“I know you’re fully aware of what you’re doing,” he murmurs. His voice is stronger, but now he sounds drunk instead of lifeless. “I just don’t understand why.”
I lean in close and rest my cheek against his forehead. The more skin contact, the better. As excuses go, I think it’s my most legitimate one yet. Shame Jhez didn’t get to hear it. “Consider this an apology.”
Leonard hums softly in approval. “Best apology I’ve ever had.” He grabs me by the waist and hauls me onto his lap and I shift to maintain contact with him, both hands curling around the nape of his neck, cheek pressed against his.
His breath is warm and moist as it puffs over the sensitive spot behind my ear. His fingers fumble with the buttons down the front of my shirt. “More skin.”
I don’t stop him. I understand. The lyche hisses at the loss of contact when I pull my hands from his neck, but I stroke my cheek against his, angling my head to get a view of his shirt.
With the drugs in my system, and the aftereffects for however long . . . he needs to feed, and I don’t know if it will be as easy as that first time. Not that I recall much. I do know, however, that the more skin contact a lyche has, the less difficulty they have in penetrating the aural shield. Because if you do it right, they’re already inside it.
Yes, this is a tad uncomfortable with my sister in the next room. Only slightly less so because she understands the concept. I’d be completely at ease if she didn’t spend every moment in Leonard’s presence looking like she wanted to kill him.
“Stop thinking about your sister.”
My fingers still on the final button of his shirt. “What?”
“You heard me. Your aura does funny things. Think about something else.” Cool air wafts over my chest and shoulders as he shoves the material down to my elbows. Frustrated by the tangle of our arms, he slides his hands around my waist and up my back. Tingles run up my spine, filter through to every nerve in my body. Gasping and shuddering, I abandon his buttons and slide my hands over his ribs as he pulls me forward. Crushes me against his chest with arms like steel bands.
A gasp of breath escapes him, transforms into a moan halfway through. My skin burns; the sensation reminds me of that first sizzle of flesh when you put a raw steak on the grill. Garthelle buries his face in my neck and inhales, long and deep.
When I slide my hands around his back and stroke his spine, he relaxes again, arms loosening to a more comfortable embrace. His skin reminds me of the acres of silk draped over every square inch of the foyer. Of a warm breeze on a chilly spring day.
He trails his lips along my shoulder, the tip of his tongue following clavicle to neck. “My God, you taste good.”
His hair tickles my face. Every breath I take smells of dragon’s blood and sandalwood. I close my eyes and let myself go, let the sensations wash over me. His skin, smooth beneath my hands, cool and warm against my chest; his scent, oh Gaia, his scent. The feel of his hips. I tighten my legs, let myself enjoy the sensation along the muscles of my inner thighs. I’ve never had sex with a lyche, but I’m more than willing to revel in the sensuality of the experience and the moment. I’ll worry about what I really think of it later. I’m not a virgin, but I’ve never felt anything quite like this.
Mmm, something else to get addicted to?
Leonard trails his lips up my neck with open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing roughly over my skin, scraping and nibbling his way to my jaw. When I return the affection by sucking the lobe of his ear into my mouth, he growls and turns his head further. Twisting, searching recklessly. His lips brush mine, his hand—how did he get untangled from my shirt so fast—clamps down on the back of my neck, and then his lips are on mine, tongue thrusting into my mouth.
A freight train of sensations slam into me as he meshes his mouth to mine and taps me. His arm tightens, fingers digging into flesh. He pulls on my chi and rolls his hips up, arousal blatant, however unintentional it might be. White pinpricks of light flicker and dance across the inside of my eyelids. His mouth moves with the same rolling rhythm of his hips and his feeding, overwhelming my senses, overloading my nerves, more aural interaction than I can register.
He slides his hand down my back, fingers dancing down my spine, and pulls my hips closer. My nostrils flare as I pant and struggle for air. Even with layers of clothing between us, his arousal brushing along my own is heady stimulation.
Gaia, he’s going to make me orgasm just by feeding on me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, with the single brain cell standing apart from the overload, I know I should stop him from doing this. Associating sex in any way with a vampire’s feeding turns one into the worst sort of Nightwalker—the kind that doesn’t last long at all on the street.
Yet each rhythmic thrust of his hips makes the flickering lights multiply, sends tingling chills racing up my spine, and within moments I’m frantic, uncaring, incapable of considering anything except that pinnacle moment of ecstasy just out of reach.
Leonard grabs my hips, holding me closer, prolonging the exquisite agony of his rhythm. His breath becomes as labored as mine. Desperate, I unwind my arms from his back and grab his shoulders, slide my hands up into his hair.
His draws grow longer, shallower, his thrusting hips and tongue no less insistent for the change in pace. Finally, with a long, low moan of pleasure, his head falls back to rest against the couch. Each gasp of breath washes over my cheek, my neck.
Fingers digging into my flesh almost painfully, he lifts his head and buries it against my neck again, teeth latching on with rough abandon. His body tenses and spasms, and suddenly my chi—and his—pulse back into me in a crashing tidal wave of backwash. It sends my body spiraling out of control, his pleasure flooding through mine, searing along my nerves and pushing me that final distance to orgasm. I feel my body trembling against his, his arms curling gently around my waist, his ragged breath puffing along my neck.
Letting my head rest on his shoulder, I keep my face buried against his skin. Enjoying the scent of his musk and sweat blending with the incense. Minutes pass in silence, save for the sounds of our breathing. In sync.
That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Apology accepted.” He has one hand hooked around my lower back and clamped onto my hip. The other he trails up and down my ribs, over my back, down my spine in a crazy lethargic sweep of satiated contact.
“Good,” I mutter against his neck, and despite the fact that I slept most of the day away, I want to fall asleep again. My eyes refuse to open. His hair feels like a thousand silk ribbons tangled through my fingers.
The silence stretches, peaceful. Content. I have no idea how long. I may have fallen asleep. He brushes his fingers along my temple, moving my hair out of my face, and I decide it’s time to move. Make myself presentable, find a shower. Untangle myself from this situation.
If that’s even possible.
He’s looking at me. His fingers trail down my neck, curl around my nape. His gaze focuses on my mouth. My lips are tender, bruised, but his kiss is gentle, soft as his whisper.
“Next time, let’s not do this half dressed.” His eyes flicker back and forth as he studies my face. Watching for a reaction. An edge of wariness. He doesn’t know where he stands now. Isn’t certain if he stepped across an invisible line.
Truth is, it wasn’t just a step. More of a bulldozer obliterating it. It’s not his fault, though. Damn it, I knew the possibility of him losing control—or having none—was high. Turns out I was right. I just didn’t know how right I was.
Shit. Now every time a lyche taps me, this will be the only thing I’m capable of thinking of. Dry-humping him. Yeah, because that was so attractive.
Actually, that’s by far the hottest thing anyone has ever done to me. That’s beside the point.
“Right,” I say finally, untangling my fingers from his hair and pushing myself up. “Preferably without my sister in the next room. And a house full of guests to entertain in .
. . oh, thirty minutes, tops?”
There’s a wet spot south of my groin on my inner thigh. My leather pants are going to be ruined if I don’t get them cleaned. He relaxes his arms, but his hands are solid against my hips. I settle my weight down onto his thighs and sit back, studying his complexion. To say he looks better is a horrendous understatement.
Jhez is going to know what I did the moment she walks in here. It’s blatantly obvious the lyche gorged himself with more energy than a herd of cats could provide. And I’m the only person in the room. Reality slams into me, a bucket of freezing cold water on my warm, happy body.
He clamps his hands on my forearms. His skin is still slightly cool, but the strength in those fingers feels like steel as he uncrosses my arms and leans forward into me. There is a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he exhales slowly, inches away.
Our eyes meet, and whatever words were on the tip of his tongue dry up and die. I see it happen; the flicker of humor in his gaze bleeds away like water down a storm drain.
“There’s a bathroom in the sleeping quarters.” He motions with a jut of his jaw over his right shoulder. “You can clean up in there. I’ll return shortly with . . .” His gaze travels down my bared chest, over black leather, and he pauses, inhaling slowly and wetting his lips. “Something for you to wear,” he finishes, sounding hoarse.
Giving him a curt nod, I push off his lap and stand up. Post-coital euphoria makes people say strange things sometimes. Whatever he wanted to say, I’m glad he refrained. This is all temporary, I remind myself as I walk toward the door tucked into the back corner of his office. The emotional attachment will fade as the adrenaline filters out of my system, and the moment this—whatever it is—aural connection between us wears off, he’ll let me walk away, right? Encourage me to. Or Jhez will drag me out the door by the scruff of the neck, for my own good.
Knowing she’s here with me is the only thing that stays the freak-out session I feel building up inside my head.
“Black.”
My hand on the doorknob, I stop and turn to look back at him.
He’s still in the same spot on the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, chin resting on his shoulder. I look at his hair, now tangled beyond redemption. His shoulders, undeniably broad beneath the flattering cut of a now wrinkled steel gray silk shirt. His jaw, chin, mouth. Slightly flushed beneath his ivory complexion, the look of a healthy man still firmly in his prime.
As he always will be.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, but I can feel it. His attention doesn’t waver from my face. I lower my head slightly, close as I can come to nodding in acknowledgment, then escape through the door and use the weight of my body to push it shut.
Closing my eyes and burying my face in my hands doesn’t help. I feel my tangled shirt snag on the surface of the door as I slide down to sit on the floor. It pulls on my elbow, material crumpled halfway down my arms.
I just walked across the room half undressed.
I just made out with a vampire. Lyche. What-the-fuck-ever. The drugs aren’t doing shit to reverse the twisted mess our auras have become. For all I know, the blocking agents are strengthening the bond by heightening the dependency.
Not to mention he all but admitted he’s no idea what this is, nor why the trading of energies between us triggered it in the first place.
Could this situation get any more fucked up?
“I don’t think it can,” I growl, smack my head back against the door, and then push myself back up off the floor. Force myself to move.
And of course, that’s the cue for the universe to prove me wrong.
I manage to keep my hair mostly dry in the shower. Even though Jhez might not ask, I know how her mind works. Perhaps she won’t put me through the wringer, though. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Or maybe I know my sister after this long.
Just as I’m whipping the large fluffy towel around my waist, someone raps on the door.
I try to stretch out and feel who it is with my aura. And then shake my head and wonder what the fuck I’m thinking.
“Black, it’s Monsieur Garthelle. I have some clothes for you.” He practically rips my shirt off after hauling me onto his lap, and now he plays Mister Politically Correct? What the hell?
Careful to tuck the edge of the towel in firmly along my hip, I walk over and crack the door open. Steam gusts out past him, and his nostrils flare as he inhales.
I snatch the clothes from his grip and snick the door shut. Really.
Five minutes later, I open the door again and step out, half my shirt buttons undone and the tails trailing out over the low-slung waistline of slacks that are slightly too large for me. At least the length is spot-on. Tripping over hems is definitely more than I would be willing to tolerate at this point.
I feel like a kid borrowing clothes from big brother’s closet, in a futile—laughable—attempt to impress his very first date. So not looking forward to the prospect of entertaining random, groping lyche.
Though I assume he went and changed, his attire is identical. Neater, of course. And his hair isn’t sporting that adorably tousled look anymore. Shame, that. It actually looked rather attractive on him.
No, I will never tell him that.
“Where’s Jhez?” I flop down onto the couch across from him, feeling more at ease in his presence than I have thus far. The intimacy is partly to blame, but there’s more to it than that. I tuck a foot up under myself and fumble through the contortions required to button the cuff of a dress shirt.
“She’s already en route to her first engagement for the evening.”
Why didn’t she wait for me to go with her? It’s my job, too, after all. And I would’ve preferred to have a chance to talk to her, even if she went without me. Did she notice anything different about Garthelle? I don’t want a “naughty little secret” shared only with a lyche. It reeks of blackmail and manipulation. Not exactly my idea of fun times.
I wonder if he’ll expect me to “entertain” as well, despite the fact that I’ve been at less than stellar levels. And just fed him. My gut says no. I run a thumb over the back of my hand and frown. That evening I first met him, fed him, my skin didn’t look this way. It was almost translucent, screaming at me, the first telltale sign that says, Time to take a breather from the business for a week.
Despite the fact that I didn’t get that break, that instead I’ve been pushing to the limits of my aural endurance, my skin is a healthier shade than it’s been in some time.
Odd. Frightening, too. Because I don’t know why, and in this business the unknowns will kill you in a heartbeat.
I glance up at Garthelle, trying to read his expression. There aren’t any files on the table between us. My skin tingles, everywhere. All at once. I blink and shudder, and the sensation is gone, just like that. Are the drugs wearing off, perhaps? Gaia, I hope so. I dart another glance at him.
He’s still watching me. I shift, uncomfortable. Tuck my other leg up onto the couch, settling into a lotus position. The residual intimacy feels awkward. “Are we going to just sit here all night?”
He blinks. “Would you like a drink? Something to eat, perhaps?”
I cant my head to the side, trying to get a slightly altered perspective of him. “I had the impression you wanted me to work this evening.”
He curls one corner of his mouth up, the twitching birth of a smile. “You’ve done more than enough already, I think.”
I frown, brow furrowing, before I even think to control the reaction. “You expect my sister to pull the full load tonight, entertaining those . . .” I wave my hand toward the corridor. “Guests of yours.”
Alone. A single solo interview is one thing. This is different, and I would feel more comfortable with the arrangement if I were there too. Then again, to say the whole situation is new for us would be an understatement.
“I’m inclined to defer to her assessment that you’re not rec
overed enough to perform in that capacity.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and the intensity of his gaze draws mine. “This connection between our auras makes me vulnerable. Given recent developments, I’m unwilling to trust most of the lyche still present.” He pauses, lips pursing into a line of tension. “So, no. I’m not willing to share you . . . in the same manner I do your sister.”
The lag in that last sentence feels deliberate, the qualifier regarding my twin tacked on as an afterthought. I try to read between the lines and hear what he’s really saying, but my stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly.
I plaster a wide grin on my face. “Yes, food sounds agreeable.” I stare at the back of my hand, letting the forced smile slide away. Something weird is happening here. What isn’t he telling me? He pushes up from the couch and walks off to his desk, picks up the phone.
I can recall every moment of him feeding from me. He tapped deep, drew hard. Why don’t I feel dizzy, weak, like I usually would? Like I did the first time? More importantly, where’s the disorientation and memory loss? The more you know, the more you know you don’t know. Right now, I’m feeling downright ignorant.
“You and I need to talk, Leonard.” My words come out barely above a whisper. All the same, the cadence of his voice on the phone falters momentarily. I know he heard me. I run my thumb across the back of my hand again, wondering why my veins aren’t in stark relief. Blue blood contrasting against pale, translucent skin. The trademark of a heavy tapping. It’s not there.
He falls silent. The click of the phone back into its cradle is loud. He’s standing beside me, towering over me, hands slid into the pockets of his slacks in a stance that strives for casual. Instead, his close proximity vibrates with tension and uncertainty.
Good. Makes two of us. The unknown is a truly frightening thing.
“What is it you want to talk about?” His voice is low and soft. Why does it feel like he’s attempting to soothe my nerves? For that matter, why’s he so damned calm?
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