by Sharon Page
“Who . . . who was he?” The flush had darkened to scarlet and she bit her lip.
“You know, you look incredibly enticing this way,” he said softly. And she did, with her full bottom in his face, her graceful legs splayed to support her. Wayward bits of hair were escaping her braid, and they glowed like strands of pure gold in the candlelight.
He gave her one more naughty kiss to her anus as he gently toyed with her cunny. Crisp curls tickled his fingers, and the lips themselves proved as plump and silky as he remembered. She was delightfully wet.
“He was two thousand years old,” he said. “He had been an Egyptian king. And he was made into a vampire by a demon who was almost ten thousand years old—one of the first of human kind. Apparently, when they know their lineage, vampires are proud of it.”
“Ten thousand years old! But that is not possible—”
“It is. I saw evidence that humankind has lived that long. Longer. Our stories of creation may not be quite as we believe. But that’s enough talk for now. For this is a special night. It’s Christmas Eve. I remember you told me once you felt it was a night filled with magic. For us, I want it to be a night filled with love.” With that, he slid his tongue into the puckered entrance of her rump, past the tight ring of muscle that resisted his play. She moaned, squeaked, squealed. A dozen unique, erotic noises spilled off her lips. His tongue made her wet and slick. She’d bathed herself and she tasted clean, her skin sweet. Gently, he stroked her quim as he teased her bottom, until she panted heavily and her soft moans filled the room. When she dropped her face into one of his pillows to muffle her cries of pleasure, his heart began to thud faster. Yes. He wanted to make her come again. After five years apart, he yearned to be intimate again, to be close with her, to share.
“Oh, Dante! No!”
But she suddenly arched her bottom up, and he knew by her thrashing hips that she was coming hard. When she collapsed to the bed, he gave a low chuckle. If he made love to her enough, he could make five years vanish, couldn’t he?
He left the bed and moved with his enhanced speed to his bedside table. A brandy decanter was there, and sometime in the last five years it had been refilled. He tipped it to his mouth, swished the liquor around, then swallowed. His fangs still protruded—when he was lusty, they came out and wouldn’t retreat.
As best as he could, he hid them from Mia as he returned to her. Lying on her stomach, she clutched the covers. Her braid lay down the length of her slender back. Her skin glowed with sweat, and her bottom still blushed from his kisses and nips.
Gently, he rolled her onto her back. In a heartbeat, he stripped off his clothes. He got onto the bed, his legs splayed over hers, his chest just barely brushing her breasts. As a vampire, he had been introduced to an exotic carnal world. Yet he had never seen another woman as devastatingly lovely as Amelia.
She lifted to him, arching her hips to push against his groin. Needy, sweet little moans escaped her. “I shouldn’t . . . but I can’t seem to stop myself.”
“I love you, my Christmas angel. I always will.” He lowered his hips, and his cock nudged between her thighs. In a swift dance, they moved so her legs were wide and he was between them. Catching her mouth in a kiss, he thrust slowly inside her.
After five years of empty hell, he had heaven again.
It was wonderful. It was devastating. She wanted to resist him. He had vanished for five years; he was supposed to be undead, a monster who preyed on humans and drank blood. But she couldn’t resist him. He looked like Dante, the man she had loved, the man she still wanted to love.
Amelia closed her eyes tight and wrapped her arms around his neck. As her fingertips touched warm flesh, guilt and uncertainty hit her for one instant, then flew away, like seeds vanishing on a breeze. He felt hot and beautiful. Against her breasts, his heart pounded in his chest. She let him kiss her; then some madness took hold of her, and she opened her mouth and pushed in her tongue to tangle with his. Like a wanton, she devoured his mouth. She licked him, tasted him, teased him—even thrust her tongue in and out in the same fast, wild rhythm he thrust into her.
Driven by desire beyond control, she arched her hips up to him, to greet every plunge of his hard cock. Her body took charge, yearning for pleasure, questing for release. She heard him grunt as her fingers gouged into him. But she had to hold him tight so she could lift her body to his and slide lusciously along his shaft.
Each thrust brought a collision between his solid, smooth groin and her most aching, throbbing place. Time after time, she received a jolt of sheer pleasure that made her wits whirl. She sought it. Needed it. She wrapped her legs around his waist to take him deep.
Oh, yes. She saw his eyes, an unearthly silvery green, light up as though on fire for her. Then her head lolled back on the bed, for she didn’t have the strength to hold it up. She floated like a cloud buffeted about in the sky. All she could do was rise to him, feel the kiss against her most sensitive place, the long, sensual caress of his shaft.
He tipped his hips and drove into her harder. Plunged deeper. She answered with moans, with wildly pumping hips, scratching fingers, and sheer, utter desperation. She banged hard against him, clutching at the sheets as though clawing up a ladder that should take her to heaven.
Pleasure made her whole body curl up, except her fingers, which stretched wide. She sobbed, closed her eyes, and saw fireworks burst. The explosion took her and gave her heaven on earth.
She quivered and trembled and thrashed and wailed and knew only delight. Glorious, shining, miraculous delight. She laughed and could not quite believe she’d made the sound.
Dante kissed her; then he gasped harshly against her lips, his body went stiff, and his hips pushed hard to hers. She drank in his every grunt and groan of pleasure. Tears leaked to her cheeks.
He rolled off her, fell at her side. They lay, without touching, and she closed her eyes. But this time, as the pleasure ebbed away, she didn’t doze off into a contented sleep the way she’d done five years ago.
She sat up and buried her face in her hands. What had she done? She had made love to him. True, she’d lost her innocence five years before, but she’d been promised marriage, and she’d given up her virginity in good faith. She could have tenuously dreamed of a future with a husband and a family. But not now. She could not argue she had been duped, or coerced, or forced. For a night of pleasure, she had given up everything. She’d burned her bridges with Mr. Jones.
And all for Dante. All for a man who might be a monster, or who might be lying to her. He had even told her, bluntly, that he couldn’t marry her.
She’d wanted him with such madness she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Fool. Fool. Fool. The word mocked her. She flayed herself with it, beating at her heart and her soul with rage she didn’t even know how to express. Christmas had brought her a miracle—a man who wanted to marry her even knowing she had given herself to Dante five years before. And she had just taken that miracle and shattered it into a million pieces.
Tears rushed up. She shouldn’t cry. She should go. Or better yet, she should demand that Dante marry her. But what would she get—a husband who was a vampire, who might kill her for his dinner? Or a man who had concocted an elaborate lie and who would abandon her again at the first chance he got?
Oh, dear God. The pure insanity of it hit her. Despite the tears that burned, she gave a wild, hysterical giggle. And that unleashed the waterworks. Sobs ravaged her so much, she had to bend over and hug her knees. The tears came and came.
But even an eternity of tears would not save a burning bridge.
He’d cheated death. He had been taken against his will to a deserted island in the Mediterranean. He had learned to sleep in a coffin and drink human blood. But nothing had hit Dante as hard as Amelia’s tears. They took his heart and broke it in two.
He levered up in his bed, but his hands hovered over Amelia’s shaking shoulders. Did he touch her? Would his touch help her?
What had made h
er so willing in his bed? While they were making love, he’d thought it was her desire for him. But her copious tears told him the truth—it was his glamour. She had made love with him but against her true will. Hades, he had never seen Mia cry before. He had wanted her with so much selfish desire, he hadn’t thought about what he was doing.
“I’m sorry.” Making a swift decision, he put his hands on her shoulders, then slid them down and pulled her into his embrace. “Do you regret what we just did?” What a damn fool question. But it had popped out before he could stop it.
She took a hiccuping breath. “I was an utter fool. You told me you wouldn’t marry me. And now . . . Do you drink my blood now?” She pulled back and pushed her braid from her neck, baring it. “You might as well kill me, for I am too stupid to be left to live.”
It was like a blade through his heart. “You aren’t. The fault is mine. As a vampire, I have a special kind of allure. A glamour, I guess. It drew you to me; it made you desire me, whether you wanted to or not.”
“And you . . . you knew this?”
“Yes. I wanted you so much, I didn’t care.” What was he going to do? Leave her and go where? He was supposed to live for eternity, and at this moment, he understood the full weight of that curse. A lifetime that lasted forever spent without the woman he loved. But he owed her one thing. “I said I wouldn’t marry you. That’s because I’m a vampire. I can’t live a mortal’s life. It’s impossible.” How many times had his sire explained that to him?
“But you came back—”
“To see you. To be with you. I couldn’t resist you. And I will marry you.” He tried to explain his intentions, his words a jumbled mess of incoherence, apology, hope. “I can’t be a true husband to you. But this time, when I leave, I will make everyone believe I have died. That way, you will be given a settlement as my widow. You will have money, a home. You will be able to marry. To fall in love and have a true family.” He could either fake his demise or, hell, he could stake his own heart or walk out into the sunlight and make her a widow in truth. But she would be taken care of.
“No. I don’t want a sham marriage. I don’t want to live a lie.”
“Mia, I can’t stay in this world. How long before people notice I don’t age? For that’s what happens to vampires. They never change. Ten years from now, I will still look the same. Even fifty years from now. How do we explain why I’m awake all night and sleep during the day—”
“Many peers do that,” she pointed out.
His heart warmed at the display of her feisty nature. “True. Perhaps that wouldn’t give me away. But something will. Eventually I’ll make a mistake, and someone will guess the truth. Let me marry you. I love you, Mia, and I want to protect you. This is the only way I can do it.”
She stared helplessly at him. He worked at her relentlessly. For an hour, he kept repeating it to her. He knew he was wearing her down. But he had to make her agree. Finally she whispered, “All right. Yes. I will do it. I’ll marry you. So that you can leave me again, but at least this time I won’t be a servant. And this time I’ll know I have to stop loving you forever.”
Christmas Day
It came with the sparkle of new snow. With the wonderful scent of the Yule log crackling in the great fireplace. It brought smells of roasting and baking from the kitchen, the grunts of men carrying barrels of ale, the giggles of the earl’s children—Dante’s brother and sisters—as they anticipated treats.
Amelia slid out of bed and hastened to dress. Since it was Christmas, she put on her best gown—one she had worn as a governess. Hopelessly out of date, she had managed to give it new trimming, for Lily, one of Dante’s sisters, had given her some ribbon. There was no other reason, of course, that she spent more time than she should to braid, coil, and pin her hair. It was not because Dante would come to the house today, to make his “remarkable” return. He had spent a long time plotting exactly what he would do and what their story must be. He would arrive at the house at nightfall and make his family believe he had just returned from the Continent. He had concocted an elaborate story involving kidnapping and amnesia. Then he would marry her, giving her his name and a title. His courtesy title, as heir to an earldom, was Viscount Darby. Once she married him, she would be Viscountess Darby. She would have a very respectable settlement once she was “widowed.” And after she had mourned him, she would be free to do whatever she wished. Even marry. No man would question her lack of innocence if she were a widow.
It was the perfect solution. A gift she could have never dreamed of.
Yet inside, she felt astonishingly hollow when she should be deliriously happy. She had been given a miracle. Dante was giving her hope. And she would have him for a few months, perhaps longer, before he chose to vanish forever.
Enough. She turned away from the small, cracked mirror that hung on the wall of her attic room. She hurried down the servants’ stairs, opening the door on the main floor to the delights of Christmas Day.
Dante’s three sisters ran through the hallways, giggling wildly, pursued by their brother and other young boys. Twentyfour people were visiting, and their happy laughter could be heard spilling from the rooms. The house smelled of rich smoke and of the crisp, woodsy scent of all the greenery. Silken bows and gold paper decorations, created with enthusiasm by the girls, hung all about.
Amelia hurried to the great hall of the house, and there she felt a waft of cold air. The door stood open, the guests were gathered, and a group of red-cheeked wassailers sung outside on the wide front stoop, hoping to be invited in for food and drink, to be given a few coins.
Out of the corner of her eye, Amelia saw the countess stare at her, sweeping her haughty gaze over Amelia’s good gown and her neat appearance. Normally she wore plain brown, with her hair tucked beneath a maid’s cap. The countess’s eyes narrowed and glared, making the elegant woman look like one of Macbeth’s witches. But it was Christmas, a time of charity, a time of goodwill, so she should not think severe thoughts of the countess now. She curtsied, then hastened to the kitchen. Various local people would be coming—for Christmas Day, all were invited to partake in a meal, and the cook and kitchen maids would need help.
Work would keep her from thinking. From imagining the fury of Dante’s parents when he insisted on marrying her. From how horrible it would be to marry him, knowing it couldn’t last longer than a few months.
The day passed swiftly in good spirits and laughter. It did bring joy to give food to those who had to make do with so little. Amelia had fashioned toys from rags for those children. It twisted her heart to see the beaming smile on a little girl’s face as she hugged her new doll to her heart.
And when the door opened to let two families leave into the winter cold, Amelia saw the sun had gone down and twilight had fallen. Her heart stuttered and her fingers trembled. Any minute now . . .
She left the kitchen, then took the stairs to the main hall. Her hands were shaking as they lifted her hems. Any moment . . .
She opened the door and stepped out into one of the paneled corridors, only a few feet from the entrance hall. Suddenly, the door opened, and snow whirled in.
Out of the glittering, frosty gust stepped Dante, hidden at first by a beaver hat pulled low and the high collar of his coat. He doffed his hat, drew off his gloves, and handed them to an astonished footman, as though he had just stepped out for a few hours and had not disappeared for five years. He swung off his greatcoat and deposited this into the hands of another amazed servant.
“My . . . my lord,” the man sputtered. “Lord Dante!”
“Indeed it is. And where might my family be?”
Then he looked up, saw her, and smiled. A grin that flashed his fangs. He adopted a more serious expression instantly, and she saw he was taking care to hide his teeth.
“Th-this way, your . . . your lordship,” the servant stuttered.
Come, Amelia. Come to the blue drawing room where my family is. I will have to do the pretty and give my moth
er hugs and try to avoid their questions. I need you to be there. Mia, I don’t want to be without you for another minute.
She could hear him speak . . . in her thoughts. Had she dreamed it? But he crooked his finger, winked, then followed the footman. How did he know his family was in the blue drawing room? The servant had not said where they were.
She followed, staying far back. No matter what he said, she did not think she had the right to intrude. His family would be so happy. For them, this would be a miracle.
Just before they reached the drawing room, the butler, Rimple, hurried forward and intercepted them. He bowed to Dante, clasped his hands together in a most un-Rimple-like way, then brushed away a tear. “It is so wonderful to have you return, Lord Dante. Allow me to lead you in to your family.”
For Rimple, this was being overcome with emotion. Amelia savored the spurt of delight she felt. It was wonderful to see the happiness on the other servants’ faces. But it was swiftly swamped with sorrow. This was only temporary. Dante had made it clear he would leave again, this time leaving no doubt about his “death.”
Amelia stood in the doorway as Dante walked in. She saw the paralyzed moment when he called a greeting to his parents, wearing a grin, and they froze in shock. His father had been standing at the window, talking with another earl. His mother stopped in motion, halfway off the settee.
Dante strode forward. Amelia was amazed by his confidence, given how much he had to hide. He gathered his mother in an embrace. Then released her and bowed to his father.
The elderly man moved forward, as though to embrace his son. Then stopped. “No,” he said with vehemence. “This will not do. Where in the name of God have you been, son? How can you saunter in here with that obnoxious smile on your lips, when we have spent five years of hell searching for you?”
Ladies gasped at the strong language, but all the guests stared. Amelia stared, too, but only at Dante. How his hair gleamed in the light of the fire. If anything, he looked even more like a Greek god than she remembered, with his strong jaw, the slight cleft in his chin, the aquiline nose, the perfectly sculpted lips. His long lashes, surprisingly dark for a fair-haired gentleman, swept over his eyes. For a moment, his expression hardened and she could imagine he was remembering the old battles he’d had with his father.
