by Tracy Tappan
This part of his orgasm had been so strange to her the first few times they’d made love, this fierce, almost desperate embrace he gave her. The men she’d had sex with before had reared off her in the final throes of their ecstasy, body braced on straight arms, head craned back as they made all of their oh-this-feels-so-great noises. But not Arc. In the last intense moments of his climax, he held her to him as if he feared she might disappear back into a dream if he didn’t keep a firm grip on her. And it was…the most romantic thing ever.
His climax spent, Arc slackened on top of her, gasping for breath, his heart hammering against her breasts. She kept her arms wrapped loosely around him while they both calmed their breathing and let their heart rates settle. His member throbbed with the occasional aftershock inside her, his fangs gradually pulling back into his upper jaw. Contentment enveloped her. In the ensuing quiet she heard the clock flap its number over, shh-flip.
Her husband nuzzled her throat, rose up and kissed her lightly on the nose, then withdrew himself and gently covered her naked body with the afghan.
She sighed quietly. Sweet and gorgeous. How was she supposed to resist him, really? “I’m such a pushover,” she murmured.
“Hmm, baby?” His voice sounded drowsy. He was already flopped onto his back, his jaw loosening with sleep.
She pushed up on an elbow and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I love you is all. Go to sleep.”
With his eyes closed, he smiled lazily. “Love you, too, beautiful wife.”
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and got out of bed, towing her afghan with her as she headed into the bathroom.
She took more time than she’d originally planned, deciding to take a quick shower to clean up the wetness between her legs. She brushed her teeth again for good measure and finally plopped down on the toilet. Out of habit, she grabbed an ovulation stick from the nearby cup. It was probably a waste of an O-stick—not that there weren’t millions around the community—seeing as she wasn’t due to ovulate for another couple of—
What the heck? She squinted down at the stick. Good God, there were three hash marks on it. Not just one or two as a warning of impending fertility.
“Oh, no,” she breathed, glancing anxiously at the bathroom door. What was she going to do now? On the other side of that door lay a bonded male Vârcolac who’d take one whiff of his mate in her fertile time and instantly turn into an instinct-driven machine. His sole objective would be to impregnate her and he wouldn’t stop having sex with her until he’d achieved that end.
She grimaced. The two times she’d gone through it to get pregnant with Lysha and then Brynt had completely worn out her vagina. Plus, her neck got really sore because Arc kept sampling her blood for the telltale taste of the pregnancy hormone. Only when he tasted that would a neuron get triggered in his brain that signaled Mission Accomplished and he’d collapse into a three-day hibernation state, and finally free her from his incessant attentions.
Frankly, after the rough day she’d had, she wasn’t particularly psyched up for that.
Somehow she had to get out of here. She tiptoed over to the bathroom door and lifted her robe off the hook, shrugging it on, then stepped into her slippers. She was just going to have to make a run for it and get herself into lockdown. A funny thing to call the female-only secured rooms in Roth’s mansion, considering that the suites were outfitted with every imaginable luxury, and barring herself in one of the rooms for the two or three days of her fertile time was like a mini-vacation from life’s responsibilities. But, anyway, one of the Dragon women, probably Kimberly, had coined the term and it’d stuck.
Placing her hand on the doorknob, she drew a fortifying breath and prayed for speed, then…. She didn’t move. Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined carrying one of Arc’s babies beneath her heart again, her chest aching with longing. No. Stop this. She had plans to expand her store this year. She wanted to start carrying a grunge line for the Stânga Town kids, among other things. Some jewelry maybe.
All right, then. She quickly twisted the knob, jerked open the door, and dashed into the—
She yelped as her husband jackknifed out of a sound sleep and growled at her. She ran like the dickens, her slippers flapping as she raced for the bedroom door. Lord, this was going to be close! It wasn’t even close. Her athletic god of a husband came at her like a nuclear-powered freight train, tackling her to the floor before she’d barely made it into the hall.
“Arc,” she squeaked as she found herself squashed beneath her husband’s unrelenting body.
He powered to his feet and stood over her, his legs spread wide and his hands curled into loose fists at his sides, an enormous erection jutting out from his body. His nostrils were flaring rhythmically with the inhalations of her fertility he was drawing into his lungs, his eyes rapidly glazing over. Yikes, Elvis has pretty much left the building. She had about two seconds, maybe less, to issue him a firm no-command and get away before he was lost completely to the primal state of a Vârcolac male in full procreation mode.
With a feral grunt, Arc bent over and grabbed her ankle, turning and dragging her back into the bedroom. Her robe bunched around her waist, her hair trailing out behind her. She opened her mouth to stop him and then….
Didn’t.
Chapter Eleven
Toni propped a shoulder against the sliding glass door of her third-story bedroom balcony and gazed through the prison bars at the town of Ţărână, home to 429 “followers”: 229 males and 200 females—married, single, young, and old. She was so damned sick of the view. Same-old-same-old every day for the last week. She curled her lip at it. Such a cheery scene down there, the whole setup made to look like Main Street in Anytown, USA. But, it wasn’t, was it? No, that down there was the freaking Batcave or Count Chocula’s ‘hood or…or if a woman was going to buy Dr. Jess’s explanation, then she was looking at one of the many undiscovered spurs of tunnels naturally created by movement of tectonic plates in the San Andreas fault.
That first night after her meeting with Roth, Dr. Jess had puttered about in her room, preparing her a tidy cocktail of medications: Motrin for a headache she’d had the size of Jupiter, big surprise; vitamin D, a regular supplement for those of them who needed real sunlight down here; and a sleeping pill to help her adjust to Ţărână’s automated light-dark cycle, which ran opposite to the real one topside. And as Jess had puttered, he’d chatted all about her new “home.”
Apparently, oxygen flowed into the community through a honeycomb of wormholes formed by the same process of plate shifting that had created the tunnels themselves; the town’s closer position to the earth’s core maintained a constant temperature of 68 degrees Fahrenheit—they were a surprising one-half mile deep; water was piped in from topside, and TV and Internet came into the town through a secret network of cables; electricity was self-generated; the rocky earth was mined for diamonds and other precious minerals to provide the community with financial resources, which were obviously substantial; food and other supplies were transported in by non-reproducing, non-“dragon” human females called Travelers. These were the women who’d been brought in nearly twenty years ago for the first failed repopulation experiment between Vârcolac and “regular” humans.
All in all, it was quite the well-oiled machine of efficiency and production, a system well worth admiring had it not been a haven for a bunch of wackos who could stand with a bit of screw-tightening. She had to give credit where credit was due, though. Even during her psych rotation in med school, she’d never encountered a more complexly constructed fantasy world than this one. Or a group of people who were so deeply committed to adhering to said fantasy world, all the while appearing and sounding reasonably intelligent and rational, especially the so-called “dragons” she’d met at the tea.
Case in point was the day each Vârcolac breed demonstrated his extraordinary ability. The special effects they’d used to uphold their illusion of vampirism had been extremely impressive
, some of the best she’d seen. She knew every trick in the book from her brother’s horror filmmaking stage back in high school. Dev could’ve put drops of something called Fluorescein into his eyes to make them glow. Although, yes, a black light was generally required for activation. There were also Scleral contact lenses. Thomal could’ve used any number of unique glues to affix the scales of his dragon tattoo onto his back in order for them to look so real. Hell, he could’ve gone so far as to have had them surgically attached. And when Thomal ran so fast that he’d disappeared before her eyes, he could’ve…well, um…. She’d decided to blame her concussed brain for that one.
Truthfully, the scientist in her might have been fascinated, had these people not been so completely screwing up her life.
The latest outrage was that these freaks had broken into her topside house and packed up her stuff. Stuff, as in all of her clothes and most of her personal items: photos, jewelry, books, bathroom products. Then they’d brought it all down here for her, the idea being to make her feel more at home. Yes, thank you so much, she felt so much cozier now. Behind that generosity was the scarier idea that they obviously planned to keep her here for quite some time.
On top of that, some goober named Cleeve was answering emails in her name; her hospital had been informed that she was on emergency personal leave, and her mother and brother were being fed some crock about Toni being out of town at a hematology seminar. So no one even knew she was missing. No one was searching for her. The Cavalry wasn’t going to charge to her rescue any minute. She truly was on her own if she intended to escape this lunatic asylum.
If that meant she had to employ the help of a group of “dragon” women who thought they were married to “vampires,” then so be it.
The warriors live in the mansion on the same floor as you do, so you might be able to get access to a key card. Give it a try.
Here they came now, in fact. Toni heard the first group of warriors returning from their mid-morning training session.
Pushing away from her balcony, she crossed her bedroom and listened at the door.
“…should’ve seen the dump I just took, man. It came out like a small, greased-down squirrel, I kid you….”
“…just have to drain the main vein, then we’ll grab the football and….”
“Dude, you’re an idiot. The length of a woman’s legs doesn’t determine the size of her….”
“Oh, I’m sorry, do you have to check with your wife before you can scratch your balls, too?”
As the warriors’ voices faded and the last of their bedroom doors closed, Toni cracked open her own door. All clear? She poked her head out. Yes. She slipped into the hallway and took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. If anybody asked, she was just out for a stroll. She had been given free run of the mansion, after all; a big bonus that had turned into a little bonus as soon as she’d discovered that any room worth entering was kept locked, including the warriors’ bedrooms. Because of that whole pesky locked door situation, she was going to have to search for a key card while one of the men was actually in his room.
She crept to the bedroom across the hall, her heartbeat racing despite her efforts to remain calm, and pressed her ear against the Colosseum; in this mansion, the doors were painted with murals of famous European cities to distinguish one room from another. This one was Rome. Hers, to go along with her French décor, was Paris, replete with a soaring Eiffel Tower.
She leapt back, nearly crying out as she was hammered by some kind of raging rock music cranked to near eardrum-bursting volume. Jesus! Hurrying away from the pounding, howling cacophony, she moved on to check Oslo and then London. No luck, until finally she heard a shower running at Dublin. She inhaled-exhaled. Okay, here goes.
She opened the door and darted inside, making sure to—
Wow. Whose room was this, anyway? The décor was extraordinarily tasteful, done in warm and inviting earth tones, hunter green, mauve, and chocolate brown predominating, the bedspread a patchwork combination of all three. A CD of the Cowboy Junkies was spinning on a state-of-the-art sound system, filling the room with soft, bluesy music. Even more surprising, a floor to ceiling wine rack stood against the far wall, large enough to house more than a hundred bottles and nearly full. In front of it was a small table laden with all of the paraphernalia an expert sommelier would need. Well. Whoever lived here had taste and class, and she couldn’t imagine which warrior that could possibly be.
Not that she had time to figure it out.
She stole over to the dresser and started to rummage through the drawers. Only clothes, damn it, and a…Penthouse magazine. So much for taste and class. Ugging silently, she shoved the magazine back underneath a stack of shirts and moved over to a chest, lifting the lid to see if—
The shower shut off.
Crap! She sprinted soundlessly across the room, grabbing the doorknob and quickly and quietly yanking it—
Ho, shit! Her breath rammed into her throat, log-jamming right next to her heart as a large hand shot out over her head and slammed the door shut again. It’d taken the occupant of this bedroom exactly one millisecond to open the bathroom door behind her and then arrive at her back.
“Looking for something?” a dark, smoky voice drawled into her ear.
She groaned out loud, recognizing that voice. Of all the warriors who could’ve possibly caught her, why did it have to be Devid who…. Hold on. This was Dev’s room? She spun around and—
Immediately she wished she’d kept her face pasted to the back of the door. The man was stark naked, dripping wet, and standing right in front of her. One hand was still planted on the door by her head, the awesome breadth of his shoulders eclipsing her view of the rest of the room. Her pulse spiked, and it took every ounce of resolve she owned to keep her eyes from sproinging out at him like a Bug-Out Bob doll.
“Curiosity finally got the better of you, did it? Out of your room at last….” His silver eyes brightened with a teasing light. “Maybe you’d like to give me that medical examination now?”
Was the room shrinking? She cleared her throat and pointed a remarkably steady finger at the bathroom behind him. “There’s a towel right in there, Mr. Nichita. Perhaps you’d be good enough to make use of it.”
A thoroughly masculine smile curved his lips. “I’m sure I don’t have anything you haven’t seen before, right, Doctor?”
Riiiiiight. She would challenge any female physician in the Western Hemisphere to pull off viewing this man’s body with solely a clinical eye. Not that she was looking at it.
“Or maybe not.” He took a step back, his smile growing as he held his arms out from his body, presenting himself to her in all of his naked glory. “See anything new?”
Her eyes latched directly onto the area between his legs. Impossible to stop herself. It was…that was quite a sight. Clinically speaking, it pretty much shot directly past racehorse dimensions and right into elephant-penis status.
Tearing her eyes away, she made what she hoped was an offhand gesture. “You’re right,” she agreed, “you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
He lowered his arms, the air seeming to sweeten and thicken as he asked softly, “Maybe a set of fangs, then? That’d be new, I bet.”
She crossed her arms firmly beneath her breasts, secretly clutching herself. “Actually, no, it wouldn’t be. I’ve seen plenty of those teeth which you people call ‘fangs.’” Everyone in this town had their canines filed down into sharp points. Ouch.
His deep laugh reverberated through the room, sending a shiver through her. “Ah, but you haven’t seen them elongated, honey, that’s the thing. But never fear, Dev is here.” The gleam in his eyes sharpened as he took a step toward her.
She jerked backward, dropping her arms and pressing her spine against the door.
A single black eyebrow arched upward. “I have to get close to you to show you, sweetheart. Fangs can only be provoked to lengthen when the Vârcolac himself is…stimulated.”
Her lungs grew tight, the air suddenly burning inside them.
“By the smell of blood,” he went on as if she’d asked, “aggression, or sexual arousal.” A brow arched again, devilishly.
“That’s a rather convenient set of parameters for you, isn’t it, Mr. Nichita?” And no wonder none of her mate-choices had shown her a set on demonstration day.
He chuckled. “Well, I guess you could always ask Jaċken. He and his brothers are the only ones who can control their fangs voluntarily.” Dev’s eyes danced with amusement. “You want to go see if he’ll give you a demo?”
“Thanks, but no.” Maybe if she pressed her back to the door hard enough she’d be able to rearrange her molecules and slip right through. “And although I do appreciate that lesson in Vârcolac taxonomy, Mr. Nichita, I think I’ll also have to decline your offer. I have no desire to slice my wrist open or,” she snorted, “do a lap dance just to see you elongate.” His eyes flew up, and she smiled tartly into his startled expression. “Or are you offering to get into a fist fight with me?”
His answering smile was a knee-melter. “Ah, honey, all I need to do is tuck my face right in here,” he pressed his thumb lightly to the artery in her throat, his fingers curling around the back of her nape, “and I’ll be able to smell your blood just fine.”
Her pulse reacted crazily to his touch, the wild drumbeat of it pounding from her vein into the pad of his thumb.
His pupils dilated, a feral darkness seeping into his gaze. “Don’t be afraid.” His voice was thick velvet over her skin, a palpable sensation of warmth and seduction, stirring a singeing heat to life in her blood.
She pressed her palms flat against the door. Dear God, what…what…? She had the alarming desire to throw back her head and present her throat to him. And if he wanted to fondle her breasts that would be just fine, too.
