“But—” Caleb protests.
“He’s right,” Robert says. “If she decides this is morally wrong, she’ll shut down, and she’ll be back in the earthly realm before we have a chance of changing her mind.”
“Then how come you aren’t going? You know her better than anyone,” Caleb says.
Bob has a ready answer. “Nameless is the best choice at the moment because he’s not having sexual relations with her. She’ll be more inclined to let down her barriers with him because he won’t have an agenda,” I say.
“He is so. He does so,” Caleb sputters. “No fair. If that’s the reason, then I should go. Nameless is so having sexual relations with her. What would you call what happened last night? I’m sick of being left out.” Caleb jumps up, and for the first time in a very long time, we see the flare of his animal as his talons and canines appear.
“Whoa, boy,” I say and raise a hand, ready to tame the beast. He stills, breathing hard, but his eyes flash between Caleb’s rich brown and his animal’s red-gold eyes. “Caleb.” I put the full force of our clan bond into the demand for his animal to retreat and wait until the brown eyes stabilize. “That’s better. No one’s trying to leave you out of anything, but you upset her. Let Nameless calm her down, and you can explain your misunderstanding later. Fair?”
The anger fades from his eyes, and our gentle Caleb returns. “Fair.” He sits and starts helping himself to the feast intended for Tate’s seduction if we could call it that. Now would be a good time to check on Nameless and Tate and get the vial of nectar I left in my room. “I’ll be back in a moment.” I disappear before either man has time to question me.
I find Tate and Nameless in the library and use the vampire ability that makes me blend into the background and temporarily shield our connection. Tate hugs herself as huge sobs tear out of her body interspersed by the occasional almost unintelligible words: “Not a tramp.” “Plaything.” “Don’t do gang bangs.” At those words, mirth replaces the look of uncomfortable helplessness that held Nameless back from touching her. He gathers Tate in his arms. She tries to push him away, but he’s relentless.
“There is no gang bang, Ren.” Nameless slips a curl around Tate’s ear. “Believe me. There was no backroom dealing. I’d bet my guitar that Caleb’s unbridled optimism is because you have accepted Francis as a physical mate. He must believe you have acknowledged that you’re Francis’s Gianna. And by extension, he’d assume you accepted you were his Gianna, too. Sometimes Caleb does not define himself well as an individual separate from his Gianna and Francis.”
She sniffles. The wee shite pulls a linen handkerchief from her pocket and gently wipes her nose. He definitely stole that trick from me. But still, that tiny gesture makes my heart sing. If Nameless is feeling tenderness for Tate, maybe, just maybe, he’s getting over his centuries-old grudge about being thrown over for first, Robert, then me.
She takes the handkerchief and soundly blows her nose. Nameless leads her to a nearby love seat and pulls her down beside him. She blows her nose again and gives him a weak smile.
“Better?” He asks. She nods. “Good.”
“I should have suspected Caleb of being hopeful rather than assuming you all wanted in on my date. I probably overreacted by running rather than confronting him. I just feel drawn in so many directions. It’s as if I’m at war with myself. Then, there’s this.” She raises her right wrist in the air.
I move in to take a closer look. At a short distance, the unity brand looks like a beautiful tattoo with one fully open crimson flower, one that’s halfway to blooming, and two flowers still just buds, all amidst vines that weave through them, binding them together in an elaborate infinity symbol. On closer examination, the unity brand is in motion. Two of the closed buds are still. But the full flower, the half-open flower, and the vines writhe, and I watch in horror as a battle ensues. The open flower sends out wisps of ether that I recognize as Bob’s to the vine and half-flower while they fight off almost microscopic wisps of black smoke. Hades’s ether?
It’s clear the brand is made up our combined ether. And it’s emitting our ether, fighting, because something threatens our domain. This is not good and might very well be part of the reason Zeus seems so concerned. This is not news that will calm Tate down. I save it for later when I can speak to the rest of the clan.
I stroke my finger across her wrist, through the brand. “Being loved is a gift. But love isn’t easy. You’re entitled to your emotions. And you didn’t overreact. If we’re going to keep writing songs together, let’s agree to no judgments, and friends before all else.” Nameless pulls her against his chest, and she rests her head on his shoulder, sighing as if he’s removed the weight of Mount Vesuvius from her strong shoulders.
“It’s just that when Caleb said you were all going to fuck me tonight, something snapped. This is going to sound stupid.” Another sniff, more blowing and tsking comfort sounds from Nameless happen before she goes on. “It’s just that I was feeling so loved, so treasured, and horny, if you must know. And then, there’s all the emotion of being with Bob again after all we went through and thinking I might never see him again. And . . .” She rushes on with a list of laments.
I take a read on Nameless long enough to assure myself I’ve left her in the best hands for now and return to the kitchen, grabbing the vial of nectar on the way.
“. . . So the idea of all of us fucking her doesn’t bother you anymore? Personally, I’d prefer not to share her, so I have a hard time believing you’re on board, Bob. ” Caleb’s brow furrows in his earnestness, not examining the hypocrisy of his words as the man whose words pushed Tate from the room. Or maybe he has more insight than I do. I sigh inwardly. Please gods don’t give me yet another jealous fool to deal with!
“Tate must decide above all else,” I say. “We put too much emphasis on Bob’s feelings because of the past, when what we need to do is show Tate that we are worthy of her love.”
“How will I know she thinks I’m worthy?” Caleb asks. His lips forming a thin, hard line.
Robert answers. “Tate doesn’t hide her feelings well, so you’ll know. That is if Francis is right about all this stuff. I’m not entirely convinced. But if he is, and we’re all destined to be her men, then I guess I’ll have to get used to the idea of sharing her.” Robert glances up and sees me. “Ah, speak of the devil, or should I say, vampire.”
Corny, Robert. I twitch an eye at him. He shrugs, characteristic grin back in place. At least that was one good thing about having our Gianna back, she had little tolerance for angst, and it didn’t stand a chance around her for very long. I drift over to the bar area of the kitchen and pour each of us three fingers of mead, adding a drop of nectar to Caleb’s glass. Best to tread lightly when introducing any substance that might trigger his animal. I slide a glass in front of each of them. Caleb gulps his down and jumps up for more.
“Caleb,” I warn. Now is not a good time for him to tie one on as he loves to call it. When Caleb gets intoxicated, there’s nothing any of us can do to stop him.
Robert puts a hand out, and his compassion for his brother leaks into me. What difference will it make? He was right. Caleb, despite his colorful language, was definitely not the one who was going to get fucked tonight as he so eloquently put it. And the way he’s acting, maybe getting inebriated is for the best.
“How much do you remember about our past?” I ask when he gets back to the table. I make a show of examining the various dishes but have no desire to eat. I glance at Caleb.
“About what?” he asks.
Shite. Maybe I should have given him more.
He takes another drink then giggles. Robert and I exchange and then shoot Caleb a look—a giggle? He giggles again. The man is dead drunk, and he’s only had two drinks. It usually takes at least ten times that amount to put him down. Robert and I exchange another look, worried this time.
“Remember. I remember it all, man. I remember you two would have left me for dead.
” He reaches for his glass, but I swipe it away. He seems oblivious as he continues. “Then I saw her, and she was the one.” He holds up the underside of his right wrist, exposing the small, tightly-curled crimson flower bud on the inside of his arm. He looks at it dejectedly. “And sometimes I feel like it’s almost pulsing. Like it’s that close to coming alive. But we know what went wrong the last time that happened.”
Thank the gods, he remembers. That would make this a lot easier. Robert leans forward, the compassionate part of his nature he tries so hard to hide springing to the forefront. He truly was one of the healers. “Why don’t you tell us about it,” he says.
Caleb’s head slumps onto his chest. “There’s nothing to tell that you don’t already know. I can feel it in here.” He thumps his chest. “She finally lemme be part of one of your orgies, and . . . my animal . . . my animal rejected her and . . . tore all of you all . . . all apart.” He flails his drunken arm to indicate us both and utters a deep, pain-filled sigh. “And thass the lasst time we were all together.”
Robert’s heart surges toward Caleb. Sard. Right now, Tate and her no-nonsense manner would come in handy. My diplomacy works much better in the barracks with my men than it does with matters of the heart. I channel my Gianna. “And that’s all the more reason for us to tread carefully and do this right. We need to work together, or we might ruin the last chance we have to ascend to Nirvana.”
“I agree,” Robert says. “I can feel it. It’s almost like we’re on the verge of something big.” He shakes his head in wonder. “And I don’t even believe in stuff like that.”
“Even after all you’ve seen here?” I ask.
“Point taken.” Our Robert is a smart man. The thunk of Caleb’s head hitting the table pulls our attention. Robert sighs. “I guess I’d better get him to his room.
“He’s okay. First, we need to talk about the plan for tonight. Now, more than ever, we need to be walking the same road.”
Robert sits back, relaxed but alert. “What do you have in mind?”
14
— Tate —
Nameless, with a kindness that belies his demon status, turns out to be just what I needed after Caleb’s thoughtless enthusiasm. After a quick trip to the kitchen where we chow down on a huge piece of chocolate cake and milk, Nameless takes me through his bedroom and stops in front of a wood-paneled wall. He waves his hand in the air, and the panel slides open. In the second we have before he pulls me through the opening, I take in his room with its circular black bed, the thick black shag rug we’re standing on, and some weird kind of two-seater designer chair.
Nameless quickly pulls me through a large recording studio housing what must be at least a thousand glittering guitars. Before I can stop and gape, we’re in a large dance studio, the kind I’ve always dreamed of owning. I take a couple of experimental jumps to confirm my suspicion . . . Yup, it’s a wooden, sprung suspended floor. A brass barre runs across the middle of a mirrored wall. Nameless pulls my jacket off and throws it on a chair in the corner. He waves his hand, and a California surf punk version of an old Beach Boys song comes on. He gives me that smile that damned near melts my knickers and pulls me to the barre.
“Time to warm up.” Nameless starts a series of slow pliés, and I follow. We spend the next ten minutes executing a series of arabesque, sauté, and allégro movements before Nameless stops in the middle of the floor.
“I can’t believe you can dance,” I say, breathless from watching his muscles ripple in his gorgeous body.
“I wasn’t into sports. And as soon as I realized that girls love a guy who can dance, I threw myself into it. Let’s just say the cheerleaders preferred to dance with me over the quarterback. He grins, breathing a bit harder than usual as he strips off the purple hoodie that covers his chest. The guy is shredded. I swear an anatomy class could use him to name each individual muscle on his torso. His jeans are tight but stretchy and cup the curve of his very impressive . . . um . . . package. A package I’d love to open right about now.
I drag my gaze from his crotch to a swatch of black curly chest hair that makes my hands flex with the need to run my fingers through it. My traitorous eyes finally make their way to his face and a very wicked smile.
“My Bob hates dancing. He likes to be in control, and it makes him feel too judged. We took dance lessons before our wedding. I desperately wanted to do that dance from Dirty Dancing.” I throw my hand over my eyes. “I probably watched it a hundred and fifty-seven times with my mom. I always dreamed of doing it.”
I peek at Nameless between my fingers, but he’s not laughing at me. He looks compassionate. I continue, “Two lessons in, Bob bailed on it. He thought we’d look silly.” I sigh. “Maybe we would have.” I shrug. “I just would have been so—”
Nameless takes his place in front of me and crooks his finger. He says, “Play, ‘I’ve Had the Time of My Life.’” The song fills the studio, and my face bursts into a smile of delight.
He holds up his arms, and I walk into them. And godsdammit, he brushes his lips over mine, lips that take me back to the feel of lying across his lap, feeling his hands and wishing for so much more.
He slides both arms around my back before walking me into a half-turn while he slides his arm around the underside of my arm and down, brushing the swell of my breast. The geyser between my legs erupts as his lips brush against mine once again. Slow, sensual, barely there. Sex oozes from the two of us as we execute the complex dance moves. And oh gods, how the man can move those hips, making it no mistake when he manages to repeatedly brush his straining cock against my throbbing pelvis.
As we dance, we go from eye- to body-fucking each other on the dance floor. I slide up his body after he pulls me close, so close. But before the heat can build too much, he twists and twirls me around the floor.
Wisps of his purple ether mingle with mine, winding around the brand on my arm, making the third bud pulse. As the compulsion to rip those jeans off his body overcomes me, Nameless does the solo piece of the dance, showing off some of his singular dance moves and flexibility. I feel as if I’m watching the Magic Mike live show.
Show off. I throw my head back and laugh and whoop out loud in amazement. He’s just that beautiful and . . . fuuuck . . .raunchy. There’s no hiding the demon in him now.
He executes each move perfectly, never missing a beat. I clap my hands together as he executes a perfect triple tour. When he reaches for me, I run, plié, and jump into his arms without hesitation, and he sweeps me into the air.
We move from that to a playlist of Rihanna, and Drake, and some artists I don’t even know but they make me want to move. And we do. In perfect tandem as if we’ve done this all our lives. We take turns working through a series of jazz and hip hop patterns before he pulls me into his arms in the most sensual grind of my life.
We’re both breathing hard, foreheads touching before he nuzzles the hollow in my neck. Our bodies engage in a slow slide, fitting together like puzzle pieces. Hands exploring. Breath hitching. Until I put my hands on his head and rub the two nubs that now visibly stick from his hair. They’re cute and turn me on. Nameless winces and steps back as if I’ve touched a live nerve. He gets all weird and starts muttering about the time.
“I . . . uh . . . I promised Winsha. Sorry, I gotta bounce.” He practically runs me over getting out of the studio.
Those damned tears well up again, but before I have time to settle on exactly what I’m feeling, Francis appears in front of me. Just appears and fixes those fire-rimmed irises on me.
“As of this moment, wee lassie, you’re mine.”
Those words blow away any remnant of sadness and replace it with excitement so sharp I can taste it. I part my lips to answer him.
He places an alabaster finger over my lips. “Unlike your previous master, you can expect me to punish you for any infraction, no matter how small. I am very fond of using a leather strap. You’ll get one stroke for each word you speak out of turn, so choose your
words carefully.” He holds out his arm, and I slip mine into the crook of his elbow.
A moment later, we’re in a small white room. Yup, the room’s entirely white, just as it is in my fantasy, with a black rope hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Near the top, the rope is fashioned into a complex knot. Francis fastens metal handcuffs around my wrists, slides a locking carabiner onto the rope, and attaches it to my handcuffs. Then, he passes the end of the rope through a loop in the knot above, making a pully. Without a word, he yanks the loose end of the loop taut until my arms are above my head. I suck in a breath in surprise, but Francis doesn’t pause. He fastens the free end of the rope below the pulley with two efficient knots before slowly circling me, examining his handiwork.
I feel as if I’m not even in the room. It’s just Francis and the rope, and the feeling is . . . compelling.
He pulls a blindfold from his gray suit pants and slips it over my head. My pulse shoots into the stratosphere. Hot damn. He slides his hand over my buttocks. “Red means stop. Yellow means ease off. Any questions?” Francis’s voice is pure command.
I shake my head. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having an oh-shit-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into moment. I am. But it’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever felt, and I am lit.
“Welcome to your fantasy. Let us begin.”
Yes, let’s. Because this woman needs orgasms, plenty of them. Last night and tonight’s episodes with Nameless have me ready to spontaneously combust if I don’t come soon.
Silence follows the rustle of fabric, and I’m left hanging with my thoughts and wet dreams. And wishing I’d gone pee before all this started.
I startle when a cool breeze drifts over my bare arms and heavy footsteps sound. Footfalls that neither Bob nor Francis make. My antennae go into overdrive, but I sense . . . nothing. I smell expensive cologne before rough hands brush my chest as they grab my shirt and rip it off me. I gasp. My pants and knickers quickly follow, and I’m left suspended on tiptoes, completely naked.
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