She continued typing on her notebook computer, not bothering to acknowledge his arrival with so much as a lifting of her gaze from the keyboard. “Mr. Kincade. You’re early. Sit down.”
He sat. “My apologies, Madam. Traffic was light.”
Her response was a grunt, and the very sound of it was a call to arms. He knew it was her way of exerting control over these meetings, and he marshaled his own control. Only by showing all the patience in the world could he deny her the satisfaction she sought in making him squirm like some child in church that had to pee and was told by his mother to hold it and wait.
So he leaned back, flicked the lint from his trousers, and stared at her through half-closed eyes. She looked magnificent tonight. Her dark hair was pulled back into a perfect twist that hid all stray ends except for one bold strand that escaped its confines. The escapee curved and pointed to one corner of her marvelous mouth, as if by design. He stared at painted lips that were neither pale nor the blood-red shade that Deborah had preferred, but a soft rose that seemed to reflect its wearer’s promise of conciliation. A beige suit over a mauve silk blouse drew his gaze next. The suit concealed the size of her breasts, but he stared anyway, making the best use he could of the minutes she made him wait.
Finally The Honorable Catherine Sheridan closed her notebook and looked at him. “Well, Mr. Kincade, what complaints do the undead have this week?”
In truth, there were few. “Just one, and it’s personal. I don’t like being kept waiting like some snot-nosed aide.”
She stared back. “My time is as valuable as yours. When you arrive in total disregard of our scheduled start time, you can’t expect me to drop my work.”
“I expect you to drop many things for me, Catherine. Work is not one of them.”
She stood and swept around her desk with the quick click-click of strides limited only by the tightness of her narrow skirt. “You’re insolent.”
He rose to face her. She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. “And you’re beautiful.” And she already knew that. But apparently she enjoyed hearing it, for her high heels clicked again on the hardwood floor, and she stepped close enough to rub her silk suit against his. “Flattery will get you . . . No. I won’t tell you. Come and find out,” she whispered. She trailed a finger tipped in rose lacquer through his hair, starting at his temple and running it down past his shoulder. His hair had grown out again, the way he liked it. Apparently Catherine liked it, too.
She turned and strode toward the private sitting room, and he followed, closing and locking the door behind him. Catherine had redecorated the room, replacing the leather sofa and heavy furniture with a pair of contemporary easy chairs and a sleeper sofa. The pervasive odor of cigar smoke was gone, replaced by the scent of the freshly cut flowers that constantly adorned the room. They undressed in silence, she down to her bra and panties, he down to the skin he was born in. He opened the sofa, and when he was done, she pressed herself against him.
Without a word, he took her face in his hands and kissed the lips that had beguiled him since the day he’d met her. They were full and soft, and even without words, they conveyed the promises of the rest of her body, equally lush. Like Deborah, she was strong, but Catherine was a lioness, Deborah an armadillo. Also like Deborah, Catherine demanded that there be no blood-letting. Her anti-vampire bias was still too strong to allow it, though Cade had hopes that the future would bring ever more concessions to his manner of thinking.
In the meantime, he got away with whatever his teeth could perform in the way of bloodless magic—the nipping and raking of skin and bites that didn’t break the skin. Each week he took her closer to the edge beyond which all control was lost, and he knew that one of these nights she’d beg him to take her in the way of the vampire. Maybe even tonight.
Her hands tangled in his hair, and he used the opportunity to unhook her bra. She lowered her arms to allow the straps to slide off, and he smiled as the garment dropped to the floor. He filled his hands with her breasts and rubbed his erection against her, enjoying the grunts she now made of pleasure instead of annoyance. And the burden of not squirming was now hers to bear. The reversal gratified him, for as much as he enjoyed the challenge of her assertiveness, he enjoyed her capitulation even more.
He rolled her panties down off her hips, and another garment dropped to the floor. He slid his hands between her legs, pleased to feel she was ready for him, but like with Deborah, he made her wait.
They rolled on the sleeper sofa, for she not only squirmed, but thrashed, and it was a miracle they themselves were not one more thing to drop to the floor. He drove into her at last, but then pulled out.
She raked her nails down his back to his buttocks and tried to draw him back into her, but he refused her. She arched her back and thrust her body up at him, but again he refused.
“Damn you, Cade!”
“Give me what I want.”
He knew she knew what he wanted. “No.”
He thrust into her again, deep, then pulled out. “Give me what I want. Say the magic word.” He cupped a breast and scraped his fangs along its swell until he reached the nipple, taking it between his teeth.
“Please.”
He pierced her, and as she swore at him, he gave her what she wanted.
AN HOUR LATER he stood outside City Hall and waited for Cesar to pick him up. He looked up at the sky, but he couldn’t see the stars. The brilliance of downtown Chicago shut out everything else, but he didn’t care. It was his city, and it was thriving as never before. He’d survived Hell and everything Hell had brought, and if being Hell’s warrior was the realization of the Manitou’s vision, so be it. He’d survive the future, too, and perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard after all.
Sleeping with the enemy had never felt so good.
The End
Hell's Warrior Page 27
