The Vampire Dimitri rd-2

by Колин Глисон

  She closed her mouth, for she truly had no idea what he meant. “I—”

  “I could have killed you, Maia,” he said, his face terrible. Darker and more frightening than she’d ever seen. “I nearly killed you.”

  She was shaking her head, anger dissolving into confusion. “You didn’t hurt me, Corvindale,” she said, at last understanding. “You needed to feed. It was the only way.”

  He made a disgusted sound and reached for her. “Look at this,” he said, yanking her arm out to display the bite marks there. “And here,” he said, shoving her braid away from her shoulder. “You would have let me go on and on until there was nothing left.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve done it before,” he said, his voice dropping into an awful pitch. It made her nauseated, the loathing and malevolence therein. His dark eyes glittered, holding hers like magnets. “I’ve torn a woman to shreds, left nothing but mutilated flesh behind. I could have done that to you.” His voice had dropped to an agonized whisper.

  “But you didn’t. You stopped. I didn’t realize—”

  He gave a bitter laugh, still holding on to her wrist. “Only by the grace of—something, some miracle—did I stop. It had been one hundred thirteen years, Maia.” He drew in an unsteady breath, his thumb sliding over her skin. “And even now…”

  He dropped her arm abruptly and turned away. “Where the bloody hell is my carriage?”

  “Corvindale,” she said, her voice quiet. She stepped toward him, reaching for his arm. It was in her nature to comfort, to set all right, to take care of things, and for the first time, she sensed the deep pain rolling off him like fog from the sea. It had been hidden beneath that brittle, dark exterior all this time.

  When she touched him, he froze, the muscles of his forearm tightening like bowstrings. “Miss Woodmore,” he said coldly. “You are out of line.”

  “Look at me and say that,” she said, noting that he didn’t pull away from her grip. He needed something. Something perhaps he didn’t even understand.

  He turned. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Miss Woodmore,” he said tightly. “Don’t be a fool. Release me.”

  She looked up at him, finding no humor in that ludicrous command, and silently, fearlessly, she met his eyes. Her heart pounded in her throat, echoing through her entire body as she lifted her other hand and placed it on the warm expanse of his chest. Flat, there over one of the solid planes of muscle covered by crisp white linen.

  Time stopped. The room shrunk, and she was caught up in a moment of…something. Something potent.

  When he moved, it wasn’t to spin away, but to pull her toward him. Hard and quick, with strong arms enfolding her, he brought her up against his tall frame as he bent his head. Maia met his lips with hers, hungry for what they had begun so many times earlier.

  Their mouths clashed and fought, his tongue strong and sleek, battling with hers in an erotic melee. She had him under her hands, her fingers against the warm skin of his neck, the damp fringe of his hair, pulling at the strings of his shirt.

  Corvindale lifted her onto the table next to him, clinking glasses, raising her to a height that brought her eye level with him. His hands pulled at her hair, loosening it from its braid, his fingers sliding down her neck and along her shoulders, drawing the edges of her dress’s neckline with them. The fresh air felt cool on her warm skin, and the rough pads of his fingers made gentle texture on her.

  When he pulled out of the kiss, she made a sound of negation and frustration, but he was merely moving to the side of her jaw, in front of her ear. She shivered a little when he got there and she felt his warm breath deep inside her ear, then his hot mouth covered the wounds on her bare shoulder. Maia sighed and tipped her head to the side, opening her neck and throat, pressing up against his mouth, but he didn’t bite. Instead she felt the little shudder of his torso where it pressed against hers and his tongue sliding over and around the marks, his lips sucking gently on the rise of her shoulder, his hands strong and busy over the rest of her, cupping her breasts, sliding down over the swell of her hips.

  The ties at the back of her dress loosened, and the bodice gapped before she knew it, his hands drawing the neckline down over her shoulders, completely baring them and the top of her shift. When he realized she couldn’t recline any farther on the narrow table, Corvindale made a sound of frustration and scooped her up.

  Maia clung to his shoulders, dazed and already aroused, as he pivoted around and deposited her on the sofa, easing down next to her. She caught a glimpse of his face, dark and intense, his eyes hooded, and the very image of that desirous countenance sent deep waves of pleasure in her belly.

  His weight pressed her gently into the upholstery, leaving her breathless but not frightened or overwhelmed. She started to say something—she didn’t even know what; perhaps to order him to remove his dratted shirt—when he gave a sharp yank and pulled the top of her corset away. He’d already loosened it, and her breast slipped free, round and ivory with a swollen pink tip.

  He made a little sound, then ducked his head and flicked out his tongue just over the tip of her nipple. Maia watched, jolting at the light sensation that spiraled through her, and when he covered her with his mouth, the undulating waves of heat trammeled through her, down past her belly and to her core. His tongue sleek and warm, swirling around as he drew her hard and fast in his mouth, made her lose her breath. The pang of pleasure stabbed her belly again, and she felt herself opening, flowering and swelling down at the juncture of her thighs.

  Pulling away, he looked up at her. Their eyes caught and Maia could hardly catch her breath at the dark heat there. She could see the tips of his upper fangs just below his upper lip, and she wanted them…inside her.

  Instead of asking that, she whispered, “Your shirt, Corvindale. Make it go away.”

  His eyes darkened and he eased back, whipping the linen up and over his head with a sharp snap. She had to touch his broad shoulders and the ridges of his belly, the slabs of his chest, slide her fingers through the thick patch of hair and over flat, oval nipples. She moved her hands up to cover the marks on his arm and raised her face to touch them with her mouth, wondering if she might taste more of him there, too.

  He was solid and smooth, his skin damp and hot, and she felt something deep beneath leaping and trembling as she scored him gently with her teeth. His head tipped to the side, leaning against the sofa, his eyes closed, his beautiful lips—the mouth she’d so admired at the masquerade ball—parted as he drew in steadying breaths. Maia shifted, and his heavy arm came around as if to keep her from slipping away, but she had no intention of doing so.

  She planted her hands flat on the warm slabs of his chest and curled her fingers around his shoulders to pull herself up. She had to taste that strong, corded neck, and it was warm and soft and she felt him groaning deep in his throat as she nibbled along the tendons there. When she closed her teeth over him, giving a sharp nip, he shuddered, his arm tightening around her.

  “Maia,” he murmured. “Take care.”

  She shook her head in the warmth of his neck, smelling his particular smell, now fresh with bergamot. “You won’t hurt me.”

  He gave a short laugh, and she shifted, realizing she was now pressed against him all the full length of their torsos and legs. She could feel the outline of his powerful thighs, fairly twice as thick as her own, her skirt and shift tangled in with them and the hard rise from behind the buttons of his trousers. The very feel of it made her belly ache and her center tingle with sharp pleasure.

  Before she could slide her hand down over the gentle ripples of his stomach, he moved, easing all along the length of her until his knees were on the floor. Before she could sit up, he had his hands up and under her skirt, sliding the layers up and baring her legs. When he bent to kiss the inside of her thigh, Maia felt uncontrollable shivers starting up along her.

  What if he bit her…there?

  His tongue moved sleek and strong along th
e sensitive skin inside her leg, and Maia watched his dark head moving against her ivory thigh. She caught a glimpse of his teeth, white and sharp, against her flesh, her breathing coming faster and harder as he moved higher up. A flash of a fang had her veins surging and pounding, and when he spread her legs, burying his face down in the heat of her there, Maia nearly arched off the sofa.

  His fingers were clever and gentle, baring that most sensitive, most private part of her, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Maia realized she shouldn’t be doing this. Not her, not Miss Woodmore, not the woman who was going to marry someone…else….

  But she didn’t care. This was it, this was him, this was what she wanted…and his mouth was hot and fervent, and she quivered, swollen and wet, and when his tongue slid over her quim, she knew she couldn’t stop this. She didn’t want to, especially when he did something that made her insides gather up and explode into deep trembling waves.

  Nothing…she’d never felt anything like that before.

  “Oh…” she whispered, her hand closing over his head, still settled between her legs, her fingers buried in his warm hair. But she knew there was more, and she wanted it.

  “Please,” she murmured as she’d done before, not knowing precisely what she wanted or needed, but knowing that he—only he—could give it to her.

  He shook his head against her, down by her knee, giving her a quick slip of tongue in the curve there.

  “More,” she whispered.

  “No.” His breath and lips were hot against her. “Don’t be a fool.” He slipped his tongue down around in the heat of her and she gave a little squeak of pleasure, a shot of fire rippling through her. “You can’t,” he said. “Yes…please. I want…all of it.”

  And when, suddenly, he pulled away, his face hot and eyes burning, she almost wailed in distress. She throbbed, ready again for more. For the rest of it.

  But then he was tearing at the buttons on the fall of his trousers, and she was helping him, and he gave a short, sharp shake of his head as he muttered, “Always interfering, Miss Woodmore,” and then he was there, against her again, this time his bare chest warm, printing on her skin.

  She didn’t see him, that hard bulge she’d felt earlier, and for a moment, she was bereft, feeling lost…but then his fingers moved between them, and found the very hard, tight core of her being, and before she knew it, they’d slipped and slid around so that she was even more full and hot and throbbing, and then he paused.

  “Maia,” he breathed, withdrawing his hand. She knew it was a question. “This is—”

  “No,” she said, shifting against him, in distress. “Please.”

  He made a soft, strangled sound, and the next thing she knew, he shifted and fitted himself to her. Maia sighed: this was it. Yes.

  Then he moved and she felt a snap of pain deep inside. Maia froze for a moment, her eyes opening, the pleasure filtering away…but before she could think, he began to move. And her mouth gaped, her body heated, and everything in her world became focused on the sleek slide, in and out. It was long and beautiful, this feeling of right, the tingle of desire centering there between them.

  He muttered something deep and low near her ear, but she couldn’t understand. She didn’t care. There was the heat and the rhythm and the growing blossoming, and she cried out when he sank his teeth into her shoulder, her body seeming to explode deep inside.

  Pleasure undulated through her in little echoing ripples as he groaned into her skin, his body hot and damp against her. And then he moved one last time, hard and deep, with a soft cry of exertion. He pulled his face away, burying his forehead into her neck, the scent of blood in her nose as he shuddered against her.

  16

  Of Apologies And Recompense And Inflated Dowries

  No sooner did the blaze of pleasure and fulfillment begin to fade than a cold, hard stone settled in Dimitri’s middle.

  By Fate, what have I done?

  A chill washed over him and he drew in a deep breath, his mind shooting off in many different directions.

  He halted it with cold control. No. There’d be time for recriminations and regrets later. Now he must keep his thoughts clear and extricate himself—literally and figuratively—from…this.

  This…moment of quiet fulfillment, of delight, of something that had shaken him deep in his core. Something that made his insides move, like a heated flower opening and sending its warmth through him. But that quickly turned bleak.

  He forced himself to open his eyes, pulling up gently from her shoulder. He’d already retracted his fangs, but the essence of blood still lingered on his tongue, filtering into his nostrils. Beautiful. Her eyes were closed, her face slack with satiation. He’d never seen anything that made his heart ache like this. Though he must, he couldn’t look away.

  Her lips, full and moist, rosy and inviting, were half-parted. The damp braid that had confined all of the strands of blond, bronze, copper, auburn and walnut was a distant memory, and her long, thick hair clung in places to her skin, and his, as well. Bare throat and shoulders, with an uncovered breast that couldn’t have been more perfect. The mere sight of it, the memory of its smooth, sweet texture, the hard, sensitive nipple beneath his tongue and lips, made his body begin to tighten all over again.

  What have I done to you? To me?

  Even as he pulled away, Dimitri struggled with how to undo what could not be undone. He pulled down the cold wall behind which he could be safe, and watched as Maia— Miss Woodmore, she must be Miss Woodmore again—opened her eyes with a flutter.

  So wrong.

  He wanted to poke at her, to cut with his words and send her reeling away. If he did that, then she could continue to loathe the Earl of Corvindale. She could wed Bradington with perhaps a twinge of conscience, but at least she would still wed him.

  Instead of demanding that Dimitri come up to snuff. Tempting him.

  That would…could…never happen.

  “Corvindale.”

  Even the way she said his name, still used his title in all formality, sounded husky and intimate.

  He’d sat up and was putting himself to rights, rebuttoning his trousers and then locating his shirt in a crumpled wad on the floor. Your shirt, Corvindale. Make it go away.

  You won’t hurt me.

  Please.

  He closed his eyes. Lucifer’s bloody hell.

  She was sitting up now, and he dared not look at her and see those wide, questioning eyes. Hurt. Or perhaps they would be filled with anger and recrimination—as they rightly should be.

  “Corvindale,” she said again, more firmly. “Look at me.”

  He hesitated, then did as she asked. Thank the Fates she’d pulled up her bodice and righted the rest of her clothing. The only sign of their activities was the new bite on her shoulder. He slid his gaze up to her face. What he saw there was not question nor confusion, neither was it anger or recrimination. There was a hint of softness, the heavy-liddedness of pleasure, and something else. Acceptance?

  “I suppose this wasn’t what Chas had in mind when he named you guardian,” she said, pulling all of that thick bundle of hair forward over one shoulder. She began to plait it in a fat braid.

  He swallowed a derisive sound. “You do realize, Miss Woodmore, that, while I cannot begin to make things right in regards to this, nothing will change.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, her green-brown eyes fastened on him with a bland expression. She was silent for a moment before replying, “What precisely do you mean that nothing will change?”

  He noticed that her busy fingers were either very quick, or they were trembling a bit. Sorrow pitted his insides. “I mean that we need never speak of or acknowledge this…er…event to anyone. No one need ever know, and you will go on to wed Bradington without even a whiff of scandal.”

  Maia—blast it, Miss Woodmore—continued to watch him steadily. She’d finished with the braid and now her fingers settled in her lap, within the folds of her gown so that he couldn’t tell
if they were shaking.

  “The way you put it, it’s really rather simple then, isn’t it, my lord? We both go on as if nothing has happened. But in fact, Corvindale, you clearly realize that a great deal has happened.” Her voice became more strident, rising a bit at the end. She wasn’t shouting, or even furious. But simply strong. Knowing.

  “I realize that you can never—nor should you—forgive me for my behavior today. It was beyond inexcusable. I shall settle an additional dowry on you for a wedding gift as an apology and a clumsy attempt to comfort you. I’m quite certain, as well, that your brother will remove you from my guardianship immediately.”

  “I thought,” she said from between unmoving lips, “you just said no one need ever know. I presumed Chas was included in that statement. Or,” she continued, a new flash of fire in her eyes, “was this all a great ruse to entice him to remove me and my sisters from your custody?”

  “Certainly not,” he snapped. “I had no intention of ever coming near you, Miss Woodmore. Let alone—this.”

  She nodded. “That is what I thought. I’m relieved to know that my impressions were correct.” Standing, she continued, “So I am to understand that, firstly, you are apologetic for today’s events. Secondly, you wish for no one to know what has transpired. And third, that you intend to bestow a great deal of money upon my nuptial union in order to assuage yourself from any lingering guilt you might have. Do I have that right?”

  Dimitri managed to nod. This was so…odd.

  “A great deal of money,” she repeated, spearing him with her eyes. “Correct?”

  He nodded again.

  “Because of your behavior.”

  He nodded a bit more slowly this time. Was this some sort of snare?

  “Then I have one further question for you, Corvindale.” Again, those syllables took on a bit of a note of intimacy merely because they came from her mouth.

  “And what is that?” He glanced toward the door of the parlor, for he’d heard the sounds of someone approaching. Or, more likely, Rubey listening at the door.