woman’s legs, dropped a hand to his cock and gave it a long stroke. The determined set to his face wavered, his lids falling closed as he slicked his palm up and down, twisting at the crown, and my lips parted.

  It was wrong, so wrong, but my mind’s eye replaced the man’s face with Asher’s . . . and the woman’s face with my own. I pictured Asher—Lincoln—above me, his mouth sucking on the sensitive hood of my pussy, his hand down between his own legs as his powerful body brought us both to the edge.

  And all the while, I couldn’t speak, not with that object in my mouth, my tongue resting up against the back of it, my eyes watering with the effort to withhold my moans, to enjoy as Lincoln took the lead and hand-delivered me to a Paradise I never knew existed.

  Tongue swollen, I darted it across my lips, and whispered back, “I need to know what happens.”

  Asher’s fingers flexed on my leg. “They come, Avery. That’s what happens.”

  I shook my head, unwilling to get up and go before the act was over. Something in his tone, in that tortured heat I heard, whispered for me to keep my butt in this chair and stay still. There had to be a reason that this stage, out of all the others, eclipsed their viewers in total darkness and not just partial-shadows. A reason that it was ensconced in the very back of the room, isolated from the other acts, so that to even hear the moans and cries of those couples required me to strain my ears and listen hard.

  The man on the stage rose to his feet, and, as he disappeared quickly off the stage, there was a general sigh of discontent from the audience—only to be replaced by chuckling when the woman set her fingers between her own legs and began to play.

  Without her partner.

  I swallowed, hard.

  For years, masturbation had been my only source of pleasure, but it’d come with a price—a certain level of guilt that I wasn’t supposed to be doing that, that whatever excitement I wanted in bed should be found with someone else . . . and not just my fingers shoved down my underwear, in the cloak of darkness.

  Everything in me went tight at seeing this woman so carefree, owning her pleasure, rocking it out like she had not a single care in the world. I wasn’t delusional—she was here, working, while to the rest of us, we were being swept up in an illusion of their creation.

  I didn’t expect for Asher’s fingers to play with the hem of my dress, nor for the way he reached over and tugged my hand from its death grip on the armrest . . . and then set it between my legs, my fingers meeting the fabric of my underwear.

  My breathing escalated, and I shot him a look that could have ranged anywhere from what the hell are you doing? to is this okay?

  I heard, rather than saw, his swallow, and it pleased some part of me to know that he wasn’t completely made of stone . . . that he wasn’t so unaffected either.

  “You’ll see,” he said, voice hoarser than I’d ever heard it. “You’ll see.”

  He was the second person tonight to say that to me, and I opened my mouth to demand answers when every word in my head died on the tip of my tongue.

  The man was back on the stage, and this time, he’d also fit a ball-gag in his mouth. Black to her pink, but otherwise exactly the same. With gentle hands, he caught her wrist and rolled her over, so that she was on all fours.

  Involuntarily, my finger pushed down on the sensitive nub beneath my cotton underwear, and my hips twitched at the hint of contact.

  “Fuck.”

  Asher’s groaned curse enflamed me, in a way that the couple on the stage never could. I wanted to hear it again, just as I had the other night when he rose up above me and pushed my knees to my chest and took me with nothing held back.

  I stared at his profile in the dark, placing his features where I knew them to be: the strong jawline, the heavy brow bone, the nose that had clearly been broken on more than a few occasions. I imagined his throat working as he swallowed his lust, his throaty groans, and then the breadth of his shoulders as they rubbed up against mine. I heard the sharpness in which he inhaled from his barrel-wide chest, and then completed the visual with his hard-on, which had to be shoving mercilessly at his jeans, begging for relief.

  I pictured it all, and I wasn’t sure what that said about me, that I could question his intentions and still want to climb on his lap and fit his cock inside me, riding him as the man on the stage thrust into his partner.

  Wriggling in my seat, it hit me then that I wouldn’t want the restraint on my mouth.

  Asher would need to hear what he did to me, so that every whimper, moan, and cry that spilled across my lips would be embedded in his memory for the rest of his life.

  Maybe it was the thought of being loud that did it, but suddenly I realized that our little slice of the room, which had been so deathly quiet, no longer was.

  I could see nothing, but I could hear it all.

  The tiny whimper off somewhere to my right; the wet glide of a fist squeezing over a dick, and a man’s accompanying curse that set my ears on fire; the whispers, the moans, the “please, please, please” that echoed like a sinful prayer as its owner strained for orgasm.

  My fingers twitched over underwear as the implication behind the use of the ball-gags hit me: the couple remained quiet on this stage so that every noise you heard belonged to the man behind you, the woman to your right, the couple seated in the far-left corner.

  Oh. My. God.

  23

  Lincoln

  I’d entered a new circle of Dante’s hells—and somehow, some goddamn way, I knew that it’d been arranged just to make me sweat.

  Sliding a glance to the stage, I watched as Zak Benson gripped the female’s hips and fucked her in a way that only a man who knew he was on borrowed time would fuck. His pupils were dilated, perhaps from the tight grip of her pussy around his cock or maybe from drugs. And no matter how hard he tried to fake it otherwise, his eyes continued to fixate on me, and not because he was thinking about batting for the other team.

  No, someone had tipped him off that I’d be here, and had subsequently put him on that stage like a pig for slaughter.

  Only, scratching off another name on Ambideaux’s list had taken a backseat because—

  Her delicate moan reached my ears, and, like an addict needing his fix, I searched for Avery’s face in the dark.

  The fact that she was here, that she was even enjoying this, felt surreal.

  Way back when, Stage One had always been my go-to. If I cared to dig a little deeper into my soul, maybe I’d find the reasons why I liked to watch a couple screw, their voices muted in preference to those in the audience.

  When it came to sex, I rarely chose to unravel my preferences.

  But Avery’s preferences were a completely different ballgame, ones that I wanted to dissect until I knew the reason for each twitch of her legs against mine or the reason some of her moans were deeper-pitched than others.

  In another lifetime, I would have dropped to my knees before her—in front of everyone—and knuckled her panties to the side as I ate at her pussy, forcing her to watch the couple fuck behind me while I was the one to make her finally orgasm.

  Too much, I reminded myself as my cock twitched in my jeans. I’d already stripped the physical innocence from her body, and I’d be damned if I dragged her those final steps across the River Styx and into the hell that was my home.

  She needed more.

  She deserved more.

  “Lincoln,” came her quiet cry, her breath hitching on the second syllable of my name, her fingers landing on my ar
m and tugging.

  What was left of my soul wrenched in half, the two camps battling it out for dictatorship of my body.

  Take her.

  Do your job and get Benson off that stage.

  With another tug from her, my hand landed on her cloth-covered pussy. Her underwear was soaked, her hips undulating against my hand, and there was a good chance Ambideaux would feed me to the gators again when he discovered that I’d chosen Avery over killing a mark.

  A seedling of doubt pierced the fog of lust, reminding me that it wasn’t just Benson I was ignoring, but also the woman who had birthed me.

  She hates you.

  Right or wrong, I clung to that hatred.

  I clung to it, letting it fuel me into feeling validated and morally in the right when I fisted the fabric beneath my hand and yanked it straight from Avery’s hips.

  I was right where I needed to be—next to Avery, in Avery.

  Nothing in my life had ever felt more perfect than meeting her gaze as I’d thrust into her for the first time.

  Now, her shocked gasp was music to my ears as I hooked her closest knee over my lap, spreading her wide. Relying upon hearing alone, I smoothed my hand over the soft skin of her left leg, starting at her ankle and running up along her calf. Teeth clenching, I dragged my palm over where I remembered her tattoo was located, and it didn’t surprise me in the least when Avery sank her fingers into my bicep and whispered, “I haven’t forgotten what you said.”

  “Good.”

  I palmed her thigh, dragging the heel of my hand into her muscles, loosening the tension until she sagged in the seat and I heard the back of her head collide with the settee.

  Under my calloused hand, she was temptation at its finest—and there was something utterly sacred about being the first to touch her like this, needy and exposed to everyone . . . though she sat perfectly hidden in the darkness.

  My fingers trailed up to the apex of her thighs, skimming past where she wanted me most, to hop to her other leg and repeat it all over again.

  Her breathing hitched, my name on her lips.

  “Please.”

  One word, and I caved, just like that.

  In the shadows, with the sounds of pleasure echoing all around us, I dropped to my knees.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  I had my back to Benson and God knows who else, but I was a man with a cause: to make Avery come so hard, they’d hear her all the way downstairs.

  Her fingers sank into my hair as I kept her left leg bent and on the settee. I kissed her inner thigh, letting my lips linger, nipping her skin when she pulled on my hair in a silent command.

  I was a man on my knees—but I was still in charge.

  I took my time meandering my way over to her core, deliberately staking my claim with every imprint of my mouth on her skin. Avery Washington belonged to me. Her pleasure was mine to take, and by the time I reached her pussy, she knew that full and well.

  Her hips pushed up against my mouth, my name on repeat, and I showed her no mercy.

  Dragging her ass off the cushion, cradled by the palm of my left hand, I sucked her clit into my mouth and circled her entrance with my finger. Her sweet scent made my nostrils flare. So good. She tasted so damn good and there was not a chance in hell I’d ever let another man have what Avery gave me freely.

  Mine. All mine.

  Her leg quivered by my head, and I slipped my finger from her pussy and set my palm on the flat of her belly. Her stomach went concave under my touch, her lungs pulling in such deep breaths that every part of her shook.

  And when she reached for my hand, the one that held her still, I was a goner.

  She tangled her fingers with mine, bringing our clasped hands up to her mouth to press a kiss to each one of my knuckles. My dead heart gave an erratic thump at the sweet gesture, even as my balls drew up and my vision blurred with desire.

  I—fuck, but I couldn’t finish this here.

  Alone, we needed to be alone.

  I pulled away, kissing her thigh once more, and pulled her from the settee.

  “My shoes,” she whispered, and I turned back to feel for them on the floor. My palm grazed a sharp heel, and I snagged it; the other was wedged tightly against the bottom of the stage.

  “Take my hand,” I growled, finding hers in the dark, slipping our palms together, “and don’t look back.”

  I was a selfish bastard—I wanted her locked in our moment and not sidetracked by the way Benson screwed a girl. And there was not even an inch of me that felt remorse at wanting Avery to be thinking of me, and only me.

  It seemed only fitting. Since I’d met her, she’d consumed me explicitly.

  I waited until we’d left what was commonly treated as “Stage One” to yank her up against me, my mouth coming down on hers. The kiss, like my heart, was untamed: clashing teeth, bruised lips, warring tongues.

  Avery rose on her toes, her hands locked on my sides, keeping herself steady as she let herself be devoured. I wanted to tug on her hair, fist the strands and pull, exposing her neck for me to kiss.

  But my hands were otherwise preoccupied, and so I snuck in another kiss, nipping on her bottom lip, and then muttered, “Follow me.”

  As we neared the row of rooms that had once been my favorite, I searched for one with a tassel on the doorknob—no tassel signified the room was already being used, and the occupants had brought the flagrantly gaudy ornament into the room with them.

  A new twist on the telltale sock or elastic band on the doorknob.

  My gaze locked on every door.

  Taken. Taken. Taken. Success.

  “This one,” I said, squeezing her hand before releasing it to unlock the door and usher her inside. Snagging the tassel off the handle, I closed the door and hung the tassel’s loop on a hook just to the right at shoulder level.

  Some things never changed.

  “Are there lights in here?” Avery asked.

  Below the hook was the light switch, and I flicked it on.

  A red glow, so common within the old-time brothels down in the Quarter, filled the room. It turned Avery’s skin to a blush pink and the dark of her hair into a deep mauve. When she blinked at me, her eyes seemed almost black.

  Questions pounded at my head, demanding to be voiced.

  Why are you here?

  How do you know of this place?

  Why are you so goddamn perfect to me?

  I asked none of them, not wanting to destroy the moment of carefree abandon. I’d ditched my mark, left Benson out there to his fucking, and, for the first time in years, put my desires first.

  Not Ambideaux’s, not the NOPD’s, not my mother’s.

  Mine.

  Sinner.

  Saint.

  Cop.

  Crook.

  Mouth dry, I swallowed. Then confessed: “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

  With the hem of her dress hiked up high, Avery moved toward me, hips pushed forward seductively, shoulders back. Confidence brimming with every step, she reached for my belt buckle. The hook popped from its hole, and she slid the leather aside in exchange for the brass button of my jeans.

  I squashed my excitement, trying my damn best to stay still and let her take her time.

  Patience hadn’t been my strong suit in years.

  As the teeth of my zipper unhitched audibly, I swore my brain might implode.

  When her small hand reached into my jeans to wrap around my hard-on, my damn knees wobbled with anticipation.

  When she lowered herself to the floor, on her knees, her hands fisting my length, I died.

  And when her lips parted, and she said, “You might want to take a picture of this historical event,” a startled laugh climbed my throat.

  Avery Washington on her knees, her mouth pursed to suck on my cock, was a visual I would never, ever forget.

  At the first swipe of her tongue against the crown of my dick, I groaned, a sound so hoarse that it echoed off the w
alls. She circled the tip with soft, languid strokes that teased much more than they satisfied.

  My hands fit along the back of her head.

  Her soft chuckle around my dick was heaven on earth, her throat closing, and, Christ, I needed to slow her down. Back her up.

  She cupped my balls and every thought went up in flames.

  “Fuck,” I grunted, my fingers impulsively spasming on her skull, so that I brought her forward and her mouth opened wide, and that wet glide along her tongue as I hit the back of her throat . . . it was too much, all of it way too much, too tight, too wet, too fucking good. My hand moved from her head to her neck, my thumb pressing on her jaw. “You have to stop. Avery, you have to—”

  She batted my hand away, her fingers latching onto my hips as she bobbed her head, taking my cock in deep on every swallow, her moans reaching my ears.

  With my hand to the base of my dick, I pulled out from her mouth just before I was about to come.

  Legs unsteady, I sucked in a heavy breath and forced my legs to move. Five steps to the nightstand alongside the pristine, sheeted-up bed. Fingers grasping the latch and pulling the drawer out. Foil being torn apart as I fit the condom over my length and turned back to the woman still on her knees.

  The sight froze my feet in place.

  With her dress hiked up around her waist, her full ass on display, she could have been any one of the dancers downstairs, out to make a quick buck.

  But that wasn’t Avery, and I could read her emotions plain as day as I took in all of her. The straight, proud set to her shoulders. The shy, almost uncertain way she touched her fingers to her mouth, as though wondering, did I really just do all that? The heavy blush that stained her cheeks, although that could have been on account of the lighting.