Demon Night (28 page)

He reckoned that meant Charlie was it for him, too.

Jake was telling her about the tanker now, and her eyes were wide and bright when she glanced away from the novice to Ethan's face, as if she wanted to gauge his reaction to Jake's version of it.

Ethan hadn't been listening, but Jake must have been making him out to be a heroic warrior; she held his gaze, her bloodlust flaring. Jake blinked, and his words stumbled before he finished his story by falling to the floor with his arms and legs spread-eagled, projecting intense relief.

Ethan's jealousy receded, left his nerves jittering again. The feeding was just ahead, and she needed more than blood from him.

She needed his control, and at that moment it was in short supply.

He cleared his throat, forced himself not to think about her mouth or the heavy-lidded glance she cast at him each time the bloodlust turned her eyes more hazel than brown. “Which room, Jake? I ought to get Charlie settled in.”

Jake raised his head. “It's the last one on the right.” He rolled to his side, propped his elbow on the floor. “And Savi found a connection between Katya, Vladimir, and the Brandts, but it's not much. It can wait.”

“All right then.” He held out his hand to Charlie. “You ready?”

Her lips parted, and she nodded. Her breath was slow and shallow. “At the motel, you asked Jane if Mark Brandt had contacted her,” she murmured as they climbed the stairs. “Why?”

“Mostly my gut,” he said. “I wouldn't like to be hit from the side, particularly if it's regarding Legion, so I'm looking around to see what might be coming.”

“Are the Brandts?”

“Don't know yet. It may be they're just feeling things out, too.”

She was silent for a moment, as if she was thinking it over. “I can call Mark. He asked me to dinner—probably to talk about Jane—but I can feel
him
out.”

They reached the top of the stairs. “Maybe you could do that, Charlie, but I don't reckon you'd enjoy dinner much.”

She touched her lips. “Do you think he'd notice?”

Ethan thought any man who sat across a table from that mouth and didn't pay attention to it probably had little to offer for information or brains. “Yes.” He raised his voice a little, and kept hold of her hand as they moved into the common area. “This here's the brood, Charlie.”

He pointed and named, then hurried her on through moments afterward, not trusting that the novices would behave much longer than it took for Charlie to respond to their hellos.

“So, this is like a dorm?” she asked.

“That's as good a description as any.”

“But you live on Caelum?” Wistfulness fluttered through the rasp in her voice.

He paused in front of her door. “I have a place in Caelum, but I don't reckon I live there,” he said slowly. “Not in the sense that you mean. I don't stay in Caelum for any length of time. Just visit.”

“And drift? Is that why you went today?”

“Yes.” He didn't look away from her as they entered the room. Her expression didn't change, except for a quick blink when her gaze lit on the twin-sized bed. “It's not much,” he said again.

“It's okay. Like I said, kind of a dorm. Were the flowers your idea?” She turned to face him again with a smile.

A huge burst of red roses sat atop the tiny desk. “That they were, though I'll admit I didn't select these. I'd have chosen something yellow.” Daisies or daffodils, or even yellow roses—any flower that looked more like the sun than like blood.

He thought her smile dimmed, but he couldn't be certain: she dipped her chin and dragged her fingers through her hair, letting it fall across her cheek. “It was still a nice thought. And they smell great.” She inhaled, and her eyes closed with pleasure. “I guess being a vampire does have benefits.”

“Well, you won't want to breathe that deep when it ain't flowers,” he drawled.

She laughed, but it faded when she met his gaze. Her lids lowered sleepily, and his entire being wound up tight, pulled his body with it.

He turned and cut his thumb, activated the spell.

“Ethan,” she whispered. Her need slammed through him, and she moved in quick. Her fingers circled his wrist as he pivoted to face her. “God, Ethan. Let me…let me—”

Her lips closed over the tip of his thumb.

The pleasure ripped into him, like she'd closed her mouth over every inch of his flesh. His knees near gave out, and he staggered back against the door. Charlie moaned, her fingernails digging into his skin, holding his hand to her mouth.

The wound healed, and she released his thumb with a long lick.

“Charlie,” he said hoarsely. That small taste hadn't begun to assuage her thirst—it had only made her need worse. And now that she'd had some, the bloodlust wouldn't be letting her stop. Her gaze rose to his throat, hungry and feral. “Miss Charlie. Let's do this slow and easy—”

She curled her fingers around his jacket collar and leapt astride his waist. Her knees banged against the door.

Her fangs sank deep in his neck.

She began sucking, and ecstasy replaced the pain. Her lips and tongue were cool against his skin, her bloodlust a raging fire through his veins.

God Almighty.

Ethan groaned, slid down the door until his ass hit the hardwood floor, and turned his head to give her a better angle. She sat in the cradle of his thighs and stomach, straddling his erect length. Her fingers buried in the hair at his nape, then fisted. Her hips rocked, hard, fast.

Rough-woven cotton burned over his shaft. He panted her name, and within seconds she was matching her rhythm to his voice. He slowed, and she did, her tongue massaging the closing punctures on his throat, her hands sliding between them to flatten against his chest.

Then her fangs pierced him again. He bucked beneath her, stifling a shout.
Son of a bitch.
His teeth clenched. It'd be so easy to vanish his clothes and remove hers, and push himself deep. He could almost see it: her pink flesh parting, glistening as she slowly, slowly took him in…

He opened his eyes again to the sound of shredding fabric. Her blue sweatshirt lay torn on the floor.

She whimpered against his throat, and her thin camisole ripped beneath her frantic hands. The buttons on his shirt popped and scattered.

Her cool palms met the heated skin over his stomach, her thumbs sliding alongside his navel. His head swam. Her moans took on a needy, erotic note, as if they welled up from far beneath her throat and chest. Each harsh exhalation she made from her nose was an icy whisper over the back of his neck.

He caught her wrists when she traced a line to his waistband, dipped her fingers in. Their cool tips circled his cock-head, her touch a shot of electricity and pure bliss. Ethan reared up against her hands, seeking more.

He ought to have been drawing away.

Desperately, he tugged her wrists up. She pulled them free and bit him again.

A zipper rasped. Hers.

“Charlie,” he gritted, and forced out the words he didn't want to say, but had to in order to remind himself. “Much as I want you, we decided we ain't doing this. Not until you adjust.”

He clasped her hips to halt her rocking; the denim of her jeans was stiff beneath his hands. Stiff…but loose, and sliding against the silk of her red panties. Her scent mingled with the heavy perfume of the roses. She'd be so sweet, her aroused flesh slick against his tongue—

He squeezed his eyes closed again, resisting the image, his need, her need. He stopped breathing.

Her thighs flexed around his waist. Her weight eased from his aching length as if she meant to lift herself off him—though she didn't seem about to quit; the suction at his neck continued, her bloodlust was still hot.

And he heard it: the slippery glide of her hand between silk and skin. Her soft, muffled cry against his throat as her fingers penetrated deep.

“Miss Char—Ah,
sonofawhore
—” Ethan clenched his jaw, rapped his head hard against the door, and forced himself not to succumb as her heightening arousal spiked his blood.

She began moving. Her knuckles ground into his shaft on each downward stroke of her hips. Painful, but mostly because it wouldn't let him forget how badly he wanted to be inside her, to be the one fulfilling her need.

Her left hand searched out his chin, his mouth. Though desperate for any taste, he fought the temptation to suck her middle fingers in and stroke his tongue to the same tempo of her hand between her legs.

Her pace increased, and Ethan reckoned he was going to plumb lose his mind. She was sweating now, leaning in against his chest. Her nipples repeatedly kissed his skin in a cool, wet path that matched the rise and fall of her body. Beads of perspiration fell against the back of his neck, icy drops that trickled beneath his collar.

He nearly wept with relief when tremors ran through her. She tensed and arched, her hips coming off of him but her mouth still fastened to his throat, her palm slapping flat against the door beside his face.

His hands tightened on her waist, held her as she barreled through the orgasm, gritted his teeth against the amplified wave of pleasure that rushed into his body.

Two more icy drops fell and rolled down the back of his neck.

Horror gripped him. “Charlie?”

She made a panicked noise low in her throat.

The bloodlust still hadn't released her—hadn't released him. Ethan ran his hands up her spine, fighting the desire so that his touch wouldn't ask too much. He pitched his voice to soothe. “You'll be all right. It'll break soon. You're just newly transformed and hungry.”

Her tears were a steady stream down his back in the following minute; then the bloodlust finally freed her. She lifted her head, gasping with sobbing little breaths, wiping at her mouth.

“Ethan.” Her face was stricken when she pulled back. She cushioned his cheeks between her hands, her moist eyes frantically searching his. “Are you okay? I just—I couldn't stop—”

“I know, Miss Charlie.” Concern melted through her psychic scent; his chest swelled, and he thought his heart actually skipped a beat. He smoothed his hand down the windblown tangle of her hair, from her crown to the middle of her back. Her features had lost the skinny, haunted look. “And I'm doing just fine.”

“But…” Her gaze lowered, and he glanced down at her chest. Blood smeared her golden skin—and over his, darkening the edge of his shirt. “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered.

“We got a little messy,” he said easily, and repressed his grimace as he vanished it. He forced himself to look away from her perfect round titties, the tight rosy nipples. “But next time it won't hit you so bad, and you'll know better how the blood flows, how fast to drink.”

“Next time?” Her hands shook against his jaw. “You're
sure
I didn't hurt you? You wouldn't just say that?”

He frowned. “Why are you so certain you did?”

“I heard it.” Her eyes closed briefly. “It wasn't mine.”

“Heard what?”

“Screaming.” She swallowed hard. “Or—that shriek bending metal makes? Only louder.”

“That doesn't sound like anything I was feeling.” His frown deepened, and she brushed her thumbs along the sides of his mouth. “When did you hear it? When you first bit me?”

“No.” Pink tinged her cheeks. “That was good. It was after that.”

“At the end?” He lifted his hand to her cheek. Her tears had dried.

“I heard it then, yes,” she rasped. “And during the rest of it.”

He stiffened. “The whole time? From just after you bit me until you were done?”

Her lips pressed together and she nodded.

He'd thought the intensity of the bloodlust had spooked her. But what she'd described sounded more painful than frightening. “Was it
hurting
you?”

“Ethan—” She tried to avert her face but he ducked his head and followed. He looked up at her, holding her hair away from her forehead.

“Miss Charlie.” It was gentle, but undeniably a command. “I can't help you if I don't know.”

She slapped her palm against his chest, gained a couple of inches until her back came up against his thighs. “It hurt. But it wasn't me.” Her jaw clenched. “It was separate from…and I couldn't control either one.
Obviously.
”

The last word carried embarrassment, bitterness, fear.

She meant the sexual response. Ethan sat up straight again, stared over her head. How could he not have recognized she was in pain? For certain, he'd never heard of anything like this—not when both parties were willing, leastwise—and hadn't thought to watch for it. He'd been focused on fighting his own response.