by Mary Hughes
He could’ve also curled his fingers around either gun or badge and punched me, but I didn’t even consider that, subconsciously trusting him not to ever truly hurt me.
To my relief, he held on to both gun and badge. But he didn’t freeze. When I jabbed, he slid right to avoid it. My jab missed.
I could’ve launched a right cross, but any new technique would give Mr. Suprahuman time to evade or counter.
So I torqued the jab into a roundhouse back fist.
My left knuckles plowed into his mouth. His teeth and bones were concrete. That punch hurt me like misery with agony frosting—but it snapped his head back.
Win.
He straightened, blood trickling from a gash to his sexy lips. I was momentarily mortified, until he wiped a thumb across his bloody lip, gash already healing, and grinned. “Point. Now it’s my turn.”
Yikes. I’d wounded him; the question wasn’t whether he’d annihilate me in return, but how bad I’d have to beg for mercy.
I whipped into fighting stance and opened my awareness as far as it would go.
His left leg eased back into a reverse fighting stance. His left shoulder twitched. Left cross coming.
Block? No, my arms were toothpicks compared to his, his biceps as thick as my thigh. Thigh. I kicked up my right leg to meet him.
But instead of punching, he slid right. It was a fake. And my leg was up in the air. I’d have to land, but he’d attack the instant I was most vulnerable, when my leg came down but before I was grounded and could launch an effective counterattack.
My only option was not to land. I continued the roundhouse leg-block up higher into the air, throwing my body into a step-on-air spin, and hooked my left leg up, around and down.
My heel caught him in the back of the head. Momentum assisted by gravity would do damage even a vampire couldn’t ignore.
But he rolled with it, minimizing the impact, and sprang back, just fine. Damn, he was good.
Now, as I landed, he’d do his worst. I could only hope he pulled it at least a little, because this close I wouldn’t be able to dodge even a slowed Blackthorne and I only had toothpick arms to block.
Still, I twisted as I landed and jabbed up a right-leg sidekick. I was no Bruce Lee; without being able to prepare the kick it would barely make an impact. But maybe it would distract him enough so that his attack wouldn’t be quite so bone-shattering…
No blow hit. No pain. In fact, no Blackthorne. My foot punched air.
I landed forward and glanced cautiously around my guarding first.
He was standing just outside my kill zone, a delighted smile on his face. “Nice! You think ahead a move or two.”
“Thanks.” I noted he’d put down the badge and gun, and started to plan my next series of attacks.
Which were totally derailed when he stomp-checked me, front foot slamming the floor, freezing me a split second.
I breathed through it, tried to be ready for anything…
He misted. My gaze ping-ponged around the room. Where was he?
The next thing I knew steel bands wrapped me, pinning my arms against my body.
Blackthorne appeared before me, attached to the bands. I was in his embrace.
I struggled to loosen his hold while I raised my heel for a good stomp of his instep. He countered by lifting my feet off the ground.
And then he was kissing me.
For the few seconds I was still in fighting mode, he didn’t do anything aggressive. He didn’t put his tongue into my mouth—I’d have bitten it—and he didn’t set me down, so I could only kick his bent legs. Shins and flexed knees weren’t nearly as vulnerable as locked knees or fragile insteps and he held me too tight to get a knee in his groin. I couldn’t do any real damage…his heat and taste seeped through and I relaxed in his arms.
He continued safe kissing a bit longer, as if he thought I was faking the relax. Would’ve been a good move too, but I’d already moved past competition to total cooperation, his dark taste better and more effervescent than champagne.
Maybe even better than beer.
Better than beer? Oh no. This was serious.
He slid me down his body, set me on my feet and loosened his tight hold. Letting me decide whether to fight or run away or continue letting him kiss me.
I reached out with my tongue and swiped his lips.
He laughed, a surprised chuff. Other than that he continued to stand there, lightly kissing me, letting me make up my mind, but it’d been made up long ago, before the sparring started and actually long before that, but I wasn’t thinking about that now.
So there’d be no mistake, I grabbed his ears and reared back to nail him in the eyes with my gaze—then yanked his head down for a kiss that was not him-doing-me but us-doing-each-other, sparring on a much more pleasurable level.
He groaned and opened. Tongues tangled. Jaws worked. Teeth nipped. Hands grabbed. I found myself hoisted. My arms wrapped his neck. His fingers bit into my butt. My legs wrapped his lean hips. With better leverage, I tongued his tonsils. With his better leverage, he scrubbed my hips against an already sizable bulge. It ballooned bigger.
Need flooded me at the evidence of his excitement. When he swirled hips against me again, his burgeoning cock pressed into very wet cotton-poly, releasing the scent of my arousal, so strong I could smell it. We both groaned.
He dropped me to my feet, holding me with one hand as I swayed.
I barely found my balance. “Blackthorne—”
“Aiden.” He grabbed a katana from the weapons display—and cut me out of my uniform top. He was very ninja about it, the blade whisking, a few brief tugs and then my top and bra falling off in pieces. I stood there, awed, while he gazed at me, eyes burning with desire.
He dropped the katana, swept me into his embrace and fell with me to the floor, his body between my bent legs, his arms protecting my back as we landed. If I’d thought he’d had leverage before, it was nothing compared to now.
The first thrust of his hips ground me into the carpet. The ridge behind his zipper had raised the fly almost to its edge and he drove it with breathtaking precision against my swelling clit. I gasped. Sparks flew. My groin caught fire, spreading heat through my pelvis. He thrust again. Pulse racing, I grabbed his muscled shoulders and angled my hips for maximum fireworks. He set up a steady rhythm and I met him thrust for thrust. Our clothes, already damp and heading for wet, tugged at first, then slipped. I was panting into his face and he was breathing heavily back, his fang tips extending between his lips, growing steadily longer.
My heart hammered and each doubled thrust ratcheted me closer to the peak of Mt. Climax. “Harder,” I urged him. “Faster. More.”
His eyes shaded red—and dropped to my throat.
Sharp anticipation sheared my gut. I kicked my head back in a gesture older than time.
“I’ll bite you.” His rasping breath made it a plea. “Drink your essence.” His fangs grew even longer.
“Yes.” The sight of those canines…oh yes. My need, deep and throbbing, doubled. “Do it. Please.”
His eyes closed, and for a moment I thought he hadn’t heard me. Then he breathed “thank you” like a prayer and gently lowered his mouth to the crook of my neck. His breath heated the sensitive skin. His careful control contrasted so sharply with the pounding he was giving my wet, cloth-covered pussy, it was actually more arousing.
I trembled. Waiting. Anticipation soaring.
He opened his mouth. Fang tips ran lightly across the flesh. Teasing.
“Blackthorne,” I breathed.
“Aiden.” Again he ran his fangs along my throat, a little harder, the sharp tips gently scoring, foretaste driving me wild.
“Aiden, please.”
He bit.
Twin forks of lightning skewered me. I screamed, arching so hard the top of
my skull touched floor. So hard I saw the wall behind me.
Orgasm hit me, a wallop that blew time apart. I was a brilliant pulse of contraction and release, roaring in silence.
Seconds or hours later reality snapped back. My ears thudded with the pounding of my heart. My ribs vibrated with the rhythmic rumble of his purr. My legs fell, my bare feet hitting the carpet with a whop.
He licked my neck, his tongue warm, rough and strangely soothing. With a final kiss to my throat, he eased off me.
The inset and front of my white pants chilled. I’d come so hard and so long I was drenched. Glancing at him, I’d come so hard I’d also drenched his jeans, or he’d climaxed too.
He rolled onto his back and snugged me into his body. I lay in his arms, my head on his chest as our hearts slowed. This was what intercourse would be like with him. Hard yet tender, and immensely satisfying. I closed my eyes and pictured it. Me and him, laying in bed on a lazy Saturday morning, making intense love and then relaxing together, reading or watching television… My eyes snapped open.
I could see it, far too clearly.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured sleepily.
“Nothing. Since I won our match, are you going to stop smothering me now? Let me do my job to protect and serve?”
“You didn’t win.” He wasn’t sounding so sleepy anymore. With a heaved sigh, he rolled to his feet then offered me his hand.
I took it and found myself instantly standing. “Well, you didn’t win either.” I glared into his eyes.
The corners wrinkled in amusement. “Debatable.” He wrapped an arm around me and ushered me out of the practice area. We both bowed and he opened the door and let me precede him, then steered me downstairs. “Let’s call it a draw.”
“Let’s not.” I dug in my heels when he steered me into the women’s changing area. Useless. “You can’t come in here.”
“Why not? No one’s around to see.” He lay my badge and gun on the bench—my head must have been totally blown because I hadn’t even thought of them—twisted my combination into my lock and snapped it open.
“How did you…? Never mind. You can’t stay. I’m going to change. You’d see me naked.”
“Good.” His gaze traveled along my body like a match.
Jump-starting my heart again. “Not a draw. Neither of us wins? Why’d we spar in the first place?”
His eyes rose to mine and his mouth got serious. “To let off some emotional steam?”
Damn, he was smart.
“Tell you what. Let’s both do the forfeits. You call me Aiden.”
“And you’ll leave me alone?”
“Yes, if.” He reached past me into my locker. Came out with my phone, thumbed and swept, then handed it to me. “That’s my cell number. I’ll respect your need to defend yourself if you promise to call me when you need help. No, before you need help.”
I stared into his black eyes. He was as deadly serious as I’d seen him. “It’s not necessary. I can take care of myself.”
“Humor me. Please.”
I huffed. “All right. Only because you’ll nag me until I do.”
“Good. We have a deal.” He turned and glided out.
I ran after. “Wait! Where are you going?”
“Keeping my end of the bargain. Trusting you on your own.” He smiled briefly, and while I was dazzled, disappeared up the stairs.
I turned and slowly made my way back to the changing room. I stared at the phone in my hand. I now had a direct line to Aiden Blackthorne. I got the feeling he didn’t hand that out very often at all.
Then I slapped my forehead. He’d distracted me so much that I’d totally forgotten to pump him for information about what he’d done for Dirk.
Chapter Nineteen
Aiden Blackthorne was not happy. Ric wasn’t answering his phone and was nowhere to be found.
It was the night after Aiden had sparred, most pleasurably, with Sunny. Assuming his friend had gone all lone cowboy on him immediately after their conversation at the Caffeine Café, Ric had been off the grid for a full twenty-four hours now and Aiden suspected the worst—both Ric and Synnove were in Eloise’s clutches.
If only he had checked on his friend sooner. But pumping his blood into the human husk that was Dirk Ruffles, turning him as Nosferatu had turned so many helpless boys…then bolting down a single bag of replacement blood, even though he was thirsty as hell, because he didn’t want to leave Sunny alone for five minutes—bad enough. Owing Strongwell was worse.
But it all paled to seeing Sunny in distress. That nearly broke him. He’d donate a hundred pints, owe a thousand favors, before he’d go through that again.
Foreboding splashed through his veins a moment before his phone started vibrating. He knew who it was without looking. He snapped it out. “Hello, Eloise.”
A taken-aback pause. Then a laugh, to his ears nervous. “You always were a showoff, Aiden.”
He growled. “If you’ve harmed Ric or Synnove—”
“No! I haven’t hurt anyone.” Her tone became sulky. “I’m not the bad guy here. I just want your help.”
“By kidnapping a friend’s wife?”
“That? I learned that from you. It’s all about knowing pain points. Synnove is Ric’s pain point and Ric is yours. Control Synnove and I control you.”
Ice filled his chest but he kept his voice steady as he bit out, “What do you want?”
“What I should have gotten decades ago when you ran away. You, facing up to my father. I have Ric. Meet us at Nosferatu’s mansion. Use Ric’s bloodscent to find the secret way inside. I don’t want any of my father’s bully-boys finding you before you get a chance to free me.”
“Eloise—damn it.” She’d ended the call.
Aiden clapped the phone to his forehead in frustration. Why hadn’t Ric trusted him?
Didn’t matter. He resolutely pocketed the phone. All that mattered now was getting Ric and his pregnant mate out of that madwoman’s grasp.
He put in a call to Logan Steel. “You located Synnove Holiday’s phone for me yesterday. I need you to give me a record of her most recent calls, in and out.”
“On it.” Keys clicked rapidly.
“I’ll owe you for this,” Aiden said.
“Don’t worry about it. I enjoy this sort of stuff. Just wish you’d tell me what’s going on.” The clicking stopped abruptly. “Well, well. Mostly calls to Minnesota numbers except for several to a Chicago number, all at least half an hour long.”
Aiden’s blood chilled. “Nosferatu?”
“Nope.” A few mouse clicks. “That’s her sister’s number. Alexis Byornsson. But get this. One call to her sister, thirty-five seconds in duration. Made two nights ago. I might be able to trace back cell tower info and get the phone’s location at the time.”
“Do it.” Aiden clenched a fist. This was the first break he’d gotten.
No, he’d gotten a second. “Synnove’s sister lives in Chicago? Let me have that phone number.”
Steel recited it, then gave him the good news. “The origination of that thirty-five-second call is the Chicago Museum Campus.”
Aiden punched air. He now had a viable plan. He called Synnove’s sister, was impressed when she didn’t ask questions but listened and said yes. He donned his weapons vest, filled it with death, and threw his oversized jacket over it as cover. On further thought, he grabbed an extra couple flashbangs and pocketed them too.
He paused. If he did this, he’d be leaving Sunny defenseless in Meiers Corners.
No, he’d promised to let her fight her own battles.
Besides, Eloise had only waylaid her to get to him. He’d be in Chicago. There was no reason for her to hurt Sunny in Meiers Corners.
He got a pup truck and headed for Nosferatu’s east side mansion.
Aiden made two st
ops. The first, he filtered into a small free clinic. A woman was preparing a hypodermic needle. She was tall, blonde and buxom—almost Synnove’s twin, but older. He stepped from the shadows.
Dr. Alexis Byornsson startled. Put a hand to her breastbone, not the one holding the needle. “Sorry. Your kind is so quiet.”
He took a dangerous step closer. “What do you know of my kind?”
“Nothing I’m not supposed to.” She grinned and in her sparkling blue eyes he could see the echo of Ric’s mate. He instinctively liked her. “Although I’m curious. Are you sure you want me to…” She mimed drawing her blood. “Don’t you want to…” She clacked her teeth.
He shuddered. The thought of drinking directly from any female who wasn’t small, dark and tightly muscled…wasn’t happening. “I’m sure.”
“All right then.” She efficiently prepared her arm. “You have an idea where to look?”
“Yes. Your sister is a fighter. Amazing that she managed that phone call to you.”
“She’s smart too. From the bit I overheard, she must have voice-dialed. Here you go.” She’d drawn half a collection tube.
“Thanks.” He went back to the truck and drove to the campus before he poured the blood into his mouth. The bright flavor hit his tongue and rose into his nose. He closed his eyes, searching for the scent/taste, then like the scent/taste…and he knew where Synnove was.
The second stop was only long enough to break a few heads. Synnove was unconscious but breathing. He settled her into the passenger seat and was about to check closer when his phone vibrated.
“Where are you?” Eloise sounded testy.
“On my way. There was traffic.”
“You’d better get here soon. Right, Ric?”
In the background, Ric made a throttled groan.
Synnove would have to wait. For Ric’s sake, it was time to meet Eloise. He strapped Ric’s mate in, started the engine and drove.
The closer Aiden got to Nosferatu’s, the more his bad feelings intensified. Well short of brownstone, he parked the truck. Synnove was breathing easily so he left her there and got out. He approached the area of Nosferatu’s mansion on foot, alternately checking his internal blood sense for Ric and casting on the air for his scent. By Aiden’s estimation his friend was underground immediately south of the vampire lair. He prowled from shadow to shadow, easily avoiding the mansion’s direct sightlines. Unlike most swank estates, Nosferatu’s five-story mansion was planted, not alone on rolling hills of green, but on the northeast corner of a city block, dwarfed by neighboring high-rises.
