by Connie Hall
“Me, too. Maybe it’s time to just let go.” She grinned at him, wrapped her legs around his thighs, her hands around his waist, and drew him closer. The darkness made her feel bolder, more confident than she’d ever felt with a man, and she knew she didn’t have to hold back with him. He could take what she offered and give it back tenfold.
He let her control the moment, and she pushed him down to his knees between her legs. Then she was ripping off the last of his shirt buttons.
Ping, ping, ping.
They hit the linoleum floor. His shirt’s white linen was starched to within an inch of turning into cardboard, and it felt like wax paper. Now she knew why his clothes never looked rumpled. She crumpled it into a ball before she threw it behind him.
She touched the vial hanging on a chain around his neck. “What’s this?”
“The soil of my birth,” he said. “It’s my lifeline during the day.” His hands moved down her neck, to the soft area at the base of her throat. Then he bent and kissed her there, letting his lips linger.
She felt his fangs surface, the tips barely raking her skin.
A shiver racked her, and the necklace was forgotten. She explored the hard contours of his chest, learning every inch of him in breathless discovery. Golden-brown hair splattered across the center of his chest, then trickled down to below the waist of his pants. There wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh on him. He was all corded male muscle, six-pack rippling along his abdomen, nipples taut and puckered. Somehow she knew he’d have a perfect physique.
His head lulled back as he luxuriated in her touch, letting her explore his body.
She breathed in the scent of butter rum and starch and his own clean musk as she dipped down and suckled a nipple. He groaned as his fingers dove into her thick hair. Then he caressed the back of her head, her hair, tickling and tantalizing her scalp.
She moved her exploration lower, stroking his erection through his pants, engorged and hard and ready for her.
When her fingers went for the zipper, he groaned as if he were wounded and then helped her. In minutes his pants were off.
He pulled her faceup so he could capture her lips. His body trembled with need, every muscle alive by what was opening up inside him. His lips were no longer relaxed, but urgent, his tongue thrusting into her mouth.
She ran her tongue along the tips of his fangs.
He kneaded her breasts, teased her nipples until they were hard and aching.
She arched against his palms; then he slid a hand down between her thighs and parted her, found the center of her desire. Heat built and tightened in her, and her hips writhed against his hand. She drove her back into the couch and her hips rose off the cushion as he brought her to a climax. He kissed her at that moment, absorbing her scream and passion as if that might fuse them together in that one moment.
Then he plunged into her.
She felt him filling her, thrusting, touching her womb.
He continued his skilled onslaught and Takala came again, and he was kissing a line down her flat belly, parting her thighs and using his mouth to drive her onward into another burning tumult.
Takala had never felt passion this intense, such stormy heat. It all but consumed her, drummed her temples, melted her flesh, pressed her heart, until she was panting and digging her nails into his back and her whole body was one liquid flame.
They cried out together as they both came.
Then he was guiding her back into a dark oblivion again, and she rode the storm with him.
Chapter 20
Takala had never felt so sated as she lay curled up next to Striker’s bare chest. He held her close, one arm thrown over her shoulder. A delicious, hypersensitive tenderness throbbed between her legs.
She rubbed her palm over his chest and noticed that his body was still rigid, strung as tightly as cable wire. “You gave me pleasure,” she said coyly, feeling just a little uncomfortable now by his unmoving silence and tenseness and his preoccupied expression. “But I feel like something is missing for you.”
She could feel an uncomfortable gulf dividing them the moment she’d spoken, slipping away by the second, the world rushing back in to claim them.
“I’m fighting my desire to taste you.”
She had forgotten that the culmination of sexual desire for him would be the bite. He’d held back so he wouldn’t hurt her. She realized just how much of his willpower it must be costing him to hold her this close and not feed, and something that was running out of control inside her said, “Do it. Do it now.”
“No, Takala. I gave you my word. I won’t hurt you like that, ever.” His voice was rough and edged with iron.
“But don’t you have to so Raithe will believe we’re lovers?”
“This is enough. He will smell me on you. But I must thank you—” he ran a finger along her chin “—for giving me more pleasure than I have felt in ages, but I cannot let my desire for you go any further.”
Further. Something about that one word sounded cold and final, and it hurt like he’d stabbed her. She pulled away from him and sat up, feeling the loss of his nearness. She shivered, aware of the chill in the air now as she said, “I guess we’ve fooled Raithe. We should get back.”
She stood and began searching the shadows for her clothes.
“Yes.” He seemed a little more relaxed now that she wasn’t near him.
She found her jeans and boots and realized what discomfited her the most was this empty expectation between them. He meant to sever the relationship. That was obvious. This was only a means to an end for him.
When had it become something deeper for her? She had promised herself not to get involved again. The old Takala was surfacing. Just let it go. He’d set the boundary, and she had to respect that, expect nothing in return from him, not his love or approval or admiration, a call for a second date. It was what it was. Two people sharing intimacy, lost in a few moments of bliss, accomplishing something that needed to be done, making her more desirable to Raithe. Just accept it and get on with your life.
She turned as she snatched up her bra and forced out the words, “Thank you for not biting me. I lost my head there for a moment, and I’m glad you kept yours. I can’t imagine what it cost you, and I just want you to know I’m grateful.”
He had picked up his shirt and was shaking it out, but now he paused. The dim haze of lights filtering in the window behind him outlined his tall silhouette. His chest and shoulders looked massive in the shadows, all muscular ridges. She longed to cross the four feet separating them and touch him and kiss him, but she forced her resolve and her feet to stay put while she quickly dressed.
There was a somberness about him, a severity in the straightness of his shoulders and back, in the tense set of his jaw that made her uncomfortable as he said, “Do not thank me. You have no idea what was going through my mind.”
“Well, I’m glad this is over.” She forced the words past the lump in her throat. “We won’t repeat this, ever.”
He cocked his head at her kind of strangely and said, “Wait a minute. Is that not my line?”
Yes, it was, yet something about her saying it first empowered her. Maybe he had been right about her. She had been searching for self-esteem and love from the men in her life, instead of from within her own self. Realizing it hurt, but it also felt freeing to admit it.
“Doesn’t matter who says it, does it?” She didn’t wait for his answer. She suddenly felt the need to get out of the room, get her mind in the right place. She said, “I need to find a restroom.” She had to do something with her hands, and she made sure the Glock was back inside her boot.
“Turn left past the door. It’s on your right.” His voice had taken on its hard agent-mode tone again.
“Thanks.” She forced herself to stand and strode to the door, her nub of pleasure still swollen and throbbing inside her bikini panties from their lovemaking.
Her decision to keep her distance was already being tested by the sensations
he’d left on her body. She bit her lower lip and felt the puffy tenderness from kissing him. She could still feel his mouth against hers, his arms around her, his erection filling her.
Abruptly, emptiness moved inside her. It was just her emotions adjusting to this new confident Takala, she convinced herself.
She frowned and hurried out to find the restroom. For a little while she’d forgotten that they were at cross-purposes. She wanted Lilly safe, and he just wanted Raithe and was willing to use Lilly as bait. She couldn’t let that happen.
Striker put on his shoes as he watched Takala step through the door, chin raised, coltish long legs adding to her confident feline prowl.
He still tasted her essence on his lips. It would be so easy to glamour her and force her back to him, take what he wanted. He couldn’t believe that he had held back his desire, found a spark of human caring that allowed him to give her pleasure but not find fulfillment. He had denied every predatory instinct within him. Had O’Malley been right? Could he actually feel again, after the long dry years of emptiness?
It had bothered him just a bit that she had so easily dismissed their encounter and spoken so coldly about it. Perhaps that had been a good thing; still, it annoyed him and didn’t stop the possessive emotions he felt when he held her in his arms.
Striker slid on his jacket, smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt, then adjusted his tie. He decided he did not want his life complicated with emotions. Better to not feel at all and not deal with the temptations.
Raithe was his priority anyway, and for about the last hour he’d been aware of his nemesis. Just like he could discern Takala among thousands, he could feel Raithe’s presence, his preeminence and potent darkness. It was like a ripple from a comet hitting the earth, the aftershocks rocking every primal instinct inside him. It was an acuity older vampires obtained, strictly primitive, a connection to the powers of darkness. It only worked if a vampire dropped his guard and put out the extrasensory vibrations. Striker knew that Raithe was teasing him, letting him know he was close. Perhaps that was what had distracted him and kept him from biting Takala. Whatever it had been, he was certain it wasn’t emotional attachment.
Striker didn’t have time to ponder this before his phone vibrated. He reached in and answered it. Brawn’s image appeared on the screen; he was nervously thumping a pencil on the desk.
“Two things, boss. Doc has already sold Takala, and our target is on the move.”
“Get a team together to guard Takala. And who is on Culler?”
“Que, Bull, Hammer and Lorenda, but the sun will be up soon and we’ll lose everyone but Que.”
They were some of Striker’s best European agents, but they were vampires and had to sleep during the day. Que was older and able to brave the day. “Okay, call Mimi and have her get a day team together. I’ll be there momentarily.”
Striker strode to the bathroom and pulled Takala away from the mirror, snatching the lipstick out of her hand.
“Hey, what’s up?” She looked at him, her eyes bright, on the alert and wary.
He disliked that she did not fully trust him. “We have to go,” he said.
“What’s happened?”
“I’ll brief you on the way.”
He grabbed Takala and held her close. He closed his eyes, let her scent fill him; then they were moving faster than the speed of light and he found himself not wanting to let her go.
Chapter 21
Takala and Striker arrived at the hotel so fast he hadn’t told her what happened. She didn’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff, and she started to tell him so when Brawn met them in the stairwell.
Brawn looked tired to Takala, dark circles around his eyes. He was multitasking, sipping coffee and watching Lilly’s image on his phone as he said, “The team’s assembled.”
“Good job.” Striker held the door for Takala to walk through. She stepped into the hallway as he continued to grill Brawn. “Do you know who bought her?”
“Bought?” Takala perked up. “Already? Doc is quick.”
“I am not surprised, given the quality of your blood.” Striker didn’t even turn to look at her as he spoke.
“So, who owns me?” she asked, irritated at his sudden dismissal. The hunt the most important thing to him.
Brawn said, “Bloke named Psycho. Checked his priors. Nothing, but that doesn’t mean he’s not one of Raithe’s toadies.”
“You have Culler covered?”
“Yes, all sides. Eight agents. She’s in a taxi, heading west on the Avenue de New York.”
“Destination?”
“She told the driver 180 Quai de Bercy.”
“The docks.” Striker’s eyes gleamed, the wheels of his mind churning behind the purple depths, considering something only he could see.
Lilly was on the move? Takala felt the pit of her stomach drop to her knees.
Striker asked, “Did she make a call before she left?”
“No, but a telegram arrived.”
“I want in on tracking Lilly,” Takala said.
“It’s too dangerous.” Striker turned a cold stare on her, wearing the dark mask of a father speaking to a recalcitrant daughter. “You’ll stay here.”
“I’m not leaving Lilly out there alone. She’s my biological mother.” Takala’s voice cracked on her last words. She hated hearing it out loud, hated that Lilly was a disappointment. Still, they shared the same blood. She couldn’t let Striker send Lilly to her death so he could locate Raithe.
“Nonetheless, you’re safer here.”
Takala knew arguing with him was futile, so she calmed her voice and said, “Okay, Lilly’s off the table. What about my buyer? I’ll have to put in an appearance.”
“I hope it will not come to that. I hope Culler will lead us to Raithe. Selling your blood was just a backup plan.”
“Wait one minute. You can’t stone me totally like this.”
His pupils swirled, expanding. Takala knew he was trying that telepathic crap on her again. She stood there, looking blankly into his eyes, while his power bombarded her psyche. But she channeled all her anger and forced it back.
“You will do as I say and forget everything you just heard.”
“Forget,” she repeated for his benefit.
At that moment, the elevator pinged and two men stepped off. One was broad-faced with a Neanderthal brow. Full thick lips and a black beard hid his teakwood-colored skin. His eyes glowed blue, as if they were lit within. Primate two-skin of some sort. The other was short, shaved head with just a tuft of hair in the center. He wore a long black overcoat, mirror sunglasses. A metal hook prosthesis protruded where his right hand should have been. He walked with a limp, and there were scars running across his cheeks, chin and neck.
He reached her first and extended the hook. “Hi, I’m Nine Lives,” he said in a pronounced Southern accent.
If Takala had to guess, he sounded Georgian. “This walking lump of flesh here is Saturn.”
Saturn grunted.
“Glad to meet you,” Takala said in a dreamy voice. Then she shook Nine Lives’s cold metal appendage.
Striker rounded on them, stepping between her and Nine Lives. “You are late.”
“Sorry, sir,” Nine Lives said, his smile dying. “We were called at the last minute. This pretty little lady our problem?” Nine Lives gave Takala’s body a once-over, his glasses moving up, then down.
Takala hated meeting people who wore sunglasses. You couldn’t see their eyes, and if you couldn’t see a person’s eyes, then you couldn’t make a judgment call on their personality. It was like they had something to hide, probably a dark side.
“That’s right. Keep her safe. Don’t leave her for a second.” Striker shot them a warning glance not to blow this one. Something in the way he held their gazes a moment too long suggested he was worried about more than just her safety.
“Will do, boss man.” Nine Lives saluted with his metal hook.
Striker looked at Takala and
pointed to her door. “Now go to your room.”
She turned on her heels and walked into her room, closing the door. She pressed her ear to the crack. Nothing but mumbling that she couldn’t make out.
What had Brawn said? Lilly was in a cab going to the Quai de Bercy. Well, there was more than one way to find a rat and shake it. Let him put his guards out there.
Takala gave Striker enough time to leave, then she quickly rummaged through her suitcase and dressed all in black, including a pair of tennis shoes and a head scarf. She grabbed a pair of sunglasses, a flashlight, and an extra clip for her gun, which she stuck in the back of her jeans. She slipped on her leather jacket.
She listened again for voices and heard nothing. Striker was gone.
Takala walked over, picked up a ceramic lamp from the nightstand and hurled it against the wall. A loud crash and shards flew. She hid behind the door.
It opened and Nine Lives barreled through. “What the hel—”
Takala caught him from behind and grabbed his neck. He fought and gasped, but she had him in a headlock and was a lot stronger than he was. He began saying a spell in Latin. A witch with nine lives. Nice.
She squeezed harder, not wanting to break his larynx, only shut him up. Finally he passed out, limp in her arms. She dragged him behind the door.
Suddenly Saturn stomped through, holding a soda and a pack of vending-machine nabs, the Jolly Hungry Giant. He saw Nine Lives at her feet and his eyes grew to saucers. He dropped his goodies, but it was too late.
Takala aimed for his face.
With surprising speed, he leaped aside. He caught her fist in his huge boxy fingers and squeezed.
She fell to her knees, the pain soaring up her arm as he crushed her hand. She had a clear line to his crotch, and she head-butted his family jewels.
He screamed and bent over.
She drove her left fist into the side of his temple.
He staggered, picked her up by the scruff of her neck, wobbling. His eyes were unfocused, his gaze all over the place, then he grumbled and tossed her across the room.
