Blood Kiss (20 page)

She leaned back in his arms. “Why? Because you pined after me while I was watching a dirty movie with my girls that wasn't all that dirty? I think it's actually—and brace yourself—really pretty cute.”

“I'm still all man.”

As she rolled her body against him, she let out a
mmmm
as she felt his erection. “Yes, I can tell.”

•   •   •

With Butch's bonding scent roaring, he took his female's elbow and drew Marissa deeper into the staff wing. Except for V and Jane, all the others had a shorter distance to go than they did: The Pit was just across the courtyard, but it was daylight now, and that meant a trip all the way downstairs, into the tunnel, and through the underground passage to get back to their bedroom.

He wasn't going to last that long.

Not even close.

The first available vacancy with any privacy came in the form of an unoccupied staff bedroom that had pulled drapes, a twin bed with no sheets on it, and a very handy brass lock.

Butch didn't bother turning the lights on; he just pulled his female against his body and kissed the ever-loving crap out of her as he kicked the door closed and worked that dead bolt like a pro.

“I need you so bad,” he growled.

“You've got me,” she said against his mouth.

Fucking perfect, his cock roared in his pants. And talk about following orders: with a quick shift, he backed her up to the bed, sat her down and knelt in front of her. As he inhaled deeply, he started to laugh.

“What?” she murmured, all half-lidded and wholly edible.

“You're aroused.”

“Of course I am.”

“You weren't when you came out of the movie.”

“Why would I have been? That was just good fun with the girls. Like going to a museum, you know? You appreciate the art, but you wouldn't take it home with you.”

“So I'm still your favorite flavor?”

“You're my
only
flavor.”

Well, didn't that make him go all robin-breasted, dick swing with the ego. Flashing his fangs, he said, “Now, that's what I'm talkin' 'bout.”

“Were you really jealous?” she said. “Of a movie?”

“Yes.”

The laugh that came out of her was so easy and relaxed, such a happy sound, that it made him hope she and her girls got together again and, yes, to watch sexy humans gyrate on the screen, if that was what made his mate uncoil like this. Granted, he wasn't about to write that Tanning Chatum guy a fan letter, but he was more than grateful for those females and that friendship.

Anyone, anything that took care of his
shellan
was all right in his book.

Refocusing, he split Marissa's thighs and eased her upper body down on the little bed. He had a lot of plans that involved him going down on her for two hours—but his cock wasn't going to be able to wait for all that.

He needed in her. Now.

Zeroing in on the fastening of her slacks, he had her naked from the waist down with some quick hand work and one pull down her long, lovely legs. And then his palms were traveling up her calves, her thighs. With a moan, she spread further for him as if she wanted this as badly as he did, revealing her bare, glistening sex—and that was when he lost his damn mind.

Outing his erection, he went right for the heart of her, no preamble, no foreplay—they were both beyond ready.

“Marissa,” he groaned as he penetrated her, sliding in deep, the sensation at once familiar and bracingly electric.

Cursing on the exhale, he reared up and his hips took over, grinding, thrusting, pumping—and he loved how she held on to his neck and shoulders.

“Take my vein,” she ordered.

His fangs had already punched out of the roof of his mouth, and he bared them with a hiss. Striking in his favorite spot, on the left side, he drew deep, drank hard, got high on her taste as well as the sex.

He couldn't last long with that, though. Shit was getting too hard, too fast down below. Licking the puncture wounds closed, he repositioned her so he could go even
deeper—then he grabbed onto her hip bones and dug in, pistoning her body, rocking things so hard the thin metal frame banged into the wall and the tinny mattress springs became a symphony of wild creaking.

He heard her come, which was what he'd been after, heard that common, nothing-fancy name of his erupt into the sex-scented air—and he wanted to stop so he could feel that rhythmic gripping of her core. He was too far gone, though. His balls were tucking up and going hot, his pelvis was doing that autonomic jerking shit that he was no more capable of reining in than he could stop his own heart, and his cock was that bizarre combination of numb and hypersensitive—

Butch came so hard he got a load of fireworks across his vision, and even as he started to ejaculate, he knew he wasn't finished.

He kept riding her, shifting positions again, arching farther over her body until his weight was braced on the balls of his feet and his arms were supporting him so he didn't crush her.

Even deeper. Which was amazing.

Not so hot for the bed, which started to migrate across the floor.

But again, there was no stopping. He just walked along with it—until the frame fit itself obligingly into a corner.

Talk about some leverage.

Fucking. Perfect.

Butch kept going at it, pounding her, his body doing an uncoiling of its own, the weeks—and maybe, if he was honest, months—of feeling somewhat separate from her
disappearing like he was fucking that subtle distance out of existence.

Lot of orgasms. The fantastic ugly kind where your face screwed up hard, and you were going to be sore when you woke up, and shit got really, really messy down below.

When it was finally over, he collapsed on top of her. He meant to roll over, though, so she could breathe easier. He really did. Yup.

Rolling over would be good right now.

Uh-huh.

In three . . . two . . .

...one.

Except he couldn't quite manage the effort: He felt like someone had parked a Hummer on his spinal cord.

Marissa ran her hands up and down his arms. “You are
incredible
.”

He tried to lift his head. Discovered that the same rat bastard with the Hummer had left a four-wheeler on the back of his skull.

“No, that's you.” Or at least, that was what he'd meant to say. What came out of his mouth was a stroke victim's speech.

“No . . . that's you,” he repeated.

“What?”

All he could do was laugh, and suddenly she was laughing, too—and that was when he forced himself to get with the program and ease off the poor female. She followed with him, and then they were scooting around so they were lying on the bed properly. With their bodies still throwing off tremendous waves of heat, they were warm, warm, warm even without a blanket.

“I love you, Butch,” she said.

In the dense darkness, he knew she was looking at him, and he fucking loved it. He wanted her undivided attention, craved it, needed it to ground him on some pathetic, talk-about-castrated level. But he would never demand that kind of thing from her—and for an
impatient SOB, he was very, very willing to wait for it. God, when given freely? Her love, her focus, was a gift that, like her, never grew old to him.

Closing his eyes, he felt how much she loved him—and it was funny, sometimes, when you were with a person for so long, married to them, living with them, moments like this were just as wondrous and magical as that incredible instant when
I love you
had been said for the first time.

“God, I love you, too.”

The kiss he gave her now was soft and gentle, and not because he was spent—because, actually, if she'd been up for another round, he was more than capable of going the distance. No, he kissed her with care because the emotional tie between them was at once strong as a steel cable and delicate as a blade of grass.

With a light touch, she ran her fingertips over his chest. “Do you ever wish I were different?”

“Not possible. You can't improve on perfection. And no, I don't.”

“You're sweet.”

“That is one thing that has never been said about me.”

“Well, you're sweet to me.” There was a pause. “May I ask you for some help?”

“I'd be pissed if you didn't.”

Cue another long pause. To the point that he eased onto his side and propped his head on his hand. Now, he wished there was more illumination in the room other than that thin strip around the doorjamb. “What's up?”

“Well, I know you're busy with work and the training center—”

“Stop. Really?” He frowned at her even though she probably couldn't see it. “You're going to suggest anything is more important than you?”

The curse she let out was a kind of defeat. “Can you help me find out who killed that female? Who she was, what happened to her, who did it to her?”

He didn't hesitate. “Yes, I will. It would be my honor.”

Her exhale of relief was another compliment the likes of which he would never stop relishing.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“I was going to offer, but I wanted to respect where you're at.”

“I can't leave her in an unmarked grave.”

“Not going to happen. I'll take care of it.” He frowned again in the darkness. “You should know something, though.”

“What?'

“I'm not the type who's going to let it go.”

“Oh, I know. You and I will dig until we find out everything.”

Butch shook his head. “Not what I mean. The vampire race doesn't have a police force. There are no jails—”

“There's a penal colony out west somewhere. At least, there used to be. I'm not sure what happened to it?”

“Which is my point. There's no real procedure or consequences for crimes within the race. No way to punish the guilty or handle false accusations. Wrath doing the audiences again has helped with certain kinds of conflict, but he's judge and jury all at once—which is fine until we get some capital murders and felonies into the system. And they will come. That's a fact of society whether you have fangs or not.”

“So what are you saying?”

His voice lowered to a growl. “If I find out who did that to some innocent girl? I'm not going to be able to let that go without reprisals. Do you get my drift?”

R
aging. Hard-on.

The following nightfall, as Craeg resurfaced from the kind of sleep that was so dense it was practically a solid, he had a big-ass chubby straining at his hips: Laying on his side, having rolled over into his preferred position at some point, his hand was about three inches away from his cock—and on the backs of his closed lids, images of Paradise played like a slide show calculated to get him sprung and keep him that way until he got off.

Yeah, sure, his conscience put up a fight, but it was a battle doomed to be lost.

He wasn't going to work himself out in the bed, though. The nurse was coming in to check on him every fifteen seconds, and knowing his luck, she'd pick just the right time to crack the door and make sure he was still breathing.

Bracing himself to sit up, he—

Had absolutely no problem moving. Shifting his legs off the bed. Getting to his feet. In fact, he felt as though he'd slept for a month.

Huh.

It was Paradise's blood, of course. And that made him a little afraid of her for some reason.

One by one, he unhooked himself from the various machines and bags of fluid, and when an alarm sounded, he punched at the buttons of the monitor until the thing fell silent. Then he headed for the bathroom, cranked on the shower, and shut himself in, figuring the nurse who was no doubt going to run in like a fire truck to a house blaze would see for herself that he was up and at 'em.

Sure enough, there was a knock on the loo's door just as he ditched the johnny and stepped under the spray.

“Craeg?” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Yup. Showering and ready to eat.”

“That's good. Be careful, though—do you need help?”

He glanced down at the enormous erection sticking straight out in front of his hips. “No. I think I can handle things all on my own.”

“Okay, but you know where the call button is, don't you? Just let us know if you feel woozy.”

“Yup. Thanks.”

He waited a moment longer to see if there was anything further coming at him. When there was only blissful, no-more-questions, he picked up the bar of soap—but he didn't go for his cock and balls. Running the thing over his chest and shoulders, his neck and face, his legs and feet, he gave his body a chance to get over the bright idea.

Nope. If anything, the smooth feel of the suds over his flesh made him think about sitting on the floor in front of Paradise and stroking her fine skin.

The shampooing didn't help, either. And as the air in the bathroom became dense with humidity, and he ran out of places to wash, he conceded defeat, ended the negotiation, resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned as he gripped himself.

Putting one arm up on the tile wall, he leaned in until his forehead was on his forearm. The stroking was too damn good—he couldn't remember, actually, the whole jerking-off thing feeling this incredible before. It was . . . paradise.

Or, Paradise, as the case was.

Harder, faster, until he dropped his other arm and squeezed his balls with a twist—

In a series of lightning bolts, his cock kicked against his hold and he ejaculated onto the wall of the shower over and over again.

And when he finally sagged, he cursed over and over again.

After everything he'd been through, why now. Why did he have female-on-the-brain
now
?

It was just stress, he told himself. This attraction thing was just a reaction to the stress he was under, a wormhole for him to focus on so that he didn't implode.

Out. Towel off. There was a razor so he shaved, and deodorant for his pits, and a comb for his hair, short though it was.

Shit, he needed clothes.

Stepping out . . .

He found another loose shirt and pants uni on the bed as well as a pair of running shoes that, yup, were in his size. Absently, he wondered how many sets they had on hand for the candidates. The whole height/weight/shoe-size thing had been part of the check-in process, but still.

A couple of minutes later, he was out the door, down the corridor, and walking into the cafeteria room.

Talk about a spread. The first thing he saw as he entered was a table with enough food on it to feed an army. Plates were lined up, ready to be filled, damask napkin rolls held sterling silver forks and knives, and the “bar” had about every kind of non-alcoholic anything you'd like—including a milkshake machine.

Clearly, the Brothers were refining things as they went along.

“None of it is tampered with,” a male voice said behind him.

Craeg wheeled around and put his fists up like he was going to be attacked. The Brother Butch was sitting at the corner round table, legs propped up on an empty chair, a plate of food by his side. With careful, precise movements, he shifted scrambled eggs to his mouth without dropping anything off his fork.

“G'on,” he said around chewing. “Get food. Sit with me. I'm not gonna fuck with you.”

Craeg nodded once and hit the lineup. He wasn't shy about portions—he had no idea what was in store for all of them, but he could guess an energy reserve was the best way to prepare for the evening.

Picking a seat two over from the Brother, he had a good view of the door, something he regularly found himself requiring: Always know your escape. That was how he had lived through the slayers coming to his home.

“Look, I'm not going to beat around the bush,” the Brother said before Craeg had gotten a fork load even close to his lips.

Great. So the guy had planned this, knowing that Craeg was in house and likely going to eat early.

Lowering the hash browns, Craeg forgot about the food and focused on the door. “What.”

“I think you need to stay here in the training center.”

“Excuse me?” He shifted his eyes back to the Brother. “I got a place.”

The guy put his boots down on the floor and moved around so they were face-to-face. “I know where you live.”

There was something about that direct stare that freaked him out, so he made a show of eating. “Yeah. I didn't lie about my address.”

“It's not safe.”

“Been there since the raids.”

“That tenement barely has plumbing. And there's no shelter from the sun.”

“I'm in the basement.”

“A fire would cure that quick, putting you in the position of having to choose incineration by flame or noonday light.”

Craeg cut a breakfast sausage in two and put half of it in his mouth. “I'm not moving.”

“You got food and water here—and a good bed to crash on. No rent, either.”

“I don't need charity.” Okay, now he was beginning to get pissed off. “I came here to learn how to fight, not make you guys feel good about yourselves.”

Butch leaned in. “You think we want to wipe your ass every time you take a shit? Really, you think that's where we're coming from?”

“Look, I don't need this—”

“Asshole,” Butch snapped. “We are about to invest over the next year a couple hundred thousand dollars into you free of charge—you think we want that up in smoke 'cause your pride has a hard-on? This is not charity and it is not negotiable. I will take you home tonight after class, watch you pack up your shit, and then I will drive your miserable carcass back here or you can fuck off. What's it going to be, tough guy.”

Craeg cursed long and hard, but it was under his breath.

Talk about by the short hairs.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Butch clapped him on the shoulder. “And to show there's no hard feelings from you being a douche just now, I'll set you up with a good TV, Internet and a twelve-month calendar of Rhage so you have something pretty to look at.”

With that, the Brother got up from the table, taking his still-full plate with him.

So that “meal” of his had just been to prove that it was safe to eat.

“See you in class,” Butch said by the door after he'd bused his dishes at the sink. “Classroom tonight. Bombs, detonation systems, defusing. Fun stuff.”

Left by his little lonesome, Craeg put his head in his hands.

Plans, he'd had plans for all this, people.

WTF.

•   •   •

“And then what transpired?”

As her father asked the question and spread more marmalade on his crust-less toast, Paradise tried to formulate another lie. Which, considering she had gotten about two hours of sleep and was still in physical recovery from everything, was like trying to button up a shirt in the dark.

“Ah . . .” She broke off a piece of her croissant and put some strawberry jam on it. “Well, after we checked in, there was a cocktail hour of sorts.” Vomitorium. “We milled around the gym getting to know one another.” Nearly were electrocuted in the dark. “Went for a swim.” Had a drowning party. “At the end, we took a walk.” Dickensian death march. “And then everybody had a physical exam.” Cardiac resuscitation. “It was a long evening, so that was why they wanted us to stay.” Half-dead and barely breathing. “And that's it.”

Great. She was channeling Mr. Subliminal.

Her father nodded. “The Brotherhood was most kind in calling me—Peyton as well. They said you did a wonderful job—that you were at the top of your class.”

“I surprised myself.”

And was still lost in her own home. Sitting with her father in the same seats they always did, under the same crystal chandelier, with the same porcelain plates and cups and saucers, watched over by the same oil paintings of ancestors, she felt like she was in a nice hotel that was furnished like a castle, and had a staff so well trained they were able to anticipate everything she wanted . . . and was in a foreign land.

Then there was her father . . . God, her dad.

As Abalone sat at the head of the long, glossy table, his handsome face was aglow with relief and pride—mostly relief—and didn't that make her feel even worse. The fact that her fabrications were having their desired, de-escalating effect distanced her even further from him . . . plus there was the added layer of her guilt.

Which was not just about the training.

It was impossible not to remember and obsess about
what she'd done with Craeg, and what he'd done to himself. Part of her was constantly re-running every nuance of the experience, all the eye contact, all the sounds, the scents . . . the expression on his face as he—

Okay. She was not going
there
at the damned dining room table.

Where she would go, though? God, much as she hated to admit it, she worried that that interlude, even if it proved to be a one-time only, made her unmateable in the eyes of the
glymera
. Sure she was still sexually pure, but her vein had been good and tapped and that had led to . . . that certain exhibition, as one might call it, on Craeg's part.

Indeed, she hated the fact that she was wasting even a thought on that load of judgmental BS—but sitting here with her father, it was an unavoidable burden.

You didn't ditch an entire upbringing's worth of context that quickly.

Especially when you thought about what your next of kin wanted for you in life.

“Paradise?”

She shook herself and smiled. “I'm sorry, what?”

“I think you have enough jam on there, darling.”

Paradise looked down and saw that she had put about half the jar on a piece of croissant the size of her thumb. The red sweetness was dripping down onto her plate, all over her knife, onto her hand.

“Silly me.” She started trying to clean things up. “So how was your night last evening?”

Fortunately, he went into his work and a grand festival ball that was coming up and some other things, and
she was able to listen well enough to nod in all the right places.

What were the Brothers going to do to us tonight? she wondered. And how the hell was she going to act all normal around Craeg?

Thirty minutes later, she was in her uniform, had her satchel sorted, and was out the front door, dematerializing to the meeting place. The bus was already parked in the wooded lot, and the folding door opened as soon as the driver saw her.

Going up the three steps, she loosened her coat and met the eyes of the group. Novo was lounging back, earbuds plugged in, her iPhone front and center. Boone was the same. Axe was asleep in the back again, no doubt dreaming about things that hopefully would stay in his brain. Anslam was typing into his phone, probably updating his Facebook status to being in a relationship with the Porsche his father had just bought him as a reward for being in the training program. And Peyton was rubbing his face as if maybe that would wake him up.

“Hey,” he said as she came down to where he was.

As she took a seat across the aisle from him, he shifted around, leaned against the blackened windows, and stretched his legs out.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“I could answer that better if I knew what we were in for.”

He grunted. “Okay, I'll change the subject. So, guess what I heard?”

Peyton was the source of all gossip—always had been. He'd been the one to tell her about the new toy parked in Anslam's family's garage, and the latest scandal involving his second cousin and the fact that she'd lied to her parents about where she was staying in town, and the one about some female who was married to an old goat and fucking rounds of males in her guest cottage on her estate.

But that last one had to be hyperbole.

“What?” At least the chatter would take her mind off of seeing Craeg. “And embellish if you can. This trip is going to take a half hour at least.”

“I got more stories. Don't you worry.”

“Thank God.” And this was in spite of their having spent all those hours on the phone during the day. “Have I mentioned lately that I love you?”

“Yes, but if you really wanted to prove it, you'd get that tattoo we were talking about.”