One man with eyes the color of rubies and a short thatch of thick, deep brown hair on his head met her quick gaze. His eyes, small in his head, almost hidden by his hawkish brow but intense and wild, were the kind of eyes that would swallow a soul for lunch with just one glance. It was all she saw, but it was enough to convince her he was worth looking into.
Claire fought a visible shudder, gripping Irish’s hand as he moved her away from the men and she stooped to grab her backpack. This stranger, this man she’d never met and had barely glanced at, left her feeling ugly, unclean, as though he’d somehow wormed his way under her skin to fester there.
She took in deep breaths as she passed them, committing their scents to memory, remembering the few details she could glean before dropping her eyes to the littered pavement and following Irish out of the alley.
* * * *
“Wow,” Claire breathed out, taking in the oasis in the midst of the Zone’s chaos Irish had brought her to as they stepped out of a shiny, silver elevator.
He nodded, handing her a sparkling white towel and a bar of soap. Real soap. Not the kind in the dispensers at the gas stations she’d attempted to wash in. “Nice, right?”
Claire’s eyes tried to take all of it in at once. From the arched windows covered in enormous photographs of an azure blue ocean with palm trees and ivory sand, so real you’d almost believe you could reach out and touch the water, to the high ceilings and sparse but carefully selected furniture in soothing colors, yeah, nice was understating it.
“Where are we, and who would own something like this in the Zone? Aren’t they afraid someone will burn it to the ground—or worse, turn it into a crack den?”
Irish led her down a long hallway, painted an inviting eggshell white with muted turquoise sconces, shimmering with incandescent lights. “Longtime friend, onetime fellow corporate attorney. His name’s Mathias Lawson and he doesn’t worry about much because he’s got a lot of money to throw around and lots of hired guns to handle whatever comes his way. He chooses to stay here in the Zone for various reasons. One of them is helping people get out of the Zone. Specifically kids lost to the system.”
He stopped in front of a bathroom the size of half her house. Tiled in white and varying shades of blues and greens, housing the biggest shower she’d ever seen. “Vampire like you?”
Irish sauntered in and leaned against one of the four pedestal sinks. “Yep. Good guy. Used to golf with him once a month. Miss those days.”
“How did he ever get the human government to approve him living here? Usually if you cross those borders and you get caught, you go to prison.”
“Mathias is a smart guy. He finagled a deal and managed to convince the government he’d use this building as a rehabilitation facility. All those floors we passed in the elevator on the way up here to the top? Rehab for paranormal junkies. He has some of the best paranormal doctors in the world running it—nurses, meds, the whole nine. All sponsored by him.”
“Rehab?” she said. “I didn’t know we had any facilities for the paranormal.”
“Well, Mathias knew that, too. If you’ll recall, rehab is a constitutional right unless you’ve hit the three-strikes mark on your record—for humans and paranormals alike. There were no facilities in the human territories that would take the paranormal. Mathias used that as leverage. He takes cases from all over the world. Mostly rich brats with too much time on their hands and parents with too much money to burn. But there are some down there who had nowhere else to go. Mathias gave them a place when we were forced out. Rehabilitated them, gave them jobs, places to sleep, food. I’d like to think, if Hadley ever became strung out on something, she’d have this place to come to.”
Claire kept her face relaxed while her stomach did somersaults. “How is Hadley? Have you talked to her today?”
“Talked to her? Hah. Hadley doesn’t talk to us. She groans at us. She rolls her pretty eyes at us, but she’s fine. Got home from school just before I tackled your backside in that alleyway. Anyway, about Mathias. He’s a good guy. You’d like him.”
Claire smiled at Irish, running her fingers threw her tangled hair. “A philanthropist. Who knew you bunch of cranky lawyers were such givers?”
“Mathias is a good friend to have. He’s also responsible for trying to help me find the person who’s making this damn synthetic blood, so I can get my hands on whoever it is and push him, bribe him, whatever, to switch teams or give me the formula so we can recreate it.”
Her heart sunk. If Irish didn’t find the person who made the blood…she couldn’t go there. Wouldn’t. “Still no luck?”
He shook his dark head, pulling off his leather jacket and throwing it over his shoulder. “Nope. Gannon took that info with him to the grave, and Courtland’s a useless piece of shit. He tells me he has to wait for Gannon’s contact to get in touch with him. If he’s to be believed, no one knew who Gannon got the blood from but Gannon.”
She rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to wipe away the chill of disgust the mention of Gannon evoked. He’d held so many strings, had so many secrets—all of them as dark and foul as he’d been.
Dropping a quick kiss on her lips, he said, “Now, my naughty librarian, I’m going to go rustle you up something to eat. You’re going to shower and then we’re going to have that long overdue talk. And you will talk to me, Claire. Because Lawson has a huge bedpost.”
Irish held up his hands to indicate how huge before he chuckled his way out of the bathroom, leaving her to her thoughts and how she was going to piece together a story good enough to please Irish without telling him everything.
He couldn’t know everything just yet or he’d possibly end up dead for the knowing. Not on her watch.
* * * *
As Irish broiled a thick hamburger for Claire, carefully monitoring it to make sure it remained rare, he scrolled through his texts from Liam.
Fuck. Everyone was still looking for Gannon and wondering where Claire was. He was hoping it kept Courtland and crew distracted enough not to notice it wasn’t just Claire missing.
Hopefully the bullshit he’d spun to Courtland about going in search of some synthetic blood would be enough to keep suspicion about his and Claire’s mutual disappearances to a minimum. But he had to get her the hell home before Courtland lost interest in actually finding Gannon and started pointing fingers again.
And Gannon—where the fuck was his body? Who would take it? He damn well didn’t like the idea that a corpse was out there floating around with someone who knew what he and Claire had done.
It was a loose cannon he didn’t want to explode in their faces.
When Claire hadn’t returned that night, or all that next day, he’d nearly lost his mind worrying about her. So he’d gone on a fishing expedition to her house.
Claire was as smart as they came, but she was no criminal mastermind. All he’d had to do was pet Mr. Darcy and peruse her laptop’s browser history to find out she was in the Zone.
When he was done cursing her, panicking about her safety, he’d handled his home affairs, leaving Liam in charge with the notion he was going off to find another supplier until he could clear things up with the Dogs. They only had another two months’ supply on them, tops—he needed to find that damn supplier. Soon.
He rooted around Mathias’s fridge, pulling out the makings of a salad and dumping it on the white marble countertop. As he found a knife and a cutting board and began dicing tomatoes, he had to hand it to Lawson. This house, in the middle of the vile conditions of the Zone, was just short of spectacular.
“Oh my God, Dark and Cranky. Is that a hamburger I smell? Like with real meat?” Claire asked with a grin, sauntering into the kitchen in nothing but a towel wrapped around her, beads of water still glistening on her shoulders, her thick mahogany hair towel dried.
He turned to watch her pop open the shiny wall oven, appreciating the swell of her ass when she stood on tiptoes to look. “It is, Difficult and Infuriating.”
She came to stand by him, her eyes shining under the recessed lighting. “You cook, too? You really are the best vampire ever.”
He waved the knife in the direction of the long breakfast bar, forcing his eyes away from her nipples beneath the towel, nipples he wanted to make tight and hard with his tongue. He winced as his groin tightened beneath his jeans and tightened his jaw. “I cook. Now go sit.”
Irish threw the salad into a bowl and pulled the burger from the oven, placing it on a plate, testing it with a fork to be sure it was still rare enough on the inside for a werewolf.
Dropping it in front of her, he sat opposite Claire. “Eat. And the next time you decide to go on one of these crazy fact-finding missions, which is never again, by the way, you need to remember to feed. You need meat as much as I need blood.”
Cutting a piece of the burger, Claire dropped it into her mouth and closed her eyes. “Were you worried about me, Irish?”
If she had any idea, she’d damn well never let him forget it. “Eat that damn food and I’ll tell you all about it. Hurry up.”
Licking her fingers, she picked up another piece of the thick burger, placing it between her full lips and running her tongue over the browned surface. “I missed you, too.”
Irish clenched his fists together to keep from clearing the plate off the counter, hauling her hot ass on top of it, and driving into her until he was balls deep and she was writhing beneath him. “Eat,” he said thickly.
Claire popped another piece in her mouth, thoroughly enjoying setting his cock on fire, judging from the smile on her face and the gleam in her eye.
When she took the last bite, running her tongue over each finger, he was satisfied she was nourished—or at least nourished enough to withstand the three days’ worth of lovemaking he had in him.
“Claire?”
She tilted her head, her beautiful, too-smart-for-her-own-good head, and asked, “Yes, Irish?”
“Get on that counter now, Librarian. Drop that goddamn towel and spread your legs wide, because I fully intend to lodge my tongue between them until I get my fill.”
She lifted her chin, almost in defiance, but he knew better from her visible shudder. Claire loved to challenge him. It was one of the many reasons he couldn’t get enough of her.
She placed her fingers at the top of the towel, running her thumb over the place where the two ends met, tucked safely between her breasts. Her eyes were on fire, her smile smoky and coy. “And if I don’t?”
Chapter 16
Irish was around the countertop in the blink of an eye. “If you don’t, I’ll do it for you. Naked, now.”
Claire hissed a breath, letting it release from her lungs, her chest rising and falling as she let the towel fall to the floor. Irish’s hands were at her waist in seconds, lifting her until she felt the cool marble beneath her ass.
He peeled his shirt off, revealing his hard chest, the deep indents of his abs making her mouth water. His shoes and jeans followed until he was as naked as she was.
Claire slid forward on the counter, spreading her legs wide to invite Irish in. She leaned back on her hands, her nipples tight with anticipation when she captured his dark gaze. “I thought we were going to talk?”
Irish wrapped her thighs around his waist before bracketing her hips by placing his palms on the counter. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and churning. “Oh, we’ll talk. Make no mistake, Claire. Just because I want you more than I’m sure is healthy, doesn’t mean we won’t have that talk. Now, it’s been three days since I’ve been inside you. Service me, Librarian,” he said on a grin before he swiped his tongue over her lips.
Claire moaned, wet, achy, in desperate need of everything Irish. His words, his mouth, his hands—all of it. Nuzzling his chin, she nipped it hard, soothing the spot with her lips while reaching between them and enveloping his thick cock in her hand, stroking it. “I missed you,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
For every forbidden moment they spent together, for every moment she worried they’d be caught, this—this—was all worth it.
Irish groaned against her neck, driving into her hand as she stroked him. When his mouth found the shell of her ear, he whispered, “I missed you, too, Troublemaker, and if I don’t fuck the life out of you, bury my tongue in that sweet, lickable pussy of yours soon, I’ll make you regret coming here without me.”
Claire arched her back so her nipples could scrape against the fine hair between his pecs, moaning when their flesh connected. “You’d damn well better make me regret it.”
Irish’s mouth captured hers, raking his tongue over her teeth before plunging between her lips, leaving her gasping for breath. He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her flush to him, molding their torsos together.
Heat pulsed between her thighs, red-hot and desperate. Electricity sizzled through her veins when he slid his hand under her ass and kneaded the flesh.
Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him tighter, absorbing the feel of his cool flesh, hooking her ankles behind him, grinding against him, begging him with her body to drive into her.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he shook his head, unwrapping her legs and stooping to grab the towel, which he laid on the counter behind her.
Twisting a handful of her hair around his wrist, he tipped her head back. “Uh-uh, Librarian, back that pretty ass up. When I said I wanted to bury my tongue between your thighs, maybe I should have said I need to bury my tongue between your thighs. Spread your legs, Claire,” he ordered with a growl that left her heart throbbing against her ribs.
Claire followed his command, leaning back until she was flush with the counter and Irish had lifted her leg, his lips skimming her calf. She shivered at the heat of his tongue, such an opposition to the cool touch of his fingers as they trailed a path along her thigh.
His dark head between her legs drove her mad, his mouth moving over her flesh, his hair caressing her skin. Irish leaned over her, letting his cheek rest on her abdomen, slipping a finger between her folds and spreading her wide.
He mumbled something she couldn’t hear for the roar in her head, for the white-hot sliver of heat that shot to her core as she waited for his tongue. Claire clenched her fists, bracing her heels on the counter, her chest heaving.
And then Irish took his first lick, a long, searing swipe. Tears stung her eyes as all her muscles clenched; his tongue was so perfect, so essential to her next breath.
Planting his mouth over her, he imitated a kiss, moving his lips against her aching flesh, tonguing her clit. It took her to the most intimate depths, touched her beyond her desire.
Claire whimpered, helpless beneath him, vulnerable to the powerful lust he evoked in her. Raw. She was raw with agonizing need when she drove her fingers into his hair, brushing it from his face as it fell from his ponytail.
Irish let his fingers drift upward to her nipples, tweaking them, rolling them between his fingers until she cried out as the first wave of climax began its upward climb.
He slipped two fingers inside her and stroked, matching the lashes of his tongue with his thrusts. Claire was so slick, on fire when she bucked upward, shoving a fist into her mouth to keep from screaming Irish’s name. “Please, Irish, please,” she managed to whisper hoarsely around her fingers.
She felt the vibration of his chuckle just before he drew her clit into his mouth and drove his fingers upward. Claire came instantly, writhing, lifting her hips to meet his tongue, digging her heels into the slick countertop.
Her orgasm shot through her, exploded, stole her ability to do anything but feel every last nerve left on fire in its wake.
She sagged against the counter, gripping the edges as she caught her breath until Irish pulled her upward, letting her fall into him, boneless and weak. She managed to cling to his strong frame, wrapping her arms around his waist as he le
t his palms glide over her arms, down along her hips.
Irish’s tenderness brought with it a realization. She needed this man. She wanted this man more than anything she’d ever wanted before.
Claire lifted her head, placing her hands on either side of his face, smoothing her thumb over his cheek. And when he looked down at her, she knew he felt it, too. He wanted it, too—he wanted her in his life as much as she wanted him.
“Librarian?” he whispered, thick and low.
“Cranky One?”
“Have you recuperated?”
She smiled, pressing her lips to his cheek, savoring the eternal stubble he always had on his jaw. “Do you mean, ‘Hurry up, Claire, I have needs, too?’”
Irish’s gaze was smoky-dark. “That would be very ungentlemanly of me, right?”
Claire chuckled. “Gentleman can sometimes be overrated.”
“You know something?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re pretty damn hot.”
“It’s my ass and my eyelashes, right?”
“It’s your everything, Claire Montgomery,” he murmured against her lips, slipping his hand between her thighs once more. “It’s your breasts with nipples like candy. It’s your pussy, sweet, smooth and hot on my tongue. It’s your mind. Sharp and beautiful.”
Claire melted, rubbing against his hand, taking his cock in her palm and running her fingers over it. She slid forward on the counter to the very edge, wrapping her other hand around his wrist to take his hand from between her legs and insert one of his fingers into her mouth.
She let her tongue glide, wetting his finger before placing it on her nipple. She moaned when Irish tweaked it, that driving heat returning full force.
Irish scooped her up, carrying her to a couch, a long stretch of beige and white fabric, and depositing her there, positioning himself between her legs.
His cock stood rigid and thick, his bulky thighs sprinkled with dark hair, flexing and tensing as he gazed down at her.
Once Upon A Midnight Page 12
