Blood Rose (15 page)

But Mr. Swift gave a throaty chuckle. “Hold up your skirts,” he directed, and she did. Serena understood what he intended, but she could not speak.

When she’d had her affair with Mr. Bridgewater—with William—she’d barely spoken to him.

Things had happened with implicit understanding. She had liked them, but she’d been too confused, too shy, to speak of it. She’d spoken through sighs and silences. While making love, neither had spoken at all.

But she’d been naïve then, and innocent, and had used her silence to hide from her wanton nature. Now, for better or worse, she was a woman, and if she was truly to claim ownership of her life and destiny, she had best start here.

“I want you, Mr. Swift.” There, she’d said it.

There was no lightning, no crack of thunder. No break in the earth to let the demons of hell come through. Only Mr. Swift’s grin—a devilish curve of his lips that stole her breath.

He stroked her bare tummy. “Talk to me, little lark. Tell me what you feel.”

“I—I—” She let her lashes drop. “I couldn’t imagine how to express it.”

His elegant fingers hooked in the lacy edges of her drawers and drew them down. Confronted with her own dark curls, dewy and wet, and a glimpse of her dangling pink lips, Serena felt her entire body flush.

“You’re lovely, little lark.” Mr. Swift drew his finger down from the ivory curve of her stomach to her dark curls. “And I love burying my face here. I love the smell of you. I know I will love your taste.”

He glanced up, a naughty gleam danced in his green eyes. “Tell me exactly what you want, Miss Lark. Do you want me to taste you? To lick you?”

Helplessly, she nodded. The soft humor in Drake Swift’s voice, the intimacy in it, spoke deeply to her. She had never met such a brazen man, one so determined to be ungentlemanly and rebellious. It made him irresistibly seductive.

Serena now knew why women offered their necks to vampires. Danger and the thought of complete surrender appealed to her soul.
Yes.

“As you wish.” He grinned—a flash of white teeth and cocky bravado. He bent forward, golden lashes lowered, and stuck out his tongue to lick her…belly.

She couldn’t help but giggle. But his tongue dipped lower and lower, and she drove her fingernails into the hard wood of the table. This view was so unbearably erotic—to see his powerful body crouched between her thighs, his platinum hair loose, his shirt open, the sleeves rolled up so he could attend to his work.

Again a little laugh escaped.

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“I am delighted to know I please you,” he teased. And then he kissed her dark nether curls, and her laugh caught in her throat. He tugged them with his teeth, but the small prick of pain only made her moan in pleasure.

Oh God…his thumbs traced the insides of her wrists as he pulled on her curls, and the mix of intense pleasure and soft pain brought honey to her quim in a rush. She was soaked with her juices, and he must know. She heard him inhale deeply and groan.

His rough palms slid around her thighs, magic against her skin, and he clamped his hand hard onto her bare bottom. Dragging her forward, he drew her to his face. His tongue rasped that sensitive bud at the very top of her cunny lips.

“Mr. Swift—”

Somehow he chuckled while licking her, and her legs almost gave way. Stars exploded before Serena’s eyes. She grabbed at his broad shoulders, and her fingers drove into linen and hard muscle. Oh, it was too much…he had to stop…she didn’t think she couldn’t take any—

But he pulled back and she cried out in frustration. “No!”

“Open your gown.” His voice was a hoarse croak.

She saw him lick his lips and knew he could taste her there. Shakily, she attended to the sensible front buttons. When her bodice sagged, he urged, “Play with your nipples while I eat you, sweet lark.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” she protested. But she wanted to. How delicious it would be to touch herself while he made love to her…

And he was waiting for her to do it. The rogue probably wouldn’t lick her again unless she did.

She tipped her nose in the air. “I might…but only if you…you…”

How embarrassing to lose her nerve.

But Swift laughed. “Only if I please you well enough. I damn well love a challenge, sweet.”

He buried his face into her quim. Open wide, his mouth pressed to her, lips drawn taut and he rasped his tongue over her. Rough. Demanding.

Blast proprietary. Blast secrets. Serena didn’t care if he did discover she was a vampire. She ground herself against his face, pumping on him, racing toward release, and she pinched her nipples mercilessly through her shift.

The most erotic image came into her head—his cock sliding into her mouth so she could suckle him.

God, yes,
he groaned, as though he could see the image too.
Yes, I’d love you to suck me.

Roughly, he squeezed her buttocks. He pried her bum cheeks apart, and the tug on her anus was pure pleasure. He licked and tongue laved everywhere—over her clitoris, down to her passage to thrust deep, then back to her tingling, aching clit.

Despite his command, she let go of her breasts. She gripped his head, held him between her thighs, at just the right spot, so he was giving just the most perfect—

Serena!
Her name. Her Christian name. She’d heard his voice although he hadn’t spoken, but he gave one hard suck and her body shattered.

Oh God! Beyond her control, her hips slammed into his face. Her cunny pulsed hard, over and over. She’d never known…this. Her mouth stretched wide. A scream flew out into the dark.

Tears wet her lashes. They raced down her cheeks as the last spasms of exquisite pleasure died away.

Drake Swift sat back, holding tight on her hips. She’d clutched the table—she now felt the pain of wooden splinters driven beneath her fingernails. She hadn’t even felt that!

But the realization of what she’d done chilled her. She’d read his thoughts. Only
vampires
were capable of that.

And he had seen her naughty thoughts. Vampires had the power to place their thoughts in a Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 62

human’s mind—they used the magical skill to compel and control a victim. Thought projection.

She had read a dozen modern texts on the subject, all written by educated men trying to rationalize a power they couldn’t understand. But there was no way for an ordinary, mortal woman to put her thoughts into a man’s head—

Swift straightened, and she had to tip her head back to look up at him. His blond hair grazed his shoulders—the shoulders she’d clung to for support. “I don’t have to hunt for a while yet, tonight, sweet. Sommersby has gone to meet Ashcroft. Stay with me, sweetheart. Come to my bed.”

Serena fought to find her voice. Her wrinkled skirts fell to the floor with a soft swish. Her thighs were sticky with the flood of her creamy juices. She couldn’t go to his bed. At the base of her throat, her pulse fluttered wildly.

Sommersby had gone to meet with Ashcroft. The urge to flee overwhelmed and she quickly tried to take a step around Drake Swift. “No—no! I have to go! Now.”

Somehow she had to escape.

But Swift’s hand grasped her wrist. “Serena—Miss Lark. No. You must stay.” Light fell across his eyes, and she could see them clearly. The green irises were enormous, and his pupils were tiny black dots. His words came slowly, a little slurred—he must have been drinking. That must be why he hadn’t noticed she’d put her thoughts into his head—like a vampire. She had to escape before he remembered—

The journal was still out on the table. Serena’s stomach churned as she looked at it.

She now knew exactly why Lord Ashcroft had kept her alive. She was an experiment—he had been keeping her so Lord Sommersby’s father could cut her to pieces and study her. Sommersby knew of his father’s plans, but Drake Swift obviously didn’t know the truth. Why hadn’t Sommersby shared it with his partner? Was he afraid Drake Swift would help her—or was he afraid Drake Swift would kill her?

“I have to go!” The panic in her voice rang out through the laboratory.

Swift jerked his head, as though snapping himself to his senses. He released her hand.

“Sweeting, it’s all right. I’m sorry, I’ve scared you. You’re an innocent and I am a reprehensible fiend. I will take you home.”

Serena’s fingers were shaking as she reached for the journal on the desk. She had to put it back—she couldn’t take it. Darting away from Swift, she returned it to the shelf and gave a longing look at the hundreds of books. The other journals might be there…but she couldn’t search now.

She heard the padding of Swift’s feet across the floor, and she spun around. She backed away from him. Against her rib cage, her heart hammered. “I don’t need you to take me home. I can get a hackney—I came in one.”

Gathering her skirts, she turned and ran for the door. Even though she ran terribly fast for a woman, she wasn’t certain she could outrun Drake Swift. At least she’d taken him by surprise.

“Miss Lark—wait.”

She stumbled down the hall and saw a faint square of moonlight on the carpet ahead. Panting, she sprinted into that room, the one with the open drapes. Light spilled through terrace doors.

Perfect.

Was Drake following her? Serena heard her name called softly again as she fumbled with the catch on the doors. They swung open without a sound. She ran out onto the small balcony, out to the corner. The stone post was rough under her hand as she clambered on top of it. She took one look down—at scratchy-looking bushes. The fall wouldn’t hurt her.

Ruefully, she realized that if she became a vampire, she could just transform into a bat and fly away.

Closing her eyes, Serena jumped.

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If she ran, where was she going to go?

Serena stared in frustration at the small pile of coins on her bedspread. This would hardly support her—it might buy her coach fare out of London, but not much more. It was all she’d saved out of the allowance paid to her by the Society for her work.

A soft rap came at the door. “Serena?”

Althea.

“A moment,” Serena called. She slid all the coins into her right hand, then flung them in her dresser drawer. As she hurried past the cheval mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself. Scratches on her face—almost healed, but they made strange, red lines. Leaves in her hair. As for her gown, it looked as though she’d been dragged behind horses.

She was tempted to jump out of her window but knew that would be foolish. And hopeless.

She turned the lock.

Althea surged into the room, belly tipped forward. “Where have you been, Serena—?” Althea stopped and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Ashcroft and Sommersby are here. Don’t tell me you were breaking into Sommersby’s house while he was here waiting for you.”

“All right, I won’t tell you.” Serena brushed at the leaves in her hair.

Althea giggled. “Did you—did you find anything?”

“Only Drake Swift,” Serena said. And regretted it. Color rushed to her face. What had she been thinking to speak of that?

“I see.” Althea stroked her belly, and a wicked smile curved her lips. “Well, this just arrived for you—from Sommersby House. My, you are a sought-after lady tonight.” Althea held out a folded paper.

Guiltily, Serena went to Althea so her friend would not have to walk across the entire room.

“But shouldn’t I go downstairs?”

Althea gave a mischievous smile. “They’ve waited an hour—there’s no reason why they can’t enjoy themselves with the brandy a little longer.”

Serena tore the paper around the wax seal to open it. Inside, the writing was careful—a cramped hand with badly formed letters.

Miss Lark

Mr. Swift arsked me to write this to ye. He wants ye to hunt at his side tomorrow night.

This ’ere Lokkus is to be on a ship. Mr. Swift will come for ye at eight.

Hetty Wilson

“He cannot read,” Serena explained. “He must have asked the housekeeper to do it.”

But why had he sent this? Was it because he wanted to help her…or hurt her? Or was it because they’d been intimate…and he wanted to see her alone?

Hot and sudden, the guilty flush hit her cheeks. Serena dipped her head away from Althea’s curious gaze. “I suppose I’d best go down and face the Royal Society.”

Fighting to appear calm, Serena dropped a curtsy to the noblemen she feared wanted to destroy her.

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Sommersby bowed to her, large and dominant even in Lord Brookshire’s lavish gold and scarlet drawing room. She sat on the edge of the sofa, and Sommersby settled back into the largest wing chair in the room. The solid piece of furniture looked in peril beneath his powerful body.

In contrast, Lord Ashcroft looked like a walking cadaver. He did not rise for her, but his gaze never left her face. “Miss Lark, I will come directly to the point. You wished to hunt vampires with Lord Sommersby and Mr. Swift—you wished to become their partner. They are, without question, the most successful hunters in the history of the Society.”

Perplexed, Serena glanced at Sommersby. He sipped his brandy, watching her.

A response seemed required, so she said, “Yes, and they refused me the opportunity.” How long ago that had seemed! Only two months. She’d been desperate to hunt—determined to learn from legendary Sommersby and rebellious yet heroic Drake Swift. And the blasted arrogant men of the Society had laughed at her.

Sitting on the sofa, trying to look like a docile female, Serena seethed inside. Ashcroft had fed her venomous lies—he’d made her believe a vampire had killed her parents; he had made her yearn for the chance to hunt that vampire and get revenge.

But it was all a fabrication. He’d played upon her desperate need to know about her parents.

“I know you will be determined to hunt Lukos, Miss Lark,” Ashcroft continued, and Serena bit her tongue. “But it is too dangerous for you to do this alone. While I respect your intelligence and your remarkable skill with research, you have no idea of the power you will confront.”