Dark Pleasures

by Aja James

  She must have really worn him out, Grace thought, and secretly took pride in it. Perhaps she should give him a break tonight. She’d never used a man this thoroughly before.

  But on the other hand, as she took in his long, lean, elegantly proportioned frame and exquisitely rendered face, as she inhaled his unique musk and watched, mesmerized, the rise and fall of his magnificent chest… she decided she was too selfish and needy to give him any reprieve.

  But she could let him sleep a little bit longer. She could use the time to plot new ways to bring them both pleasure. After all, she’d only found a couple dozen of his body’s secrets after two nights. There were so many more just waiting for her to explore and discover.

  And she hadn’t even kissed him yet.

  She didn’t really enjoy kissing, to be honest, but sometimes her partners insisted upon it. The mouth had numerous erogenous zones, inside and out, and she already knew that his fangs were two extra ones that no other male of her acquaintance had.

  Grace realized with some surprise that she desperately wanted to kiss him.

  She leaned over, bracing her weight on her elbows, lying half on her side and half on her stomach, and regarded his generous lips at close proximity.

  They opened slightly and his breath quickened. His brow furrowed and his eyelids squeezed tight.

  “No…” he murmured, his head jerking in an unconscious motion.

  “Devlin,” she called gently, “Devlin, are you okay?”

  He shook his head to and fro, jerking away from her.

  “No…not this…no…”

  “Devlin,” Grace tried again, cupping her palm against his cheek. “Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  But he didn’t, couldn’t, hear her, no matter how hard she tried to reach him…

  1812. Salamanca, Spain.

  “Is there nothing for me?”

  The Sergeant Postmaster delivering Wellington’s mail shook his head as he distributed the last of the post to awaiting officers.

  Devlin escorted the man to his horse and helped him mount, all the while trying to tamp down the coldness of dread.

  It had been eight months since he’d received any word from his family or fiancée. At first, when he’d shipped off to the Iberian Peninsula there had been a steady flow of letters.

  Short and perfunctory from his brother William. Passionate and gay from Lavinia. Never a word from his father, though Devlin knew better than to expect any. He treasured each and every one of the missives he received.

  But then the letters came fewer and farther in between. First William had stopped writing, and then Lavinia too. Her last note had been cold and cryptic. Devlin had memorized every word.

  “My dearest Dev,

  Just the other day Lady Laura Spencer reunited with her beaux, Major Edward White, second son of the Viscount Berehaven, after he returned from the front and sold his commission.

  I can’t tell you how often Laura speaks of him while he’s been away. One wonders how she’s able to enjoy herself at all with the Season in full swing. I certainly grow weary of her endless, depressing talk. But now he’s back at last. And I can finally rest my sympathetic ear. Laura wished that you should return soon as well, so that we might both be reunited with our heart’s desires.

  I must say: I am no longer certain what precisely my heart desires.

  Two years is a long time to wait. I barely recall what you look like. What your kisses feel like. It’s as if that night at the Summerfield house party never happened. As if we never got engaged. How am I to keep the image of you warm in my heart when the memory of our time together is so distant and elusive?

  There is so much to do in London. So many people to see. You might be shocked to know that at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I am still the reigning Queen of Hearts. I have so many invitations that my days and nights are packed to bursting. Every morning, my sitting room is filled with flowers and gifts from admirers.

  None to compare with you, my darling, but they are here. You are not.

  When will you return to England, Dev? Will you come back? Sometimes I wonder whether it is better if you stayed a distant memory. After all, who can compete with the perfection of my dreams?

  —Ever yours, Lavinia”

  Well.

  Perhaps the letter was not so cryptic after all. She’d all but stated she wished him gone from her life, released from their engagement so that she could fully enjoy other men’s attentions. Yet, she didn’t explicitly request the break.

  Devlin could understand that too. She was engaged to the heir of a Dukedom, after all. It would be foolish to cry off.

  He supposed his heart should ache, or at the very least, his pride should be wounded. Didn’t he fancy himself in love with her? He’d certainly never been this close with anyone else.

  But all he felt was mild disappointment and ready acceptance.

  He had hoped that he meant more to her, that she would stay true to him. But he’d always known her voracious appetite for attention, which required time and energy he didn’t always possess. And too, if his parents, his own brother, cared so little for him, why should he expect to be worthy of anyone else’s admiration and love?

  So she couldn’t bring herself to jilt him outright. He was man enough to take her rejection for what it was.

  And yet…

  Something about her letter made the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingle with premonition. Especially when combined with the terse note from his brother a few weeks before:

  “Hartington,

  I hope you are enjoying your military lark. Everything at home is in good order, you needn’t concern yourself. Not that you ever have.

  You’ve never liked being the heir, have you? You were always a studious, awkward chap who preferred mathematical equations to estate management and sport.

  And now you’ve gone off to get yourself killed.

  I hear the fighting there is particularly vicious. Everyday there’s news in the broadsheets about countless casualties in the war, missing soldiers presumed dead. I can’t imagine why you purchased a commission. Wherever did you get the money?

  Never mind. It’s done. You’re out there playing at bravery and I’m here taking care of your concerns. Father has been showing me the ropes, taking me around to his Clubs.

  It should have been you, but we’re both more comfortable in our current roles, aren’t we?

  And then there’s Lavinia. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of her too.

  —William”

  William and Lavinia?

  How was his brother planning to take care of his fiancée? Why did Lavinia need William’s care?

  “Sinclair,” Ned Pakenham called out, striding toward Devlin’s tent, “a word.”

  “Sir?” Devlin answered, letting his superior officer and commander of the Third Division precede him into the makeshift chamber.

  “We’re going to make history tomorrow, my boy,” Pakenham said without preamble, “I’m leading the charge on Salamanca after our cavalry clears a path, and you’re coming with me.”

  This was news to Devlin. He was assigned to Wellington’s staff as an exploring officer. His job was to gather intel by any means necessary. In a relatively short period of time, he’d built a reputation for himself as reliable, precise, strategic, and daring.

  He’d taken quite a few risks already to relay the overall strategy and specific field tactics of Marshal Marmont, commander of the French Army of Portugal.

  Because of Devlin’s information, they were about to launch a surgical strike against the French through a planned succession of flanking maneuvers in oblique order. It was a huge gamble given they’d be concentrating their forces in one area, but because of Devlin’s intel, they had a high probability of success.

  As a rule, officers of Devlin’s specialization did not participate in field combat. According to Wellington, Devlin in particular was “worth more than an entire brigade.”

  “W
hat would you have me do?” Devlin asked.

  He had the utmost respect for Pakenham. The officer was brave and a solid leader of men. His division always had the highest morale and work ethic. It was no coincidence that he won so many battles.

  If Pakenham wanted Devlin to join his ranks for the charge tomorrow, then he wasn’t going to question it. He just wanted to do his part. Infantry assaults took a great deal of coordination and team work.

  Pakenham gave him a long look, then inhaled deeply and puffed out his chest, taking on an expression of both apology and pride.

  “You’re going to get yourself captured,” he said almost jovially. “We need you behind enemy lines. It’s the best way to get more information about Napoleon’s next move. We can’t let him get too far ahead of us. The plan is to let a small group ‘escape’ the battle when we round up what’s left in the aftermath.”

  Pakenham paused to see how Devlin was taking this in.

  At his nod to continue, Pakenham went on, “You’ll wear your officer’s uniform. You shouldn’t be mistreated—much. Can’t guarantee they won’t rough you up a bit, but you’re a hard-headed chap, you can take a ding or too.”

  Here, Pakenham raised one eyebrow in question.

  Devlin quirked his lips.

  “They might use a little force to see if you have anything useful to say about our plans, but I have confidence in your ability to resist sharing.”

  Pakenham’s faith in Devlin was hard won. They didn’t get along initially because Ned had little use for non-fighting men in the military.

  But over time, and a few “bonding” tussles and boxing matches amongst the men during their idle time, in which Devlin was always a favorite given the ruthless and efficient ways he fought, combined with his insightful intel, Pakenham now held him in high regard.

  “There’s a collaborator of ours within their ranks. I’ll give you all the details. When you’ve gathered what you need, give him the signal and we’ll get you back. You have my word on it.”

  Devlin nodded. “Wellington knows?”

  “Of course,” Pakenham answered immediately. “I don’t have the brains to come up with this rot. I’m just the messenger. And my infantry is apparently your cover.”

  With that, he turned to leave, not bothering to wait for Devlin’s acceptance of the plan, probably because he knew that Devlin would do whatever it took to help defeat the French.

  “You’re worth a whole brigade to Old Nosey,” Pakenham threw back as he walked away, “don’t worry, we won’t leave you long with the French. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  Unfortunately, Pakenham’s promise didn’t come true…

  With a sharp intake of breath, Devlin broke away from his nightmare, a reliving of the day before the Battle of Salamanca, before his capture by the French…and the ensuing months of hell.

  So close. So close. If he hadn’t woken up when he did, it would have been so much worse.

  As it was, he was already shaking, his body coated with sweat, his clothes plastered to his skin.

  He shot a hand into his hair and clawed it back from his forehead, his fingers digging into his scalp as if physically trying to take a hold of his own head and squeeze the memories out. He focused on calming his breathing and heartbeat, opening his eyes wide and staring ahead.

  Grace’s apartment. He was in Grace’s apartment, not on the fields of battle or in the cold underground prison.

  More specifically, he was in Grace’s bed. In her—

  Arms.

  “Are you better now?” she murmured from beside him, one arm bent around his head, as her elbow supported her weight, the other folded on his chest, her hand lightly stroking, patting, the way a mother might comfort a small child who had trouble breathing.

  It worked, her touch. His gusty breaths became quieter, easier, his chest felt less constricted.

  He looked up into her now familiar face as she leaned over him, eyes filled with something like concern.

  It was so hard to read her emotions. Most of the time her eyes were blank, except when they burned with desire. For him.

  Her eyebrows still looked like centipedes. Her eyelashes like tarantulas. Her lips still seemed to take up too much of her small, thin face, and her hair looked like it had never met a brush.

  And yet.

  And yet Devlin found her incredibly…attractive.

  Yes, unbearably attractive.

  She had this strange ability to bewitch him. He didn’t understand it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The more he stared, the more he wanted to keep staring. And she gazed just as unblinkingly back at him, her pupils so large her eyes looked entirely black.

  He never noticed how clear her eyes were, the sort of translucency only someone with a pure and innocent soul could effect. The eyebrows and lashes served merely as embroidery around those captivating orbs. And her lips…they were pillowy rather than over large and invited one to test their voluptuous softness. Which reminded him—

  For all of the dark pleasures they’d given each other, he’d never kissed her. She’d never kissed him. Not mouth to mouth, breath to breath. He wanted desperately to kiss her now.

  She seemed to be of like mind, for she leaned down more, lowering her face closer to his. But she stopped just shy of meeting his lips, so Devlin raised his head the last inch to claim hers.

  She was just as soft and full and ripe as she seemed.

  Devlin opened his lips against her closed ones to plump them with his own. Wrapping a hand around the back of her head, he brought her closer still, creating just the right pressure and friction to graduate the kiss from gentle and exploring to carnal and demanding.

  He angled his head slightly so that he could more fully devour her, licking along the seam of her closed lips, taking the lower one between his teeth.

  “Let me in,” he rasped low.

  She shivered at the guttural sound and obeyed him, finally parting her moist, swollen lips.

  He needed no better welcome, plunging his tongue between them and into her warm, wet core.

  Someone groaned long and loud at the first thrust of his tongue. It might have been him, it might have been her. It didn’t matter since they were one, connected in a way that transcended the physical.

  She slid her tongue against his in an erotic dance, delving into his mouth as he retreated and then inviting him back into hers. They nipped at each other’s lips, alternating between playfulness, possessiveness and passionate hunger.

  He asked silent questions with his mouth: Do you want me? Not this shell that I wear, but me, the man inside? Can you care for me, hold me when I’m weak, accept the bestial part of me that wants to mark you, claim you for my own?

  She answered his mouth with equal fervor and made demands in return: I want you. I want you inside my body, my blood. I want to be inside you too, so deep inside I become a part of you. I want you with a desperation that scares me. So badly I ache when we’re not together. So madly my heart splinters to see you in pain.

  They stayed like this, at times exploring leisurely, tenderly, at times turning up the heat to such a feverish pitch, their bodies strained and arched toward each other as they mated with their lips, tongues and teeth.

  She didn’t touch him and he didn’t touch her anywhere else, somehow knowing that they were on the verge of something neither could control, and both feared for the consequences. The erotic dance of their mouths was sexual, sensual, but it was also comforting, caring.

  Loving.

  Something their bodies, despite all the exertions of the nights before, had never accomplished or attempted to.

  But when his fangs descended into his mouth, Devlin reluctantly pulled back and finally answered her, “Better.”

  He cleared his throat and clarified, “I feel better.”

  Slowly, as if not wanting this moment in time to end, he opened his eyes and found her staring unblinkingly at him, just as she’d done before he started the kiss.

&n
bsp; “Did you keep your eyes open all this while?” he asked, curious and a bit unnerved.

  “Yes,” she said, still unblinking, “I wanted to see your pleasure. The beauty of it is so mesmerizing I can’t look away.”

  Devlin huffed an abbreviated chuckle and teased to hide his embarrassment, “Kisses are for feeling and tasting, not for seeing. At least, not when you’re part of the kiss. Otherwise you’ll get cross-eyed.”

  She finally blinked, slowly and repeatedly, as if attempting to reorient her eyeballs behind their lids.

  “You’re right, of course. Now that I have the image of you when you kiss stored away, I’ll close my eyes next...”

  She trailed off, her eyelids drooping, blanketing the brightness within.

  Leaving Devlin suddenly cold.

  “Good,” he said, turning away from her to sit at the edge of the bed.

  Inexplicably, he felt deuced awkward, still reeling from the confounding, rather disturbing connection they just shared, and immediately after having his recurring nightmare no less.

  He felt raw, laid bare, naked despite being fully clothed.

  He needed some space to think, to sort out his emotions. If she touched him now, if she wanted him this night, he didn’t think he could keep his body and heart apart.

  He wanted to make love with her. To sink his teeth into her throat and gorge himself on her hot, sweet blood. To mark her tender flesh everywhere with love bites. To take a bit of her soul into his.

  To bind her to him forever.

  And if she used his body merely for pleasure, if that was all she wanted…he thought he might die a little inside.

  “I should go,” he said, his voice husky with barely restrained emotion.

  “Yes, I think you should,” she answered so readily he turned to look at her.

  She stared at him for long moments without speaking, as if she were in a trance. Or trying to memorize his features.

  “I don’t think we should see each other again, Devlin Sinclair,” she said finally, blinking.

  Stunned, Devlin could only look wordlessly back at her.

  “I don’t like feeling the things I feel when I’m with you,” she explained neutrally, “and also when I’m not with you but thinking about you.”