Bloodlust Denied

by Phillips, Christina

  “How long ago did he die?” Not long. He knew that much.

  She flicked him a startled glance, as if she’d expected him to sympathize with her loss, perhaps murmur meaningless platitudes.

  “A long time ago. Another life.” The corner of her mouth quirked in a private, mirthless jest.

  As the next course was served and he was unwillingly thrust into the tainted archives of his past when he had truly lived another life. A time when death had claimed all he loved, everything he had ever been. Memories he’d buried in unmarked graves.

  He attacked the venison on his plate, momentarily imagining sinking his teeth into the meat. But that wouldn’t assuage the dull rage that churned through his gut or pounded through his brain. He dropped his pretense of eating and leveled his gaze across the table to where Morana sat staring at him, spellbound.

  “Were you with him at the end?” He hadn’t meant to ask such a thing. And yet her love was so pure, it bathed her in a halo and he knew she would not have allowed her brother to die alone.

  The way he’d let his beloved die alone.

  The moldering memory rose like a putrid corpse from the black fog in his mind. He gritted his teeth, pushed the recollection aside. It was long ago, and even then there had been nothing he could do to change the hand of Fate.

  Fuck, but he loathed Fate. He had spent the rest of his existence spitting in Fate’s eye. But it meant nothing, because nothing could change the past and the past was the only thing he craved with all of his shriveled heart.

  “No.” Her voice was a whisper in the eons of time that separated them. He dragged his attention back to the present, back to the woman who sat opposite him. The only woman who had ever sat with him alone in this grand, empty dining hall.

  “Why not?”

  She looked down at her plate, clearly debating whether to accede to his demand. Or maybe she was just recalling another time, another place.

  Finally she raised her head and for one eternal second he saw the monumental depth of her loss. A loss that surely encompassed more than her brother, more than anything a mere mortal was capable of withstanding.

  “Fate had other plans.”

  A chill trickled along his spine at her choice of words. But they were only words. It didn’t mean she could read his mind or see into his hollow soul.

  “And now your guilt eats at your heart and conscience, until you fear for your sanity.” He offered her a twisted smile. How well he understood except for the fact he no longer had a heart and had long ago forsaken his conscience.

  Her eyes darkened with sudden knowledge. “Who have you lost, Your Grace?”

  He had no heart, yet still it ached. “No one.”

  She was silent as the plates were cleared. He contemplated abandoning dessert, canceling the evening’s entertainment he’d arranged and instead take her to bed and pleasure her so thoroughly all thought of conversation vaporized.

  Something, perhaps a masochistic streak he’d not realized he possessed until this moment, prevented him from moving a muscle.

  “Was she your wife?” Morana’s voice was soft and her gaze didn’t waver despite the warning glare he arrowed her way.

  No one dared question him. No one possessed the nerve to delve into his private affairs.

  No one but this woman. And that was the reason she was here at his table.

  “Yes.” The word grated through his chest, seared his throat. It didn’t matter what he said tonight. When he finished their liaison he would wipe the memories from Morana’s mind and apart from his most trusted servants, everyone else who served the needs of this house could never recall anything of import relating to him.

  “How did she die?”

  He could finish this conversation now. She had no right to question him. Despite what he was, he was still a peer of the realm, had been a fucking peer of the realm for so many centuries it meant nothing anymore. As if it ever had.

  “She was murdered.”

  Her reaction was satisfactorily appropriate. Her eyes widened, lips parted, and her fingers clenched around the crystal goblet she held.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Did—was the murderer apprehended?”

  A mirthless smile slashed his mouth. He could feel his fangs splitting through his gums and wondered what Morana’s reaction would be if he allowed her to witness that phenomenon.

  “Vengeance was mine.” The crypt opened, the blood-soaked memory crawled forth. For the first time in countless centuries, he recalled the smell, the feel and the overwhelming fury as he’d splattered blood and bone and brain across the marble floors and elegant columns.

  Vengeance was his, but it was empty, meaningless, because nothing had brought her back to him again.

  Morana took a deep breath as if she wasn’t sure how her words would be received. “My brother was also murdered.”

  He felt the waves of desolation roll from her and there was something so fundamentally wrong with the scent of her emotion that it pierced the thick black anger building in his chest.

  With effort, he slammed shut the vault, once again imprisoning the darkness. He focused on her, on the pain emanating from the heart of her being, on the agony shredding her soul and mind.

  For her brother?

  His senses sharpened. Her love was pure but it filled every atom, overflowed, spilled into the room and he could feel the loss as acutely as if the loss were his own. But this love was somehow amiss, askance, as though her precious virtuoso was playing off-key, a discordant note amidst perfection.

  “Was his death avenged?”

  Her dark eyes transfixed him. “Vengeance is the reason I exist.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After dinner, Morana accepted the duke’s hand and he led her from the dining room. She couldn’t believe what had possessed her to tell him such personal details but truly, what did it matter? He would think she exaggerated, or spoke purely from grief.

  Never in a thousand years would he guess she’d admitted the absolute truth.

  Bewigged flunkies opened the doors to another room and she gasped. Sculptures graced the palatial music room and sixteenth-century tapestries adorned the walls, but her eyes were drawn to the string quartet. Instinctively she focused on the violinist and a pang shot through her at the knowledge it was not Thanatos.

  But she’d see him soon. Already he was close to finding her, she had no doubt.

  “French,” the duke whispered in her ear, his amusement obvious. “I’m nothing if not patriotic.”

  She turned and smiled, and wondered at the instant stiffening of his features, as if something in her smile startled him.

  How odd. “Music transcends petty rivalries.” She’d lost count of the battles and wars mankind had waged over the centuries. How pointless they all were.

  They sat on a sofa upholstered in a needlework cornucopia of fruit and foliage, and the exquisite strains of Bach replenished the well in her heart and joy overflowed, tumbling through her veins. She gripped her fingers together and crossed her ankles so she wasn’t tempted to leap to her feet and let the music consume her, the way music always consumed her; to lose herself in the notes and the magic and forget all the whys of her lonely, endless existence.

  “Dance for me.” His smoky whisper caressed her skin, igniting a passion that had little to do with the lure of the dance and everything to do with the lure of the man.

  “How would you have me dance?” Her whisper was as sultry as his and she glanced at him from beneath her lashes. How exciting to flirt, and with such a potentially dangerous partner as the duke. “For the ballroom or the gutter?”

  His green eyes smoldered. “The gutter.”

  She stood, turned her back on the quartet and felt the music sink into her soul, bathe her heart and captivate her limbs. Her fingers slid sensuously across her hips, her waist, the outline of her breasts, and the soft fabric of her gown heightened her senses as she gyrated in seductive rhythm.
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  Never taking her gaze from his, she slowly pulled the diamond pins from her hair and flicked them onto a small Louis XVI table until, at last, her hair was free of constraint and she tossed her head, luxuriating in the liberation.

  The tempo increased and it was a banquet, notes cascading and colliding. So much more to relish than a solo, even when the soloist was as flawless as Thanatos.

  And then the duke pulled her roughly into his arms and the music abruptly silenced. But she hardly noticed the musicians hurried departure because the music still thundered in her blood, still echoed in her brain, and it wasn’t from instruments of timber and string but from the touch of hands and lips.

  “You entrance me.” His husky voice against her mouth sounded more like an accusation than compliment.

  “And you’ve enslaved me.” Let him make what he wished of her words. Either interpretation was true.

  “You’ll honor the wager?” He pulled back, just enough so their gazes clashed. “No limits or constraints?”

  Desire shimmered through her blood. If she agreed, there was no knowing what he might demand of her, what he might exact. The thought caused her nipples to tighten in anticipation and liquid heat trickled from her pussy. “No limits.”

  Fingers speared her hair, holding her still as his lips captured hers. But instead of the plunder she expected, his touch was gentle, questing. As if he was exploring her for the first time, tasting and probing and discovering her every secret.

  She plunged her fingers in his hair mimicking his actions and the silken threads caressed her palms. So soft, seductive, so much more than when she’d touched him in the carriage and been hampered by her cursed gloves.

  Their tongues touched and she slid into his mouth, thrilling to his heat and the feel of his teeth against her. But before she had tasted her fill, he drew back, severing contact and she moaned in protest.

  A ragged laugh grazed her cheek. “Patience, my love.” His endearment no longer grated on her nerves because it no longer seared as an insult. She could imagine he meant the words, even if she knew in her heart he did not.

  He worked the buttons on her gown, tugging at them when they didn’t immediately unfasten.

  “Patience, Your Grace,” she mocked softly and he growled against her ear and the fabric ripped as he tore the last buttons with no semblance of propriety.

  “Patience is overrated.” He tugged the gown over her breasts and hips and she kicked it aside as he attacked the stays of her corset and pulled the chemise free, until she stood before him clad only in silken stockings and beribboned knee garters.

  She basked in the heat of his gaze, and reached up to tug on his perfectly crafted cravat. He didn’t stop her, nor did he assist, and so she unbuttoned his coat, his waistcoat, and slid them off his powerful shoulders before tugging at his shirt.

  “Gods, how many layers do you wear?”

  He laughed before ripping the shirt over his head. “Does this please you better?”

  She traced her fingers over his impressive pectorals, delighting in the warm texture of his skin before dropping to her knees to tackle the intricacies of his breeches. The position reminded her of when they were in the carriage. Her mouth watered to taste him again.

  She pulled his breeches over his hips and his magnificent cock filled her gaze. She leaned closer and breathed in deep, the elusive scent of his arousal causing her pulses to quicken.

  The tip of her tongue licked the underside of his swollen head and his tortured groan echoed around the room.

  “Morana.” His fingers dug into her shoulders and she looked up at him. His emerald eyes blazed down at her. “You are a witch.”

  He would call her worse, and mean it, if he knew what she truly was.

  “Yes.” Her voice was husky. “Beware I don’t bewitch you for all time, Your Grace.”

  His teeth flashed in a fleeting smile. “I would have no objection to your trying, Miss Craven.”

  If she possessed such magic, she would not hesitate to use it. But all she had was now. And she would enjoy every moment until the inevitable end.

  Hastily she pushed his breeches farther down his legs. She molded her palms over his firmly muscled thighs and could feel leashed power vibrating through his body as he held himself in check.

  It was clear he was holding back because of the way he had behaved earlier. His thoughtfulness touched her and made the knowledge that they had no possible future together even harder to bear.

  But she didn’t want him to hold back. She wanted him wild and masterful, the way he had been in the carriage.

  Her hands slid up his thighs. She grasped his root, felt him pulse beneath her fingers. Her uneven breath drifted across his thick shaft and his fingers raked through her hair.

  Slowly she undulated against him and the tips of her aching nipples teased the tops of his thighs. She dragged her free hand along the back of his leg and caressed his taut calf. Her breath became ragged as she slid up his body so her breasts cradled his cock.

  “Are you bewitching me now, Morana?” He twisted her hair around his fist and forced her to stand upright. “Should I discover your tricks before it’s too late?”

  She wound her arms around his neck and gyrated to a sensual rhythm that thudded through her mind.

  “Perhaps it is already too late.” She flattened her breasts against him, her nipples digging into his hard chest. Once again, she raked her fingers through his black hair and the diamond bracelets glittered at her wrists. The reminder that she was naked except for the duke’s exquisite diamonds and her stockings caused another wave of heat to bathe her pussy.

  Alexius inhaled the addictive scent of Morana’s arousal. The musky fragrance wove into his blood, the most potent aphrodisiac he had ever encountered. And he had encountered them all.

  With one hand buried in her luxuriant hair, his other trailed along the silken curves of her body. He palmed her rounded arse. Her body was slender and voluptuous, an irresistible combination and with a flare of raw possessiveness, he gripped her succulent flesh. She gave a breathy sigh and wriggled against him, her nipples burning his chest, her belly rubbing over his erection.

  “Turn around.” He pulled her head back so he could look into her eyes. “Bend over the arm of the sofa.”

  Desire darkened her eyes until he had the heady sensation that he could drown in those fathomless depths.

  “Anything else, Your Grace?” Her voice was a sultry purr of pure provocation. She tugged one hand from his hair and traced her fingernails along the length of his throat and chest, before pinching his nipple.

  Lust arrowed from his nipple to groin and twisted through his throbbing cock. His grip on her hair tightened.

  “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  She gave him a wicked smile, her dark eyes glittering with passion. She was the siren from the London back alley who had haunted him for the last three years. And she was the refined lady of the ton who attended Assemblies and blushed at his insults.

  She was an enigma. The most intriguing creature he had discovered in centuries. And she was in his arms and willing to obey his every command.

  With reluctance, he released her hair and she tossed her head, her black curls cascading over her shoulders. With mesmeric languor, she stretched her arms above her head, her breasts thrusting forward at her action. Then she slowly turned her back on him and did exactly as he had bid her to.

  He ripped off his breeches before drinking in the vision before him. Her pale skin gleamed in the candlelight. She leaned over the arm of the sofa, her hands bracing her weight on the upholstered cushion. Her back arched and her bottom swayed provocatively.

  He leaned over her, melding his chest against her back. The crease of her arse nestled against his erection, and he swallowed a groan. Despite all the women he’d taken over the years, none but Morana had possessed the power to drive him to the edge.

  He pushed her hair over her shoulder, exposing her nape. With anyone el
se, he would be compelled to sink his fangs into the vulnerable flesh. But all he wanted to do with Morana was sink his cock deep into her wet pussy.

  She looked back at him, her hair framing her face, her breath erratic from between her parted lips. He splayed his hand between her shoulder blades and forced her down, until her cheek rested against her folded arms.

  “You could have just told me what you wanted.” Her voice was breathless.

  “This way is more fun.” Fun? He couldn’t recall the last time a quick fuck had been fun. But then, this was no simple fuck anymore. Had it ever been, even three years ago?

  He traced the length of her spine with his forefinger, gradually easing up from her body. She sighed and moved restlessly, her arse rubbing over his cock. He gritted his teeth and stepped back from her.

  Silken stockings clad her long, shapely legs, held up by blue ribbon garters. He nudged one of her slender ankles with his foot.

  “Open your legs.”

  She did not instantly obey, but instead wriggled her behind. Her skin was so smooth and firm. When she wriggled again, his palm connected with a satisfying crack across her delectable derriere.

  “Fuck!” Her coarse language, as befit a gutter whore yet screamed in the tones of an educated noble, was as arousing as the pink flush across the cheek of her arse. He rubbed his hand over her abused flesh and she squirmed again, flinging him a glance of outrage over her shoulder.

  “Do you have something to say, Miss Craven?” He flashed her a mocking smile as he pushed his hand between her clenched thighs. Her pussy was wet and he slid his finger along her slit, enjoying the way she tried not to react to his touch.

  “No.” She gritted her teeth and glared at him again. But her thighs parted and her bottom rose in supplication.

  He nudged her swollen clitoris and a strangled moan slid from her tempting lips.

  “Do you want me to stop?” He circled her bud, and her legs shook. He slid his other hand along the length of her body and cupped her breast. “Are you unable to fulfill our wager, Morana?”

  Even though she had won. But that was something she would never discover.