Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds) (20 page)

Fantasies of hunting returned, sustaining her and eliciting moans of enjoyment to accompany the sharp cry of Mistress’ orgasm that was the necessary price before she made her escape.

In the safety of the car, Camille pressed the ruby-eyed goat’s head to her lips. She savored the cool feel of the hilt against her hand.

Frustration rose at realizing she was now faced with a choice, given the impending move to Mexico. The redheaded nurse whose name she didn’t know or the blonde shop owner who would be such soft, easy prey? The stranger or the detective’s wife?

She could return for the second one, but… The thought of delaying the gratification, not just a day, but weeks or months or years, only intensified the desire for it
now
.

Frustration broke on a giddy bubble. If Lucifer’s Blade was made powerful by charging it with one kill, then why not two before she returned it to Mistress?

Or three
, she amended, thinking about the child as she glided past the nurse’s house and saw her car there after finding it missing at the clinic.

She didn’t shy away from thoughts of killing the daughter. Remembering her own childhood, she smiled. The girl was probably avoiding school by claiming she was sick.
Too bad
. It would be the kid’s own fault for causing her mother to miss work.

Come back? Or do this now?

Camille circled the block. She frowned at returning and seeing a man at the front door, his long brown hair a cascade of twists down his back.

A sly grin curved her lips. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the reason the redhead wasn’t at work after all.

Let her enjoy her last fuck
. And later, when the child got home from school, the man should be gone and wouldn’t pose an unnecessary risk.

Camille laughed. After the ceremony tonight, she’d convince Helene to let her charge the blade before they left for Mexico.

Bloated on power, Mistress would be tempted, and she could be very persuasive when she set her mind to it. She’d come back for this kill, when she could give the child to the blade. After all, she felt as though she’d already promised it. Just as she felt committed to finishing the business with the detective’s wife.

Inner Magick
. She stroked the Sigil of Baphomet carved into the blade’s hilt and headed toward the quaint little store that would soon be a murder scene.

* * * * *

Seraphine reached for Dylan the instant her front door closed. He’d practically ridden her bumper from the university, and now she wanted him to ride
her
.

The thought made her laugh, a husky sound that elicited a curse from him as their hands fumbled in their hurry to get undressed, his on her clothing, hers on his, their lips meeting in a frantic thrust of tongue against tongue.

“This is getting to be a habit with us,” she panted.

“A good one.”

She shoved his shirt off his shoulders. He did the same to hers, peeling her out of her bra at the same time.

His pants followed. Her skirt.

He lifted her. Took her there against the wall in a frenzied, fevered reaction to what had happened in the garage.

It wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for her.

They made it to the bedroom. But when he would have tumbled her onto the mattress, she went down on hands and knees, thighs spread, flushed swollen folds exposed in an offering he didn’t refuse.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he said, filling her again, his cock hard, hot, pulsing inside her.

He tried to slow down. Conscience dictated it, but that voice was drowned out by ecstasy. After fighting it for long weeks, in the span of days she’d become a drug he couldn’t get enough of.

In the shadow of nearly losing her, all pretense had been stripped away. He felt raw, out of control now that they were here.

He fought against gripping her hips so tightly he left bruises as he slammed into her. He didn’t question how he could be rock hard again.

Mindless pleasure took him. Consumed him.

He was helpless against the lust that had ridden him since his first visit to this house. White heat filled his head as she rocked back on him, her channel squeezing mercilessly as a second release took her, demanding his as well.

He came, his heart rushing, pounding in his ears. His breathing harsh.

It should have relaxed him, left him sated. Instead he felt edgy when he pulled from her body, both of them stretching out on the mattress.

Cuddling wasn’t enough contact. Covering her with his body, her hands pinned by his, wasn’t enough.

Jesus, what was wrong with him? Only he knew. He knew.

There were things he hadn’t done since Heather. Things he craved.

His skin was on fire. He attempted to douse one type of flame by replacing it with another.

He covered Seraphine’s mouth with his. The thrust and rub of tongues sent blood roaring into his cock but it only pushed him closer to the precipice.

“What do you need?” she whispered against his lips, sleek legs lifting, locking around his waist, holding him tight against her mound.

A little bit of maneuvering and he’d be inside her again. He’d come again.

Hell, he’d probably come four or five more times.

His mind shied away from thoughts of magic as an explanation for the impossible. His cock didn’t protest.

She tried to free her hands and that small struggle was enough to ratchet up the desire to render her as helpless as he felt when it came to her. Carnal demand ripped away the barrier he’d tried to erect between them.

“Tell me,” she urged.

He didn’t deserve her trust but he couldn’t fight the need.

“I want you helpless. I want you begging for me to take your mouth, your cunt, your ass.”

Her lashes dropped. “I don’t keep handcuffs in the house.”

Not denial, but acceptance, and his cock responded by hardening fully.

Without a word he left her, returning to the scattered clothes just inside her front door. The tie he’d discarded after leaving the garage was in his jacket pocket.

He retrieved it, ignoring the police-issue cuffs. He wanted her comfortable, wrists bound together and tethered to the headboard.

And yet the wariness, the hint of feminine fear in her eyes when he reentered the bedroom turned him on. He’d known she wouldn’t be a woman to easily surrender control. Hell, if she summoned demons, she couldn’t afford to.

Not going there.

But here…

He shouldn’t.

He didn’t have anything to offer her. He wasn’t the right man for her.

The ring he slipped back on his finger after leaving the garage said otherwise.

Jesus, from the very beginning he’d fought the urge to put it on his left hand.

But there was no way to stop himself from straddling her, from deftly binding her wrists, using knots he hadn’t tied since junior year in college. He pulled her arms above her head and secured them, need driving out all thoughts of the past.

She tugged on the restraints and it was like a shot of molten lust delivered straight to a vein. Heat scorched through him.

He’d said he wanted her mouth. Her cunt. Her ass.

All of her.

His hands clamped around her wrists. His lips covered hers in a kiss that ravished, possessed.

There was no thought except to take everything. Her breathless moans of pleasure. Her screams of ecstasy.

To thoroughly claim every inch of her.

Raw passion peeled away the skin of civilized man. Demanded the complete and utter submission of his mate.

He swallowed the sounds she made, lay heavily on her, subduing all movement until she trembled, begged, pleaded for more, and he allowed himself to move lower, to latch on to first one nipple and then the other.

Sucking. Laving. Biting.

Unable to keep from moaning.

She writhed beneath him.

He used his strength against her.

It made her more aroused. Deepened her trust.

He craved all of it.

Fought and silenced internal warnings that her vulnerability widened his.

He couldn’t care.

Didn’t care as he kissed downward, inhaling the scent of woman. Of sex. Of his semen between her thighs.

He captured her clit the way he had her nipples. Sucked. Licked. Used his arms to limit her movement, to reinforce the point that no one could pleasure her like he could.

An image of the blond he’d seen her with drifted in. He growled against her hot flesh, renewed his sensual assault until she was fighting him, trying to drive her engorged clit deeper into his mouth.

Arousal gushed from her slit, drawing his thoughts to the rosette of her ass. He lifted his mouth from her cunt, his chest heaving as fast as hers.

“Please, Dylan,” she said after he crawled up her body so his face was inches away from hers. He thrust his fingers in her channel, fucked her with them as he held her gaze, saw how thoroughly he’d become all that mattered to her.

He coated his cock with her juices. He’d intended to flip her onto her stomach, but now he wanted to watch as he claimed her ass. He wanted to see the ultimate surrender of trust.

She moaned as he worked his fingers into her back entrance. Her face as flushed as her breasts, her cunt.

Her lips were parted, as if she pleaded for his cock. And Jesus, he was tempted to straddle her face and let her take him that way.

But a touch of his dick to her back entrance and it was all he could do not to come. A moan escaped. And then a second, as inch by inch he worked himself in, his eyes never leaving her.

She was so tight. So hot.

It was hard to breathe. Hard to go slow.

And then it was impossible to think at all.

He lost himself in emerald-green eyes, to incredible sensation.

He surrendered himself to ecstasy, to shuddering release and exquisite agony. Inescapable pleasure that changed into guilt after he’d unbound her, holding her close before they showered and returned to bed.

Seraphine cuddled against Dylan’s side and draped a leg over his, her hand resting on his chest, palm above his heart.

She couldn’t discern his thoughts, only that he was troubled. Possibly open, at last, to discussion. “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Mmm.” She lazily traced pectoral muscles, detoured to circle a small brown nipple. “I’m more than okay. In fact, sometime soon I might just have recovered enough to go another round.”

His cock twitched against his thigh. She laughed.

“A guy can dream,” he said.

He played with a strand of her hair. His sigh signaled they were moving into territory he’d prefer to avoid but no longer could.

“I felt the prostitutes bleeding out.”

“You’re tied to the dark realm.”

A small jerk. The race of his heart. “Hell?”

“Not in a religious sense, but yes, for all practical purposes, at least for a human, hell.”

Arioc’s warning about sharing what she’d learned at Malik’s was fresh. It didn’t keep her silent. Understanding Dylan wouldn’t take comfort from knowing Lucifer’s Blade was tied to a portal, did.

“I hear screams. Mostly I hear whispers. Except here.”

A shudder went through him. Her hand left his chest to stroke his side.

“The wards around my house are strong, nearly impenetrable. I’ll strengthen the charm again.”

Something in her voice alerted him. Or maybe some part of the bond promised by the heartmate stones allowed him to hear her thoughts, to know the truth.

“But at some point even that’s going to be useless as long as the blade is in play.”

“Yes.”

She moved to lie partially on him, her mouth hovering inches above his. “For the duration we can stay here. I’m in protective custody after all.”

He laughed and it was music to her soul. “Why am I starting to think I was brought here under false pretenses? Could someone actually get in?”

“Not easily.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

“Yeah. You’re right,” he said, using her hair to guide her lips to his. “I think maybe this is all the magic I need to care about for now.”

Chapter Thirteen

Ianthe hoped to spend the majority of her days assisting Miguel in his investigations by changing form and infiltrating a suspect’s world, as she had when he and Conner were assigned the Ricky Moreno homicide. But for now, she found she looked forward to spending her day with Aislinn at Inner Magick.

She enjoyed handling the items in the shop and answering questions from those who ventured in. Most of all, she enjoyed Aislinn’s easy companionship, the way she treated everyone fairly, and more importantly, equally.

The dark realms were hierarchal, based on power and ruthlessness. You owned or were owned.

“They’re here!” Aislinn said, her enthusiasm charging through Ianthe.

Ianthe turned from where she was arranging a new shipment of tarot cards on the shelves, thinking to see something other than a deliveryman entering the shop as Aislinn raced to hold the door open for him.

“Just put it on the counter,” Aislinn said.

Aislinn’s excitement drew Ianthe to the box that was being yanked open before the uniformed deliveryman had taken more than a step toward the exit.

Out came squat carvings in stone, an array of gargoyles done in miniature, so they could easily rest on a palm. They were followed by wildlife, some so finely detailed Ianthe expected them to walk across the counter or lift their heads to howl or roar or bugle.

“These fetishes are made by a friend of a friend,” Aislinn said. “A woman I believe will be a match for one of the dragon princes.”

Ianthe laughed and shook her head. She looked beyond the glass front of the shop. The dragon guards had retreated, becoming unobtrusive once again as the media flocked elsewhere to feed their stories.

“Which one, Hakon? Or Malik?” she asked. She hadn’t met either of them, but thanks to Storm’s Pierce, and Aislinn’s friend Sophie, married to a dragon prince, she knew quite a bit about them.

Aislinn’s smile was full of mischief. “I can’t say, not until Alexandria comes into the shop, but I can practically guarantee she’ll be right for one of them.”