by J. R. Ward
V threw his hands up and muttered, "Fuck," as he opened the door.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Marissa marched past Vishous, and the Brother got out of her way. Which proved he was as smart as his reputation held.
When she got to the doorway of Butch's room, she stopped. From the glow of the hall light, she saw him lying on the bed on his back. His suit was all out of joint and there was blood on his shirt. Blood on his face, too.
She walked over and had to cover her mouth with her hand. "Dear Virgin in the Fade…"
One of his eyes was swollen and going black and blue again, and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose, which explained the blood. And he smelled like fresh Scotch.
From the doorway, Vishous's voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "You should really come back tomorrow. He's going to be pissed as hell that you saw him like this."
"Exactly who did this to him? And so help me God, if you say it was just a quick fight, I'm going to scream."
"Like I said, he went after Rehvenge. And Rehv happens to have a lot of bodyguards."
"Those must be big males," she said numbly.
"Actually, the one who nailed him was a female."
"A female?" Oh, why the hell did the particulars matter. "Can you bring me a couple of towels and some hot soapy water?" She went to Butch's feet and pulled off his shoes. "I want to wash him."
After V walked down the hall, she stripped Butch down to his boxers then sat beside him. The heavy gold cross that lay on his chest was a surprise. In the earlier frenzy up in the sitting room, she hadn't paid much attention to the thing, but now she wondered where he'd gotten it.
She looked farther down, to the black scar on his belly. Which seemed no better, no worse.
When V showed up with a bowl of suds and a short stack of terry cloth, she said, "Put it all on this table where I can reach it, then leave us, please. And shut the door behind you."
There was a pause. Which made sense. You didn't order around a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood anywhere, much less in his own house. But her nerves were shot and her heart was breaking and she really didn't care what anyone thought of her.
It was her rule number one in action.
After a silent stretch, the things were placed where she wanted them and then the door clicked shut. Taking a deep breath, she wet one of the washcloths. As she touched Butch's face with it, he winced and muttered something.
"I'm so sorry, Butch… but it's over now." She returned the washcloth to the bowl, submerging it, then squeezing the excess water out. The dripping seemed very loud. "And nothing happened other than the feeding, I swear."
She got the blood off his face then stroked his hair, the thick waves damp from the washing. In response, he stirred and turned his face into her hand, but it was obvious he was dead drunk and not coming around.
"Are you going to believe me?" she whispered.
At any rate, she had proof. When she came to him a newling, he would know no other male had—
"I can smell him on you."
She jerked back at the harsh sound of his voice.
Butch's eyes opened slowly and they seemed black, not hazel. "I can smell him all over you. Because it wasn't from the wrist."
She didn't know how to respond. Especially as he focused on her mouth and said, "I saw the marks on his throat. And your scent was all over him, too."
When Butch reached out, she flinched. But all he did was stroke her cheek with his forefinger, light as a sigh.
"How long did it take?" he asked.
She stayed silent, instinct telling her the less he knew the better.
As he took his hand back, his face was hard and weary. Emotionless. "I believe you. About the sex."
"You don't look as if you do."
"Sorry, I'm a little distracted. I'm trying to convince myself I'm okay with tonight."
She looked down at her hands. "It felt all wrong to me, too. I cried the whole time."
Butch inhaled sharply, then all the tension went out of the air between them. He sat up and put his hands on her shoulders. "Oh, God… baby, I'm sorry I'm such a pain in the ass—"
"No, I'm sorry that I have to—"
"Shh, it's not your fault. Marissa, this is not your fault—"
"It feels that way—"
"My deficiency, not yours." His arms, those wonderful, heavy arms, slid around her and gathered her close to his bare chest. In return, she hung on to him for dear life.
As he kissed her temple, he murmured, "Not your fault. Ever. And I wish I could handle it better, I truly do. I don't know why I'm having such a hard time with this."
She pulled back abruptly, seized by an urgency she didn't question. "Butch, lay with me. Mate with me. Now."
"Oh… Marissa… I would love to, I really would." He smoothed her hair gently. "But not like this. I'm drunk and your first time should be—"
She cut him off with her mouth, tasting the Scotch and the male in him while she pushed him down on the mattress. When she slid her hand between his legs, he groaned and hardened right in her palm.
"I need you in me," she said roughly. "If not your blood, then your sex. In me. Now."
She kissed him again and as his tongue shot into her mouth she knew she had him. And oh, he was so good. He rolled her over and swept his hand from her neck to her breasts, then followed the path with his lips. When he got to the bodice of her gown, he stopped and his face grew hard again. With a savage movement, he gripped the silk and ripped the front of the dress clean apart. And he didn't stop at the waist. He kept going, his big hands and veined forearms working as he tore the satin right down the middle, all the way to the hem of the skirt.
"Take it off," he demanded.
She stripped the remnants from her shoulders, and when she lifted her hips, he yanked the dress out from under her, wadded it up, and pitched it across the room.
Eyes fierce, he came back at her, shoved her slip up, and spread her thighs. Looking at her over her body, his voice raw, he said, "Never wear that thing again."
As she nodded, he pushed her panties to the side and put his mouth right on her core. The orgasm he gave her was a claim staked, a mate's marking, and he made her ride it out until she was limp and shaking.
Then he tenderly eased her legs back together. Though she was the one who'd had the release, he was so much more relaxed as he prowled up her body. In a daze from what he'd done to her, she was weak and unresisting as he stripped her naked and then got up and took off his boxers.
As she looked at the size of him and realized what was coming next, fear tickled the edges of her consciousness. But she was too blissed out to care much.
He was all male animal as he got back on the bed, his sex hard and thick, ready to penetrate. She opened her legs for him, except he lay beside her, not on top of her.
Now he went slowly. He kissed her slow and sweet, his broad hand traveling to her breasts, touching her with care. Breathless, she curled her hands on to his shoulders and felt the muscles under his warm and supple skin bunching up, as he stroked her hips, her thighs.
When he touched her between her legs, he was tender and unhurried, and it was a while before one of his fingers went inside of her. He stopped just as a strange internal tugging made her frown and move her hips back.
"Do you know what to expect?" he asked against her breast, his voice soft, low.
"Um… yes. I suppose." But they she thought of the size of his erection. How in God's name was it going to fit?
"I'll be as gentle as I can, but this… is going to hurt you. I had hoped maybe—"
"I know that's a part of it." She'd heard that there was a slight twinge involved, but then a wondrous ecstasy. "I'm ready."
He took back his hand and rolled on top of her, his body easing in between her legs.
Abruptly, everything came into sharp focus: the feel of his hot skin and the compression of his weight and the power in his muscles… and the pillow under her head
and the mattress she was on and exactly how far her thighs were spread. She looked up at the ceiling. A swing of lights moved around above them as if a car had just pulled up in the courtyard.
She went tense; she couldn't help it. Even though it was Butch and she loved him, the threat of the experience, the overwhelming nature of it, swamped her. Three hundred years and it had suddenly come down to here and now.
For some stupid reason, tears welled.
"Baby, we really don't have to do this." His thumbs wiped her cheeks and his hips pulled back as if he was going to get off.
"I don't want to stop." She grabbed on to the small of his back. "No—Butch, wait. I want this. I truly do."
He closed his eyes. Then dropped his head into her neck and worked his arms so they were all the way around her. Twisting to the side, he hugged her into his hard body and they stayed like that for a long time, his weight positioned so she could breathe, his arousal a hot, branding length on her thigh. She began to wonder if he was going to do anything at all.
Just as she was about to ask, he shifted and his hips fell solidly between her legs again.
He kissed her, a deep, drugging full-mouth seduction that got her burning until she was undulating under him, rubbing against his hips, trying to get closer to him.
And then it happened. He moved over a little to the left, and she felt his erection at her core, all hard and smooth. There was a broad, satin stroke and then some pressure. She went still, thinking about exactly what was pushing at her and where it wanted to go.
Butch swallowed hard enough for her to hear it and sweat broke out across his shoulders until it ran down his spine. As the pressure between her legs intensified, his breathing deepened until he was groaning on every exhale. When she winced in earnest, he abruptly backed off.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"You're very tight."
"Well, you're very big."
He laughed in a burst. "Nicest things… you say the nicest things."
"Are you stopping?"
"Not unless you want me to."
When there wasn't any «no» coming from her, his body tensed up and the head of him found her entrance once again. His hand came up next to her face and he tucked her hair behind her ear.
"If you can, try and relax, Marissa. It'll go easier for you." He started a rocking motion, his hips easing into hers and retreating, a gentle to and fro. Except each time he tried to nudge in a fraction, her body resisted.
"You okay?" he said through gritted teeth.
She nodded even though she trembled. It all felt so strange, especially as they weren't making any real progress—
With a sudden slide he was in, slipping past some outer muscle until he came up against the barrier his finger had found. As she stiffened, Butch groaned and dropped his face into the pillow next to her head.
She smiled uneasily, the fullness in her unexpected. "I—ah, I feel like I should be asking whether you're all right."
"Are you kidding? I think I'm about to explode." He swallowed again, a desperate gulping. "But I hate the idea of hurting you."
"So let's get that part behind us."
She felt rather than saw his nod. "I love you."
With a quick jerk, he drew back his hips and sliced forward.
The pain was raw and fresh and she gasped, shoving against his shoulders to keep him from moving any farther in. Instinct had her body struggling under his, trying to find a way out or at the very least to get some distance.
Butch lifted his torso off her, and their bellies brushed while they both breathed hard. With his heavy cross swinging between them, she let out a raw curse. The pressure before had been mere discomfort. This wasn't. This hurt.
And she felt so invaded by him, taken over. God, that female chatter she'd overheard about how it was all lock-and-key wonderful, how the first time was magic, how everything was so easy—none of that was true for her.
Panic swelled. What if she really was broken on the inside? Was this the defect the males of the glymera had sensed? What if—
"Marissa?"
— she couldn't get through it at all? What if every time it hurt like this? Oh, Jesus… Butch was very male and he was very sexual. What if he went looking for other—
"Marissa, look at me."
She dragged her eyes to his face, but all she could pay attention to was the voice in her head. Oh, Jesus, it wasn't supposed to hurt this badly, was it? Oh, Jesus… she was defective…
"How you doing?" he said roughly. "Talk to me. Don't keep it inside."
"What if I can't stand it?" she blurted.
His expression went utterly bland, becoming a deliberate mask of calm. "I don't imagine many women like their first time. That romantic version of losing your virginity is a lie."
Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe she was the problem.
The word defect raced around her head even faster, even louder.
"Marissa?"
"I wanted it to be beautiful," she said with despair.
There was a horrible silence… during which all she knew was the strain of his erection in her body. Then Butch said, "I'm sorry you're disappointed. But not all that surprised."
He started to pull out, and that was when something changed. As he moved, the dragging sensation caused a tingle to go through her.
"Wait." She grabbed on to his hips. "That's not all there is to it, right?"
"Pretty much. Just gets more invasive, though."
"Oh… but you haven't finished—"
"I don't need to anymore."
When his erection slipped free of her, she felt curiously empty. Then he moved off her body and she grew instantly cold. As he flipped a comforter over her, she felt his arousal brush against her thigh for an instant. The shaft was wet and had softened.
He settled on his back next to her, resting both forearms over his face.
God… what a mess. And now that she'd caught her breath, she wanted to ask him to keep going, but she knew what he would say. The «no» was in the stiffness of his body.
While they lay side by side, she felt like she should say something. "Butch—"
"I'm really tired and not at all coherent, Let's just go to sleep, okay?" He rolled away, punched a pillow, and exhaled in a long, uneven breath.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Marissa woke up later, surprised she'd slept at all. But that was feeding for you. No matter what, she always had to take rest afterward.
In the dimness, she checked the red glow of an alarm clock. Four hours to dawn and she had things to do that she needed the night for.
She looked over her shoulder. Butch was on his back, his hand on his bare chest, his eyes flickering to and fro under his lids as he slept deeply. His beard had grown in, his hair was all over the place, and he looked a lot younger. Handsome, too, in his slumber.
Why couldn't it have worked out better for them, she wondered. If only she could have held on a little longer, given it more of a chance. And now she had to go.
She slipped out from under the comforter, and the air was chilly on her skin. Moving quietly, she gathered up her slip, her corset… panties, where were her panties—
Stopping short, she looked down with surprise. On the inside of one of her thighs, there was a trickling warmth—blood. From when he'd taken her.
"Come here," Butch said.
She nearly dropped her clothes. "I—ah, I didn't know you were awake."
He held his hand out and she went to him. When she got close to the bed, he snaked his arm behind her leg and pulled her onto the mattress so her weight was resting on one knee.
Then he leaned into her and she gasped as she felt his tongue on her inner thigh. In a warm stroke, he went up to her core and kissed away the remnants of her virginity.
She wondered where he'd learned the tradition from. Couldn't imagine human males practiced it on the females they took for the first time.
Whereas for her kind, it was a sacred moment between mates.
Shoot, she wanted to cry again.
Butch released her and lay back down, watching her with eyes that gave nothing away. For some reason, she felt so very naked before him, even with her slip clutched to her breasts.
"Take my robe," he said. "Put it on."
"Where is it?"
"Closet. Hanging on the door."
She turned around. His robe was deep red and marked with the scent of him, and she drew it on awkwardly. The heavy silk hung down to the floor and covered her feet, the tie so long she could have wrapped her waist four times with it.
She eyed the ruined dress on the floor.
"Leave it," he said. "I'll throw it out."
She nodded. Went over to the door. Grabbed the handle.
What could she say to make this better? She felt as if she'd made a mess of everything: first her biological reality driving a wedge between them, then her sexual deficiency exposed.
"It's okay, Marissa. You can just go. You don't need to say anything."
She dropped her head. "I'll see you at First Meal?"
"Yeah… sure."
In a numbed-out daze, she walked from the gatehouse to the mansion. When a doggen opened the vestibule's innermost door, she picked up the bottom of Butch's robe so she didn't trip… and was reminded she had nothing to change into.
Time to talk to Fritz.
After she found the butler in the kitchen, she asked him for the way to the garage.
"Are you looking for your clothes, mistress? Why don't I bring some up for you?"
"I'd rather go and pick out a few things myself." As he anxiously glanced to a door on the right, she walked in that direction. "I promise to call if I need you."
The doggen nodded, totally unappeased.
When she stepped into the garage, she stopped dead and wondered what the hell she'd walked into. There were no cars inside the six-bay space. No room for them. Good God… crates and crates and crates. No… not crates. Coffins? What was this?
"Mistress, your things are over here." From behind her, Fritz's voice was respectful but very firm, as if all those pine boxes were none of her business. "Please to follow me?"
