Scorched

by Sharon Ashwood

  With an intake of breath, Constance stopped her squirming. Mac sensed her interest like a heat lamp. She was transfixed.

  A low laugh rumbled out of his chest.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Constance whispered as Mac tossed his shirt to the floor. She was utterly out of her depth. She’d never seen a man like that, not even a blacksmith. Not even the guardsmen who, to a man, were physical perfection.

  Mac was a fantasy on a grand scale. Every muscle was visible and alive as he moved. The candlelight loved him, washing the landscape of his body with licks of gold. He looked like a giant killer from one of the old tales her grandfather used to tell: He loomed like a thundercloud, heavy with storms.

  She felt suddenly limp, as though all her bones had been melted from her limbs. Her arms were trapped at her sides, or at least she thought they were. She couldn’t tell anymore.

  With one finger, he scooped up the ends of the lace that tied her stays, then pulled the tail of the knot until it let go with an audible slide of fabric. The sound seemed to catch on her insides, tugging at things with no name.

  If I do as he wishes, will he rescue my boy? It was an old bargain—a woman’s body for a man’s strength. Would a creature like him understand the trade? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure that was why she was doing this.

  He kissed her again, leaving her breathless. That’s why.

  Their previous encounter had wakened desire, brought her to an unfamiliar peak of need. Even though he couldn’t Turn her anymore, even though he didn’t smell like prey, that didn’t dampen her urgency. She wanted more than blood. She wanted the sensual womanhood too long denied her. It’s the magic of the room. The loss of control. It’s making me want him.

  But she knew it couldn’t give her appetites. Only free them. The desires were in herself.

  Centuries ago, Constance had prayed for a passionate lover, one who wanted her for more than just blood. Her wish had finally been granted. Overabundantly. He was unlacing her underthings right then and there, his big, square fingers as careful and efficient as a watchmaker adjusting a spring.

  Without warning, desire flipped back to apprehension. He was too big, too male, and he was touching her in places no man had ever been. Holy Mother, how do I get out of here?

  She couldn’t do this. She’d never done this, not really, and it terrified her—even worse than the door to the outside world. This was a door to someplace even more fraught with danger.

  Vertigo seized her, dragging her down some hellish drain.

  “Let me go,” she ordered again, putting a waspish sting to the words. She started worming her hands free, only to realize they weren’t trapped at all.

  “No,” he replied, giving her one of his fleeting smiles. “If you really wanted me gone, you would have poked me in the eye by now.”

  “Are you sure you want to give me ideas?”

  He bent and kissed her. Gently. Reassuringly. Confused by his tenderness, she nearly burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “I think I might. Don’t worry. I’ll make everything all right.”

  “But . . .”

  “Shh.” He put a finger on her lips. “Your son. Your dog. Everything. My word on it.”

  Kissing her again before she could reply, he gently dragged the second lace away and sunk his hands beneath the layers of cloth to caress her through the thin fabric of her shift. Trembling, she dragged in a breath. She was unarmored, helpless, her defenses gone. Traitor that it was, her body arched to meet him.

  He was a demon. The fact didn’t matter. Or that he was magnificently, bizarrely changed. Mac had reached the core of her yearning the way no one else ever had.

  He’d been so gentle with her clothes. No man had ever taken that much care of what was hers. No man had ever wanted her enough to peel back the layers around her. Not in any sense of the words. And his kiss . . .

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, in a thick, husky voice.

  Tentatively, she lifted her hands to his face, digging her fingers into his thick, wavy hair. “Liar,” she said, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  “Far from it,” he murmured just before their lips collided.

  The kiss was long and leisurely, and they barely moved apart when it was finally done. For a long moment they stayed, noses almost touching, sharing the same breath. The bones behind her fangs began to ache, waking her own sleeping beast. She had been too shy, too shocked by this unexpected tryst for her own hungers to fully rise before this. He didn’t smell like food, but desire and biting went hand-in-hand. Still, Constance held back, swallowing the saliva pooling in her mouth. She didn’t want anything to spoil the moment.

  Slowly, he sank down beside her, stroking her hair back from her face. Stroking her arms. Drawing the long tendrils of her hair through his fingers. Loving her. For all the impatience she could feel radiating from his big body, he was going at a cautious pace. His dark eyes hadn’t changed—outside of a slight smolder of demon fire—and for that she was glad. His gaze was what had called to her when they first met. Despite the wildness of his demon nature, those eyes were still wise and mischievous and kind. The look of someone who had seen more than they should have, but had survived to jest about it.

  Feeling less intimidated, she rose and shed the garments he had unlaced, leaving nothing but the flimsy, shabby shift. She unhooked her skirt and pushed it off, but left her petticoats. She wasn’t ready to part with them yet.

  As she shed her layers, he stripped down to his skin, but slid under the covers before she could get more than a glimpse of his male parts. They were like the rest of him. Distressingly large.

  Bloody hell.

  He sat up and pulled her under the covers, steering her into the circle of his arms. He smelled like spice. Resin. Dark, fragrant woods. Musk. This new form of his was exotic and unfamiliar. Hot to the touch.

  Kissing her again, he plundered her mouth with the gusto of a pirate. Her resistance melted in all that heat. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the play of strength beneath his skin. That weak feeling swamped her once more, followed by a wave of her own slick fire.

  “Connie?”

  Connie? No one had ever called her that. “What?”

  “Have you . . .” He gave a little lift of the eyebrows.

  One thing hadn’t changed over the centuries. Men still had problems with some words.

  “No.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  She would have said more, but that was all the information he seemed to need. He had given her the chance to back away from this encounter, but now he was back in control. One hand reached around her waist, untying the tapes of her petticoats. She kicked them free.

  She lay half on top of him, captured by his strong arm. His mouth quested down her neck, his hands circling her breasts. His teeth dragged against their peaks, teasing through the thin fabric of her shift. She felt them harden, aching and tight. He suckled through the cloth, sending a stab of pleasure right down to her belly. She gasped, her back arching, pushing her farther into his embrace.

  As they moved, Constance slid her hands down the ridges of his stomach, around his hips, over the cresting arch of his backside. Her mouth found his flesh, tasting, savoring, but keeping her fangs from seeking the sweetness below the skin. Her teeth ached, but the discomfort only made her more eager. She tentatively ran her fingers over the hair that curled low on him, and the hard, long, thick evidence of his pleasure. It was unexpectedly smooth, in places soft.

  As she fondled it, a sound came from him, half rumble, half moan. She filed that information away, and slipped off her shift.

  A soft gasp came from Mac, and his hands were on her breasts. Then his mouth. Then his fingers reached between her legs, finding the hot, wet secrets there. Instinctively, her knees drew up, parting to give him access. A restless pressure built in her stomach as he stroked her, finding places no one but she had ever touched. Plea
sure coiled through her, pooling like oil in her belly, in the hard nubs of her nipples. She began to feel like she might burst, all her desire leaking from her, sweet and sticky.

  A convulsive stab of wanting wracked her. And again. He kept up the questing, teasing, pushing, caressing until the stabs became a single, uncontrollable gasp of pleasure that ground her pelvis beneath his hand. Her vision blurred and meaningless, the candlelight melted into a single sunburst as waves of heat seared her.

  She came out of it panting like she’d run a race.

  “Holy Mother,” she murmured.

  “That’s just the beginning,” he murmured in her ear. The demon was in his eyes, sparking scarlet. She was starting to like that demon.

  He poised himself above her, the muscles in his chest and arms bunching under his weight. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  Her mouth went utterly dry. “I’m a vampire. I’m not easy to hurt.”

  He lowered himself to one elbow, using his free hand to move her leg, move himself until he was poised at her hot, wet entrance. Slowly, slowly he pushed his tip inside. The sensation seemed to flow, full and delicious, all the way to her throat.

  It was too much. She reared to strike, to taste him, but the urge to bite was swept aside by a completely new and wondrous sensation. There was no way she was going to distract him now. But it was so hard to not bite, so hard, so hard....

  . . . Oh, and yes, he was. He slid out and slid back in, farther this time, stretching and filling her more than felt possible. She moved to ease him in, instinct telling her when and where to push. The sensation blazed all conscious thought to ash. She pushed again, finding his rhythm.

  A longer thrust pierced her, took the maidenhead that had been frozen in time along with the rest of her. She let out a rough cry but kept pushing, yearning, doing everything to engulf him inside her.

  Her heart, long still, shuddered out a beat, and then another. Keeping time with his thrusts. It was a brief, temporary tryst with life, driven by extremes of emotion. He was bringing her back to life.

  She hurtled toward the next crest. She tried to hold herself back, but the momentum was too huge, too urgent.

  She clung to Mac, digging her fingers into his back. His skin was burning hot, shining in the candlelight. His scent rocked her senses, the sound of his lungs, his driving pulse loud in the Castle’s silence. It was too much.

  He thrust again and her body clenched around him. He let out a sound that said as much as he had conquered her, she had conquered him. The power of it staggered her. At that moment, she ruled this massive demon-beast.

  She felt a scream rising inside her, tickling between her aching breasts, then low in her throat. When Mac gave a last heave, the thrust drove her into the soft bed, hot, hot life spilling inside her. He shuddered, his face a mask of lust, the dark smell of him swamping her. She lost control, pleasure brutally slaking a thirst buried for the whole of her long, dry existence.

  At last, the scream ripped out of her, a sound of raw triumph.

  By the time Mac slept off the sex-induced-haze, he was ready to begin again. Apparently if he wasn’t stuffing his face, his body moved on to Plan B with equal drive.

  Constance was curled against him, her cheek pressed against his chest. It was odd, because she was so still. No stirring. No breathing. No way to tell if she was awake or not. One hand was hooked around his waist, holding him as tightly as he was holding her.

  It felt good to have her there. It had been far too long since he’d woken up with a woman. The night had given him even more pleasure than he’d expected. Snow White had hidden depths.

  He looked down without moving his head. The view gave him a slice of her face: one brow, the bridge of her nose, a scoop of dark lashes. Constance was right where she ought to be, where he could keep her safe.

  He’d lost his humanity, but he’d gotten laid. There had to be some cosmic meaning there. Or not. He didn’t feel like picking holes in the first good thing that had happened to him in a long, long time. Talk about a silver lining. Thinking about it was making him horny.

  Constance lifted her head, her gaze tentative. “Hello.”

  He grinned. She looked sleepy and tousled and terribly cute. “Hello.”

  She folded her arms on his chest, resting her chin on the prop they made. Her bare arms were slender, but he could see the muscles in them. She’d worked hard when she’d been a human woman.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. He could see all the usual post-lovemaking questions written on her face, and for some reason it made him happy. If she cared enough for all the usual womanly fretting, that made what they’d shared real. “You belong to me now,” he said, figuring that covered all the important points.

  “I do?”

  The way she said it, both relieved and resigned, made him stop and think. She came from a time of slaves and servants. “I don’t mean that I literally own you.”

  She looked perplexed.

  Caveman was messing with his words again, making them come out like he was some knuckle dragger fresh from the How to Discover Fire seminar. He tried again. “I mean anything you want, anytime you’re in trouble, I’m here.” He wound a finger into her hair. It ran over his skin like dark, heavy silk. She was the sort of beauty anyone would be happy to have on his arm. The sort that would stop a room cold.

  Her gaze searched his features. “You’ll rescue Sylvius?”

  “I keep my promises.”

  “Good.” The word was heavy with more nuances than he could guess at. Maybe she wasn’t used to people keeping their word.

  “Once that’s over with, you really should come see my world sometime,” he said. “You’d have fun.”

  She hesitated, objections, then uncertainty, filling her eyes. “I’m sure that would be nice.”

  “I’d make sure you had a good time.”

  The look she gave him was pure female. Her thigh shifted against his, severely distracting him. “It couldn’t have been better than what we just did. I never imagined . . .”

  He put his finger on her lips. “There’s more ahead.”

  She blinked at that. “What I meant to say is that you were kinder than I deserved. I did try to bite you before.”

  Mac laughed at that. “True, but you didn’t this time.”

  “I was busy. I’m only half a vampire. I think that made it easier to hold back. Plus, you’re not really food anymore.”

  “Maybe.” He wound another piece of her hair around his fingers, using it to draw her in for a kiss.

  “You were good to me,” she said.

  “You were good to me.”

  They kissed, taking their time over it.

  “You left me that book about Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy,” she said.

  “Did you like it?”

  “I did. I liked everything about it.”

  “Like what?”

  “It wasn’t just about one or two people; all the folk fit together. It reminded me of so much of my old life. There was the wise sister and the foolish sister, the pretty one and the one you just knew would never make a match. And the men had fine families, too, although they weren’t altogether what I would call easy sorts to get along with.”

  Mac was enchanted. “And were you the pretty sister, or the wise one, or both?”

  “I was the baby straggling behind the rest.” She smiled ruefully. “All my sisters were wed. Only the last of the boys were still at home. I wished I would’ve been older, when there were more of my family in the house. Still, it was grand at celebrations when everyone came home. That’s what I’ve always wanted—everyone around the table, eating and laughing.”

  Such talk of domestic bliss was enough to make most men bolt. Mac was too comfortable to move.

  “What about you?” She blinked away a strand of hair that was hanging in her eyes, tangling in her lashes.

  He brushed the hair away. “There was just me and my mom.”

  “Just you? No one to sh
are the chores?”

  “It’s not so bad when you live in the city.”

  “All the same, lucky for your mother you were there!”

  “So she liked to remind me. She’s gone now.” He paused. “But say, I brought you another book. I’m not sure what it’ll be like because I picked it up in the grocery store. It has a pirate on the cover.”

  “A pirate?”

  “With no shirt. He’s going to get a sunburn.”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “He’s daft! Even a sailor can afford a shirt. I’m not sure about your pirate.”

  “But you’ll give him a try?”

  She gave him a wicked look. “If you insist. Although he’ll have to cut a fine figure to shoulder past Mr. Darcy.”

  Mac rewarded that look with a kiss.

  “Do you know . . .” she said, trailing off into an uncertain sigh.

  “What?” He touched his finger to her chin.

  “I want you to know there’s a place you can always lay your head.” She shimmied up his torso until her face was poised above his. “Wherever I am. Sometimes it helps to know where you can go when everything else turns upside down. I’ll always take you in.”

  “Would you?”

  She hesitated. “You don’t have a family standing behind you. Everyone needs a family. You’ll get lost if you’re all alone.” Her eyes were serious.

  Just like that, she had turned the tables on him. He had promised her protection. Now she had just done the same. The solemn look on her face said she meant it.

  Mac felt a pang of tenderness in his chest. She’d found his soft, marshmallow center and sunk her dainty fangs right in. Crap, I am lost. But he didn’t care. Not one little bit. A dark yearning stirred inside, but it was dark and sweet at once, like melting chocolate.

  Constance survived in a violent world. She might be small, but she had to be tough to have made it this far. Clever and stubborn enough to keep her values in one piece. That moved him.