Dark Needs at Night's Edge iad-5

by Kresley Cole

  The muscles in his arms bulged, and she knew he was clenching his fists above her head, wanting to touch her. "And how would I know if she was interested in me?"

  "She'd probably wrap her arms around your neck to hold you close," Néomi said, but she kept her arms to her sides, her own hands in fists. She yearned to twine her fingers in the too-long hair at his nape, ached to touch him in any way. But she couldn't and never would be able to.

  I can never feel those muscles flex as he works my body over the edge. Can never see that exact moment when any control he has deserts him and he's helpless to his own lust.

  Néomi would never be able to enjoy him—she selfishly didn't want any other woman enjoying him either.

  "And then what should I do?" His voice seemed whiskey-roughened and smoothed at the same time.

  She felt as intoxicated as if she'd drunk it with him. "You'd meet her gaze, then lean in to brush your lips against hers."

  "Brush my lips?" He was getting as caught up as she was, his natural reserve faltering. And she loved it. "What if I wanted to do something harder?"

  Harder? Yes! She stopped herself. "But most females would want a measured seduction. You'd have to wait, to prolong it. But when your lady gasped, then you could take her mouth more forcefully."

  "How?"

  "Slowly slip your tongue inside, and tease it against mine—hers, rather." She shook her head. "Against hers."

  He was rubbing his tongue over his fang, making her want to melt. "Tease?"

  "Y-you can drive a woman wild from just a kiss if you do it right. Think, um, slow build."

  He moved in even closer, until they were sparking electricity between them. "When would I get to touch her?"

  As she stared up at his eyes, she saw them not as blood red, but as the red of flames. "If she moans, you could touch her neck. Maybe run the backs of your fingers from her ear down past her collarbone, then lower to the beginning swell of her breast. And if she likes that a lot, you might try following the same path with your lips."

  "And then?" he rasped.

  "What does your instinct tell you?"

  "My instinct tells me"—his consuming gaze flickered over her ear, then dipped to her collarbone and lower to the swell of her breast—"to keep going down. To do whatever I have to in order to get my lips on your breasts. Her breasts."

  Imagining that had Néomi subtly arching her back to press her chest up. "How would you kiss them?"

  "I'd kiss all around her nipples, dragging my lips over her skin. Would she like that?"

  "She'd probably be cradling the back of your head, moaning."

  "Then I'd close my lips over one of your nipples—"

  "You mean her, your Bride's."

  He shook his head slowly. "When I think about kissing anyone, I imagine you. Only you. I can't pretend that this isn't so."

  "That pleases me, Conrad. Because I don't want you kissing another woman," she murmured.

  "Why?"

  "I'd be jealous, wanting to scratch her eyes out for kissing my vampire." He frowned and opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "Je suis sérieuse. Now tell me what you'd do to me next."

  After seeming to determine whether she was telling the truth, he said, "I'd take one of your nipples between my lips, sucking it in... ."

  "Hard?" She gasped the word.

  "Do you like that?" When she nodded, he didn't stifle his groan. "Then I would suckle it hard, licking you with my tongue at the same time."

  Her eyelids threatened to slide shut. He was so sexy and manly. All intensity. How could she ever have been attracted to soft, docile businessmen with their yes, darling mentality? "I've fantasized about how your lips would feel on them."

  A short, rough sound erupted from him. "I try to imagine what your breasts would feel like from what you'd shown me."

  "Do you wish you could touch them, too?"

  "God, yes," he quickly answered, then flushed.

  "Do you think about them a lot?"

  He briefly inclined his forehead near hers. "Some minutes less than others."

  She gave a throaty chuckle, and he seemed surprised that he'd amused her.

  "What would you be doing while I kissed them?" he asked.

  "My hands would be rubbing all along your back."

  Her eyes fluttered closed when he drew his hands down to reach for her. His palms were so big, fully covering the outline of her breasts.

  She moaned softly when she felt tiny electrical shocks over every inch of them. "I'd sigh from the way your muscles worked beneath my hands. Then I'd clutch your hips to signal that I wanted more of you." He raised his brows at that, and she murmured, "I'd be getting desperate for you by this point."

  "So you wouldn't stop me if I"—he swallowed and his voice dropped an octave lower—"if I tried easing my hand up your dress?"

  "Stop you? I'd place your hand on my panties."

  He gave another groan. "I'd hook my finger under that black lace and pull them aside." He'd clearly been thinking about more than just what her breasts would feel like.

  "Conrad, I'd be wet for you."

  The deep rumble of his voice had turned to a husky rasp. "I'd be so fucking hard for you."

  "Would you want to bite me?"

  "Yes," he hissed. "Would you let me?"

  If he needed, she would give. "I'd deny you nothing."

  "Then I'd take your neck and your breasts. I'd bite your white thighs right above your stockings."

  Intense male. She stifled a whimper. "We're doing it again, exchanging comments, bandying."

  "Like dancing."

  She shook her head and whispered, "Like sex."

  He stared down into her eyes, making her feel like she was drowning in fire. "Néomi, you make me want to be blooded. But only by you."

  21

  This was Conrad's second sexual encounter, if he counted the time in the shower with her.

  The female didn't have a body that he could feel, he couldn't get erect, and yet it was powerful. If they were this way now, he couldn't imagine what it would have been like if they'd met when they'd both been truly alive.

  Of course, he'd known there was pleasure to be had. But he'd never suspected the rush, the savage thrill of discovering that a woman wanted him sexually. He'd never known the confidence that if he moved to take a female, she would be wet for him and clutching his hips for more.

  She leaned up and brushed her cheek against his. He felt the same electricity but had no perception of her skin. He tried to imagine how soft her flesh would be. "I want to feel you, Néomi. I want to be inside you."

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her lips near his. "My God, I wish I could be flesh and blood for you."

  He groaned at the yearning in her tone. Their situation frustrated him to no end. He wanted her more than he had any other woman—he was convinced that she would have blooded him when she'd still been alive. And he truly believed she would receive him.

  But I can't take her... .

  With a bitter curse, Conrad dropped his arms through her, turning away. He prowled the room, pausing only to punch the wall with frustration—

  He just stopped himself an inch from the crumbling plaster. He shot a glance at her, and she looked like he'd hung the moon. Damn, he could get used to looks like that.

  Would she think him ridiculous if he asked her for more? They'd only known each other for a short amount of time. She was experienced and he... wasn't. To hell with it—he had to know. "Would you want to be with me? If you could? For more than sex."

  She gave him a sad smile. "You have a destined Bride out there awaiting you."

  "Néomi, you might be... mine."

  At his words, her heart skipped, but she forced herself to ask, "Then why haven't you been blooded? Your heart hasn't started beating, and you still take no breaths. You don't... react to me in a physical way."

  "I think my vampire instinct doesn't recognize you as my Bride because you're not technically alive," he said. "I n
eed to know if you're merely playing at this, with me, because I'm here and you can."

  "I am not playing with you. But Conrad, even if we had no physical limitations, I don't know that we could make this work between us. We're too different."

  "How the hell are we too different?"

  "All I've ever wanted is life. I covet it so much I feel like I'll scream. But you... destroy it. And you're so cavalier about it."

  "I kill. It's what I'm best at."

  "If it was in self-defense or for a cause you believed in, then I could understand. But to extinguish life for money? I could never accept that."

  "What if I... stopped? What if I told you that when I'm near you, I want to be a better man? Does that count for nothing?"

  "It counts for everything!" She raised her hand to her forehead. "This is a moot point anyway. Unless you know of a way to resurrect ghosts... ?"

  "No, I don't. But that doesn't mean there isn't a way. I'd search for centuries if I had to."

  Centuries. Hundreds of years more of sliver moons and monthly torture.

  "And understand this, Néomi—I'll do it whether you want more with me or not. So don't let that affect your answer."

  "Conrad, do you really mean that?" Words bubbled up—I need to be with you... I want us to try...

  He opened his mouth to answer, then stilled. "Someone's outside." Crossing to the window, he cracked open the drape. And scowled. "Excellent. My sisters-in-law are dropping by."

  Néomi sidled up to him to peek out. Two petite women were hurrying out from a sports car into the stormy night. "Those are Valkyrie? They're stunning. Is that what Lore women look like?"

  "Some. The redhead is Myst the Coveted. She is Nikolai's. Kaderin the Coldhearted is Sebastian's blonde."

  Néomi had heard so much about those two that she felt as if she knew them—

  "I'd planned to kill them, too." When Néomi glared up at him, he raised his chained hands. "Past tense. See? Already I'm improving."

  Lips thinned, she studied his expression. He seemed earnest.

  The Valkyrie began arguing in the muddy drive, drawing Néomi's attention back to them. Myst seemed intent on keeping Kaderin from the manor. When the clash turned physical, Néomi went wide-eyed. I don't know them at all. "They're punching each other," she said in disbelief. "I figured they were fierce since Kaderin is an assassin, but to hit each other?"

  Conrad shrugged. "Nature of the beast, I'm afraid. They like to fight."

  "I won't let you do this!" Myst struck out with a jab that connected with Kaderin's mouth.

  Kaderin swiped her sleeve over her bleeding lip. "Just like that first Talisman's Hie—still sucker-punching me!"

  "I'll do worse. If you turn Conrad over to Kristoff, deep down the brothers will never forgive us. If they wanted him given up, they would've done it themselves!"

  With a shove, Kaderin said, "I don't know about you, but I want my husband back!"

  Kristoff had imprisoned them? And wouldn't free them until he had Conrad? Néomi glanced at him. His expression was inscrutable as he said, "And that answers the question of what has happened to my brothers."

  "I want mine as well!" Myst said, returning the shove. "But this isn't the way. For ages, Nikolai has searched for Conrad. All that worry, all that effort, for nothing?"

  Apparently, Nikolai was still putting forth the effort—he hadn't turned Conrad over.

  "Wait a second." Myst narrowed her gaze. "What in the hell are we doing? We're Valkyrie—we take what we want."

  "What do you mean?" Kaderin asked.

  "Kristoff won't let our men go? Then Kristoff needs to be taught a lesson. I say we capture the whole bloody castle."

  There was a dangerous light to Kaderin's eyes. "Fucking A."

  "Just in our coven alone, Regin, Cara, and Annika would spoil for a chance to war with vampires, any vampires. They wouldn't care that they'd actually be helping a few. And I know the inside of Mount Oblak like the back of my hand."

  Kaderin's lips curled into a threatening grin. "More fangs for my collection."

  Then they were gone as swiftly as they'd arrived.

  "Go get them, girls," Conrad muttered.

  "Those small women couldn't really start a war?"

  "They might be small, but either one of them could lift a train." His tone absent, he said, "Kristoff's sitting across the world—with no idea that hell has just been unleashed against him."

  22

  When one is insane, it's best to simplify things.

  To get by in life, Conrad had organized his existence into a system of rewards and obstacles to rewards. He'd identified the reward he wanted: Néomi in the flesh, his to possess.

  The obstacles: his captivity, her lack of a body, and Tarut's possible curse.

  Essentially, Conrad had a list of things to do, a short list. Get free, execute Tarut. Figure out how to resurrect Néomi.

  The last wasn't impossible. Conrad just had to find and coerce the right sorcerer to do it. He knew that there were only so many in the entire world and all other dimensions who could resurrect beings. And even fewer who would.

  As for his captivity—the bottom line was that his brothers were not coming back, or at least, not soon. Not until after a war. If they got out alive.

  Could the Valkyrie take Mount Oblak? Certainly possible. But it would take time to prepare.

  Time he didn't have. His blood supply wasn't infinite, and the threat of Tarut weighed on him.

  Tonight Conrad would get started on his list.

  When he'd awakened this evening, Néomi had brought him a cup of blood, then set off on the paper quest. Good. He wanted her away. Collecting a bath towel, he started down the stairs.

  One way or another, Conrad was going to remove the chains. He couldn't break them, so that left him with one other option.

  He'd found a woodcutter's ax in the old toolshed. A cutting stump sat behind it.

  If he was drinking heavily of blood, he could regenerate a hand in three to four days. He'd have to do them one at a time of course, so regenerating would take at least six days. Which meant he would miss the gathering, a promising hunting ground. Killing tended to get complicated without hands—

  Suddenly, he heard... a phone ringing? Frowning, he hastened after the faint sound, coming upon a small sitting room downstairs, well off to the side of the house.

  The ringing seemed to come from inside the wall. Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he raised his bound hands to slap his palms against the wall—it sounded hollow. His lips curled. A moving panel. He'd seen them in older houses before.

  After determining the edges, he scanned it for a latch. Maybe it was in the wainscoting? He felt along the dingy white wood. Got it. When he pressed it, a faint click sounded.

  He shoved the panel open and found newspapers were stacked behind it, but then she wouldn't have to enter through an opened door.

  Inside, he narrowed his eyes. The room was a studio—her dance studio, with attached barres and mirror-covered walls. So this is here-and-there, her secret place.

  The space was overtly feminine, decorated with faded pinks and reds, silks and crumbling lace. But the mirrors were all broken, with strike patterns as if someone had taken a fist to them—or a shot of telekinesis.

  Against a far wall was a small cot, padded with blankets that would never warm her. An unused pair of ballet slippers was tossed casually atop them. Beside a safe on the floor, he spied a sizable pile of pebbles and stockpiled cases of liquor.

  On a table, he found masses of odds and ends displayed like treasures. Among the offerings were Sebastian's money clip, Nikolai's now quiet cell phone, and the hair comb from Murdoch's pocket. Néomi had probably treasured the comb because she found it pretty.

  She's going to have a thousand of them.

  He'd stumbled upon a little ghost's nest, filled with trinkets stolen from the living to connect her to them. Feeling dazed, he sank onto the cot. This is everything she has. And Elancourt
is the entire world to her.

  Yet you threatened to burn it down.

  He tried to imagine being trapped alone here, if their situations were reversed. Yes, he was trapped as well, but he'd always known that sooner or later he'd get free.

  No wonder she'd cleaved to him so strongly. She'd been desperate.

  The back of his boot hit something. Bending down, he found a leather scrapbook. He brushed off a layer of dust and cracked it open, the stiff leather protesting.

  The pages were neatly marked, the contents—playbills and articles about her successes—meticulously lined in wax.

  He glanced up, half expecting her to appear and start haranguing him for trespassing in her secret room, but she was doubtless after that paper like a terrier starving for a bone. So he read... .

  One article was entitled Bastardizing Ballet? Not Just for the Cultural Elite Anymore. Néomi had made sure that children from the French Quarter and Story-ville were guaranteed seating at her performances.

  According to another article, Miss Néomi Laress had violated parish decency laws with her coterie on more than one occasion.

  Local Ballerina Courted by Russian Prince, read another headline. Conrad's fingers bit into the leather. Always with the bloody Russians!

  When the interviewer asked Néomi if she was moving to Moscow anytime soon, she'd answered, "Leave New Orleans? Never, especially not for a man, prince or not. The city's in my blood." At least Néomi had been prophetic. Even death couldn't make her leave.

  Why would she ever choose Conrad when she'd refused a prince? Disappointment settled over him like a weight on his chest. She'd said they were too different. In any other situation, he wondered if she would have glanced twice at Conrad.

  But then, everyone was a prince in Russia!

  Just as he was setting the album away, he found an article in the back that seemed to have been clumsily tacked on and was disintegrating in places without the wax treatment. Brows drawn, he read what he could:

  Famous Ballerina Savaged by

  Spurned Oil Millionaire

  Néomi Laress, a colorful and well-regarded citizen of New Orleans, died in her home Saturday night when Louis Robicheaux, a first son of the city, stabbed her in the chest. Immediately after, he turned the blade on himself, slitting his own throat.