Under His Skin

by Jennifer Blackstream

“I swore I would never tell him!” Nu gasped indignantly. “You impugn my honor, Ana!”

  “Ah, but you didn’t swear that you wouldn’t tell my front door while Brec just happened to be standing behind you, did you?”

  Nu’s jaw dropped and Ana laughed. “One of your little pixie friends came in when her wing was torn in a storm. We had a nice chat while I fixed her up. She had quite a lot of interesting stories to tell about you.”

  “Bloody big mouths, pixies,” Nu groused.

  “Now, about my rosewater . . .”

  Nu flew into the air in front of her, his little face twisted in indignation. “What, you want I should bathe in common seawater? Without anything to soften it, or make it smell as all water should smell? And me with the sensitive skin of a baby--”

  Ana closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to tune out the pixie’s tirade. The headache starting at the base of her skull couldn’t quite keep the smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “Let me guess--missing roses?”

  Brec’s voice coming from behind her turned Ana’s head. Now the smile blossomed, as it always did when her husband came home.

  “Rosewater,” she admitted. “I’m going to need more.”

  She turned to Brec, surrendering herself to his embrace. She looped her arms around his neck as he pulled her against his body. The sight of her fur wrapped around her right wrist--never out of her sight--was just another reminder of everything the man in front of her had done for her.

  The press of his hard muscles against her own soft curves sent a delicious thrill up her spine. She tilted her face up, welcoming his kiss. His lips slid over hers and Ana sighed. Pixie or no pixie, roses or no roses, life was good.

  Preview of APHRODITE’S HUNT, an erotic paranormal romance by Jennifer Blackstream

  Chapter 1

  “Master, there is someone here to see you.”

  Grigore’s voice disturbed the relative quiet of the vampire’s study—the crackling in the fireplace the only other sound. Sorin remained still in his chair, staring into the flames. Unlike the large room full of antique furniture, his mind was not lit by the cheery fire. Darkness infused him, body and soul. His heart struggled to beat using only the energy it absorbed from the brownie behind him. The little fey’s life force kept it going—but it wasn’t blood. It didn’t invigorate him, didn’t tempt him. Sorin closed his eyes. Sometimes he wished his heart would give up completely—as he had.

  Grigore sighed. The floor creaked as he shifted his weight. The energy flowing from him to Sorin halted briefly before flowing in the opposite direction. Sorin knew what the brownie planned to do before the command left his mouth.

  “Sorin, come to the door and greet your guest.”

  His name echoed with power on Grigore’s tongue, power the brownie had stolen through their link. Like a puppet on strings, Sorin stood and turned to the door. It should have disturbed him to have his body move without any intention or effort on his part. He didn’t care.

  Sorin opened his eyes. His deadened gaze appraised his servant, apathy lying on him like a leaden blanket. Grigore stood less than three feet tall, an average height for a brownie. His brown hair and beard were neatly trimmed, as always, and his brown robe was clean and well pressed despite its obvious wear. He looked more like a tree stump than an alchemist—certainly not the sort of creature who should have any power over a vampire. Sorin shook his head.

  “You would use our connection to compel me, Grigore? Am I so reduced that you would make yourself my master?”

  “I should be punished, to be sure. Why don’t you punish me, master?”

  Sorin knew he should be outraged. The connection a vampire forged with someone he repeatedly fed on was meant to give the undead power over his prey—not the other way around. The fact that Grigore was a mere brownie, kin to the common dwarf, only added to the insult. Any other vampire would have killed Grigore for his audacity.

  A voice in his head mocked him, pointing out that no other vampire would have let himself grow so weak that his food could order him about through a perversion of a magical umbilical cord. If he had any self respect at all he would discipline the brownie—severely.

  “I will not punish you, Grigore.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded dull and defeated.

  “I know, master.”

  The sad tone in the small man’s voice pounded into Sorin’s spine like a nail of solid guilt. If he’d had the energy he may have tried to comfort him. As it was, he had to fight just to remain standing.

  His gaze wandered to his chair and its soft velvet lining. It would be easy enough to retake his seat. Grigore’s command had been more of a nudge to get Sorin up than a compulsion to make him go to the door. Still, he didn’t want to make Grigore choose between using more energy and giving up. It was a brownie’s nature to serve, not to dominate. He knew what little force Grigore had used to make him stand had likely already made the smaller man uncomfortable. Just because life had lost all meaning for him, didn’t mean he wanted his friend to suffer too.

  “You know I hate stealing your energy, my friend. It bothers me to use what little it takes to keep me alive. If I am to move this leaden body of mine very far, I will have to take more and I do not wish to cause you harm.”

  Grigore’s eyes flashed with something akin to anger. “I am fey, am I not, master? Do you think my energy so human that taking enough to walk will cause me harm?”

  The indignation in his words lashed at his skin like a whip. Sorin winced. He’d only meant to discourage the brownie from insisting he go to the door. Unfortunately, his years of inactivity had apparently injured his manners as well as his strength. He sighed his submission and began an agonizingly slow shuffle out of the room.

  At the doorway he paused, leaning against it for support. “Who is at the door?”

  The question was more a means to distract himself from the humiliating amount of exertion it took him to walk, than an expression of interest. He moved so rarely these days, every step took a Herculean effort. Good. A slow-moving predator doesn’t kill anyone.

  “Better you see for yourself, master.”

  “I would prefer it if you just told me.”

  “I know, master.”

  Anger tried to flare in the face of Grigore’s quiet refusal, but it died before it could even change his facial expression. Resigned to going all the way to the front door, Sorin straightened up and stepped into the hall. A draft flowed down the passage, ruffling the curtains that framed the windows. The black paint covering the glass absorbed the light, making each one seem like a shadowy portal to oblivion. The breeze wafted under his nose as it passed.

  A new scent slammed into him with all the subtlety of a freight train. He froze, one hand automatically reaching for the wall as an intoxicating combination of rich soil and new grass slapped him in the face. He grasped the wall to reassure himself that he was still indoors and hadn’t fallen out an open window into the trees that surrounded his mansion. He raised his nose, sucking the scent deep into his lungs. Under the fragrance of mother earth was a warmer, fleshier scent. Musk and something else. Something . . . primal.

  The brownie paused and looked back. “Master?”

  The exciting aroma swirled around him, teasing his senses and coaxing him to continue forward. Taking another pull of energy from Grigore, Sorin managed to walk with something resembling a normal pace. Exhaustion still clung to his limbs, but he fought against it as he followed the invigorating scent down the hallway. It seduced him, whispering wicked words in the dark. Never before had a scent held such promise.

  His heart beat harder as he flowed to the wooden banister lining the balcony. The feel of the cursed organ pulsing in his chest sent a dull ache through his body. He ignored the pain. In the face of this new scent, this wonderful scent, the pain was irrelevant. To the right, the wide staircase curved down to spill into the front hallway. From this vantage point, he could see the front d
oor and the foyer.

  Werewolf.

  The word echoed in his mind even before he saw her. She paced in front of his door, her strong supple body moving with the liquid grace common to her kind. Pale blue jeans hugged the curves of her hips and thighs before disappearing into worn brown leather boots. Every slope called to him, tightened his groin with the need to run his fingers and hands over every hill and valley. The tight fit of her royal blue sweater accented her breasts, filling him with the desire to rip the soft fibers from her body and smooth his hands over the warm prizes underneath.

  As if feeling his eyes on her, the woman looked up. Her golden gaze offered a window to her inner wolf and for a moment he could have sworn his heart stopped. Alpha.

  There was no mistaking the authority in that gaze, the force behind that stare. She looked at him as if he were the intruder and it was her home they stood in. There was a sort of defiance in her eyes, a challenge. He wanted to go to her, to answer that challenge. He raised his hands to grip the banister, preparing to leap over the railing just to get to her faster.

  “Master, this is Gia.”

  Grigore’s voice startled him, dragging him back to reality. The period of time between catching the first hint of her scent and this moment looking down at her, all seemed a blur. He frowned. He was so tired all the time, it wasn’t unusual to “check out” mentally for stretches of time. Still, this felt . . . different.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he continued to watch Gia. The urge to go to her remained strong, something inside him straining to get closer. The intensity of the desire disturbed him and he struggled to concentrate past it enough to speak.

  “What do you want?”

  The coarseness of his voice and the rude manner in which he’d spoken bothered him, but he didn’t try to apologize. She was a werewolf, half beast. Though he’d always tried to maintain a civil relationship with the local pack, he’d always kept a professional distance. Werewolves were a barbaric species and he’d had no interest in becoming entangled in their hedonistic ways. Now all of a sudden he found himself drawn on a very primal level to one of their females. He wrinkled his nose. How could he be attracted to one of her kind? What had possessed him to nearly vault over the balcony to get to her? Something strange was going on, and he was starting to doubt his sanity.

  Gia shifted her weight from foot to foot and scowled at him. “Are you going to come down here, or do I have to speak staring up at you like some sort of peasant appealing to her king?”

  Sorin’s eyebrows shot up. She seemed so . . . angry. It vibrated the air around her, charging it with the force of her ire. Between her obvious agitation and his . . . disturbing reaction to her, he found himself needing more information.

  “As you wish,” he murmured. He turned his body to descend the stairs, but kept his gaze on Gia. His body moved more easily, as if he’d taken a huge pull of energy. He wanted to glance behind him at Grigore to see if he was all right, but he couldn’t pry his eyes away from Gia.

  The longer he looked at her, the more the world seemed to fade around him, leaving only her body, her face. Her lush auburn locks curled around her shoulders, brushing her back as she tilted her head. Sorin’s fingers twitched, itching to lose themselves in the soft tresses. He could feel the cool silk in his palms now, threading through his fingers as he tightened his fist in their depths and dragged her mouth to his . . .

  He continued to advance, his heart beating harder the closer he got to her. Her scent was intoxicating, beckoning to him like a lover whispering in a dark bedroom. She stared him down, her pulse pounding like a drum in her body. The sound of her blood rushing through her veins roared like an ocean in his ears. He wanted to press his lips to that quivering skin, to feel her lifeforce sliding under the surface as he kissed his way from her jaw to her collarbone. Pleasure thrilled down his spine. He could almost taste her now.

  He stopped when he reached the floor, standing a mere ten feet away from her. A tempting aroma wafted off of her, caressing his senses and making his mouth water. Desire mixed with . . . fear. A dark pleasure filled his mind as her scent and her heartbeat gave her away. Part of him wanted to feed that fear. Feed it until she ran. He would chase her, catch her . . .

  He swallowed twice before he could speak. “You are afraid of me.”

  She narrowed her eyes and stuck out her chin. His observation seemed to anger her and he couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. She was a fighter. They could have such a wonderful game of cat and mouse before he caught her.

  That thought startled him. Game of cat and mouse? Since when did such bestial imagery hold appeal for him?

  “You’re different than I remember you. The man I remembered wouldn’t be staring at me like I’m a walking steak.”

  Her observation wilted the last of the smile from his face. “We’ve met before?” Her scent reached deep inside him, stirring his hormones until he had to clench his hands to keep from reaching for her. Surely, he would remember someone who affected him so.

  “Yes. When I came here about the rogue werewolf.” She frowned. “The one your friend killed.”

  A memory reached for him like a hand erupting from a grave, grabbing his ankles and sending fear skittering over his nerves. A man’s pale face glared daggers at him over the dead body of a woman, her mouth and arms covered in drying blood. He remembered the sound of his doorbell, the sight of Gia’s face when he showed her the body, proving to her that the rogue werewolf responsible for the deaths of four men and one woman had been taken care of.

  “I am sorry for taking the matter into my own hands,” he whispered, subconsciously repeating the words he’d said seven years ago. “I was concerned for the safety of all involved. One murderous wolf—”

  “Can bring the entire village after us all,” Gia finished. “Yes, so you said.” She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “You’re right, of course. She had to be stopped. But I still think you should have turned her over to us. I may have been able to help her.”

  Sorin’s brain stuttered and clicked as he nodded mechanically. The pleasant feelings she had inspired in him weakened under the dismal memory. The sight of the woman’s dead body hung in his mind, dredging up emotions he’d thought had been exorcised years ago. Cossette.

  Like a drunk stumbling in a morning after fog, he shook his head and tried to form coherent words. “Forgive my memory for its insult. Of course I remember you now. What is it that has brought you here?”

  Gia’s eyes darted around the room. He followed her gaze from the grandfather clock on his left, to the tapestry on the wall above the stairs behind him, and on to the hallway that trailed off to his right. She looked everywhere but at his face.

  He took the opportunity her avoidance afforded him to pull himself back together. His emotions rose and fell like waves on the ocean, alternately drawing him toward her with the force of a deadly undertow and dragging him away with fear of repeating the past. He barely remembered her and yet her scent, her voice, called to him.

  “I’m here to trade services.”

  Her voice jerked him from his musings. He blinked at her, trying to make sense of what he thought she’d said. “I beg your pardon?”

  She shifted her weight again. “I’m here to trade services. I want your protection.”

  “Protection?” She nodded. An instinct surged inside him with a disorienting intensity. Mine. A growling voice drew his attention inside himself. Something almost tangible seemed to be materializing within his body. Something with teeth. Gia stepped back and only then did he realize he’d taken another step toward her.

  Like a predator catching movement out of the corner of its eyes, his gaze was torn away from his internal inspection and riveted on the female retreating from him. His gaze met hers as the urge to claim her rolled like a tidal wave through his body.

  “Protection from whom?” He said the words louder than he’d meant to, as if he could drown out
the silent urgings coming from the dark side of his soul. His skin pinched as if it had shrunk and was somehow too tight to fit over his muscles. He scratched his arm, trying to rid himself of the sensation.

  “Other wolves. Only until the three nights of the full moon pass,” she added quickly.

  He inhaled, drawing her scent deeper inside him. She carried the smell of the forest. It was as though he could bury his face in her neck and breathe in the rich earth and vibrant green leaves that surrounded his home.

  The thought of nestling his face in her neck aroused him, drawing his gaze down her body so he was forced to notice how nicely she filled out the denim and soft wool. His fingers flexed at his sides. It would take nothing for him to rip the clothes from her body, tear them to shreds until they fell to reveal her feminine form.

  The blood in his veins relinquished its sluggish pace as it raced to fill his cock, preparing for the carnal delights playing out in his head. Images of her shapely legs wrapped around his waist filled his mind. He could almost feel her taut skin under his fingertips as he dragged her body closer, filling her with the flesh hanging thick and heavy between his legs.