Nocturnal Urges (Nocturnal Urges, Book One) (10 page)

Isabel stared at him, and despite herself, felt a sting of tears in her eyes. Ryan immediately looked contrite, and withdrew a cloth handkerchief from a nearby chest of drawers. “Forgive me,” he said. “It is none of my business.”

“I love the way you see me,” Isabel said, sitting down on the couch and dabbing the few stray tears away. “It’s like you see me as someone other than I am, someone strong and beautiful, more than I am, and I want to be what you see.”

Ryan sat beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I see only what you have shown me,” he said gently. “You have been kind to others, warm and giving, and it is easy for one like you to be taken advantage of. The night you came to the club, I knew you were not a mark. Those who come to us do so for their own selfish pleasure and it feeds us, so we do not complain. But you are not one to simply take pleasure for yourself and give nothing in return. You share, giving of yourself fully, and that’s why…” His voice trailed off.

“Why what?” Isabel said. “Why it went wrong that second time?”

Ryan looked at the fire. She loved the way the warm light danced over the angles of his face, the slight curl of his hair, cut too short for his face. She was reminded again of her thoughts the first time she saw him, that he seemed out of a sepia-toned photograph, something not from this time of ugly sordid fluorescent garishness, but from a time of gentleness and quiet.

“There is more to the bite than the simple pleasure we give,” he said slowly. “It is—can be—a melding of minds and souls as well. It is that preciousness that Drew and his people wish to preserve. They forget that a true melding of body, mind and spirit is a brilliant, rare beauty, something that happens only once in a lifetime.”

He turned to face her. “Or twice.”

Isabel stared up into the dark azure of his eyes, and this time they did not swell black and suck her in. This time they were human eyes, and she had to say what she had come to say. “I love you.”

His face was unreadable, and she went on anyway. The words fell out of her mouth in a babbling stream, and she was helpless to stop them. “I’m sorry, I know you must get women stalkers all the time, people who mistake the bite for true love and who come knocking on your door, and I’m so sorry, but I’m in love with you, I know I am because I can’t stop thinking about you, not just the bite or the pleasure but when you make me laugh, and mostly I love the way I look to you, the way you see me, and I know I’m just another crazy female mark but I had to tell you.”

He was frozen, inches away from her.

“Please say something,” Isabel said miserably, and turned to gaze into the fire.

* * * * *

The drunk sprawled into the gutter right at Freitas’ feet. Automatically, she extended a hand to help him up. “Easy, fella, better go sleep it off,” she said, and froze as she saw Duane’s face. “You!”

“Hell with you,” Duane said, pushing away from her and stumbling down the street.

Freitas watched him go before she stepped up to the doorway of Nocturnal Urges.

“No charge for servants of the people, Detective,” Brent said, bowing low.

“Sorry, Brent, but I’m not a mark,” Freitas said. “I wanted to chat with you.”

Brent blinked. “I’d better go get the madam,” he said.

“Nope,” Freitas said. “Just you. What’d you throw him out for?”

Brent folded his arms. “Harassing the working girls. Miss Fiona has strict rules. No one screws with the marks and no one hurts the workers. We’re all about mutual pleasure at Nocturnal Urges.”

“Thanks for the recruitment poster,” Freitas said. “What did Duane do?”

“Him?” Brent indicated the direction Duane had gone. “Feeling up the new girl, Elyse, called her some unsavory names. Leech-bitch was the most creative he could get, I think. Not generally like him.”

“A regular, eh?” Freitas pulled out the notebook.

“Yeah.” Brent eyed the notebook with some concern. “He was, till about six months ago. Vanished for a while. Then he came here with some pretty little thing for a twosome.”

“Isabel,” Freitas said. “She came back by herself later, right?”

Brent sighed. “Oh, don’t get me started on that shit-storm. Ryan got the mother of all screaming matches from Miss Fiona. I can’t believe she didn’t fire him—we haven’t had a mess like that since 1963.”

Freitas shook her head. “I’ll never get over the way you guys talk about the past as though it was yesterday. I was born in 1963.”

Brent shrugged. “To me, it was yesterday, and you’re just a baby.”

“Thanks.” Freitas scribbled a little. “What about Jim Parker, the frat boy from the other night? He messed with Elyse too?”

Brent shook his head. “No, he tried to rip off Rebecca’s corset on the dance floor. Out he goes.”

“Not the same girl?” Freitas asked. Brent shook his head. “Then the one before, Mr. Insurance Guy, what’s his name, Matthew Cooker? He got kicked out as well.”

Brent nodded. “Started a fight with another mark over Marianne. They both wanted her first. Fucking pigs.”

Freitas leveled cop eyes at him. “The others too? Every one of them was messing with a vamp and got kicked out?”

Brent nodded, folding his arms and doing his best bouncer stance. “We don’t stand for that kind of shit in Miss Fiona’s place.”

“You’d do just about anything for Miss Fiona, wouldn’t you?” Freitas said.

Brent shrugged. “I keep her people safe. That’s my job.”

“How far does your job go?” She watched him closely.

“To the street, Detective,” Brent said, his face impassive. “No farther. Then they’re your problem.”

* * * * *

The silence had grown dreadful. Isabel felt chilly, and wished she had something to pull around her shoulders, even though she still had her jacket on. Ryan had not spoken in at least three full minutes.

Finally, she decided she had to say something. “Look, I’m going to go now,” she said without moving. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“Hardly.” Ryan’s voice was back to that warm-flannel comfort. She didn’t get up. “But I would be lying if I said I did not have concerns.”

Isabel bowed her head. “Go on.”

“You are right that sometimes the marks…mistake pleasure for love,” Ryan said slowly. “No, they do not come knocking on my door. But they have come to the club seeking something more than the bite.”

Isabel felt even more foolish. She looked around for a convenient hole to fall through and disappear, but none appeared.

“But you are not one of them.”

Where had her courage gone? She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “How do you know?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t,” Ryan said slowly. “It is possible that your feelings for me, however strong they may seem, are simply part of the bite.”

Isabel wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. There was no way she could be sure. This strange heat, this obsession—it might be perfectly normal for a new mark.

“My feelings for you, however, are a different story.”

Isabel audibly gasped. She looked up at him, and his eyes were intense, still blue, still human and full of emotion. “I know why it went wrong that night,” he said roughly. “I lost control because something happened I didn’t expect; something I have not felt in two centuries. There is a bond between us, something more than simple pleasure. I think you know it, and you are afraid of it, and you would be happy to dismiss this as some infatuation born from physical pleasure, because it will not fit with your life, your friends, your world. But I know better. The love between a man and a woman is holy and beautiful in its strength and power. The love between vampire and human is rare and difficult, but no less holy and beautiful, Isabel.”

“What are you saying?” Isabel asked, her heart beating.

Ryan reached out and smoothed a tendril of her hair back from her brow. “I love you, Isabel,” he said softly. “Your kindness, your laughter, the strength you have yet to find within yourself. You said I see you differently; I do not. I see you as you are, and I would see you shine as you truly are and not as how others would have you. You do not see me as an animal or a parasite, but as a man. What is love, but seeing the reflection in another’s eyes of what we truly wish to be?”

“What if it’s all an illusion?” Isabel breathed.

“There is only one way to know,” Ryan whispered, leaning forward. “There will be no bite tonight, love.”

His lips touched hers, and she forgot to be afraid of his teeth. Gently he molded his lips over hers, barely pressing against her, but the thrumming heat of him sank in, electrifying the nerves of her mouth, parting her lips and letting his tongue slide between them. The kiss deepened, and he skillfully kept her from hurting her tender mouth on his teeth.

Her hands crept up his arms to his shoulders, spare but strong. She slid them up behind his neck, pressing him closer to her on the couch. Her body leaned into his, wanting to be closer, to melt through to him. But he kept a distance, an agonizing space that she longed to fill.

“Slowly, love,” he breathed against her mouth. She shivered, and pressed light kisses along his face to his ear. She caught his earlobe between her lips and nibbled it, feeling his hands tighten on her shoulders.

“Slow enough for you?” she whispered into his ear, dancing the tip of her tongue along the rim of his ear. She kissed downward a bit, lightly kissing the side of his neck. She playfully pressed her teeth against the place where no pulse beat, yet his pale skin was warm. A low chuckle was her reward, and she felt his hand slide down her back and under her jacket, sending shooting bolts of shivery pleasure from the electric heat of his skin. A quick shrug and her jacket fell to the floor. His hands moved across her back, still covered in a light mauve peasant blouse. Even through the thin fabric, she felt the controlled passion of his touch, and it fired heat in her stomach as though stoking a furnace that needed little more fuel to blaze.

Ryan guided her mouth back up to his, pressing her closer to him as she kissed him again, running her fingers through his black hair. She felt his hands moving over her and shifted to allow him access to her front.

He hesitated a moment. “Touch me, Ryan,” she whispered.

Gently, he brushed the backs of his fingers over the soft, tender skin above her breasts, bared by the peasant blouse. He slid his fingers, full of electric warmth, slowly down toward the tie that hid her breasts from view. She arched her back, trying to bring her body closer to him. But he seemed determined to go as slowly as possible.

He slid two fingers into the space between her breasts, as though testing the tender, soft skin. The heat of his hand sped her heartbeat, pounding just beneath his fingers. His lips grazed hers again, just as he gently moved his hand over her silken bra, dipping to take the weight of her breast in his hand. She murmured something even she didn’t recognize to him, pushing her breast into his palm, feeling the nipple tighten beneath the fabric. The feeling was comforting, an embrace, even as it made her arch her back toward him.

He pressed against the hidden bud, thumbing it lightly, feeling it harden beneath his fingers. Still he molded her breast in his hand, without pushing the bra aside or moving on to the other one. Over and over he rolled her nipple in his fingers, lightly, never too hard, listening to her quickening breath as broken storms of sensation rolled through her from the motions of his hand.

“Oh Ryan, please,” she said, and he hushed her with a swift kiss. Only then did he gently push the bra aside, lifting the weight of her breast free of its confines and touching the bare nipple. The electric thrumming heat of him sank through to her breast, filling her with a twisting, groaning tension that begged to be released.

Then he stopped, and her body cried out in dismay even before she spoke. “Ryan,” she began, and he dipped his head to her neck, carefully avoiding the still-healing wound at her throat. Instead, he kissed and nuzzled along her collarbone, sliding his hands under her blouse and helping her lift it over her head.

A moment of sanity returned, and Isabel pushed his hands back. “My turn,” she said, and began to unbutton his shirt. He waited patiently, but his hands kept creeping up along her jean-clad leg or over her bare shoulder. After each button, she leaned forward to kiss his chest, lick a short line here, nibble a touch there. A moment later, his shirt was gone, and in the flickering light of the fireplace, his skin seemed to shine like pale burnished gold, untouched by the sun.

He leaned over her, and she dipped her head to capture a flat nipple in her teeth. He groaned a little, and she felt his response hardening against her thigh. Isabel slid a hand down between his legs, but he guided her away again, though she felt the tight heat of him through the coarse fabric.

Ryan moved off the couch and spread a thick blanket on top of the rugs already before the fireplace. “Come here, love,” he said, his voice roughened with arousal.

Isabel slid down to the floor with him, entwining her arms around his bare shoulders. For a moment, she simply enjoyed the press of skin on warm skin, feeling his heat and electricity sink through her, setting fire to her senses. She sensed that huge feeling again, the nearly frightening mass that she had barely brushed against before, something they seemed to make between them.