Blacker than Black (29 page)

“The stress you see is a side effect of whatever concoction your friend has you taking. I can’t explain it better than that, because I certainly don’t understand any more about this than you do at the moment. But I need you to stop taking them. Please.”

I nod. “I’ll consent to that.” It seems it makes both of us vulnerable. If anyone were to stumble upon what Blue has at his disposal . . . “Do you mind if I ask a question?” He cocks his head askew, invitation to continue. “Have you ever heard of this,” I gesture between us significantly, “occurring to any other
lyche
before?”

The visible sliver of his iris reminds me of the waning moon smiling at me from the night sky. The silence following my query drags out, unbroken. Another approach, then.

“How vulnerable are you in this state? With these drugs in my system?”

His mouth tenses. “Our auras are . . . meshed. Fused?” He shakes his head and collapses back into the couch, hands folded on his lap, long legs draped in tailored charcoal slacks stretching out beneath the low table. “Feeding off one another. The drug is blocking that.”

“Have you tried tapping your felines to . . .” I gesture toward the Manx now draped around his shoulders, a breathing stole, the politically correct term escaping me. It’s like asking your best friend if he masturbates to relieve stress. “Replenish your energy.”

His shoulders hunch with tension, fingers lacing together in a white-knuckled grip. The feline flexes its claws, meows in disapproval. The expression on its face is more animated—with disgust—than I could’ve ever imagined such a creature being capable of. It scrambles away from the
lyche
and darts off across the office to disappear through an open doorway.

It’s obvious he can answer the question, but doesn’t want to. Does he feel it’s too personal? Rather late for that. Maybe it’s a matter of not wanting to expose weakness, dependency. The ruling
lyche
of the metro, brought low by a simple Nightwalker. Well, not so simple, all things considered, but still. I arch an eyebrow and wait, watch his gaze flicker over the newspaper on the coffee table. Trail over my legs, up my body to finally settle on my face. And meet my gaze.

“I have tried a number of times today, after waking up with these dark circles around my eyes. I haven’t looked this way before, ever. Look at me. Really look at me, Black. I look like one of those addicts on the boulevard. Like one of the Nightwalkers with a pimp driving them too hard, on the verge of death. I have no energy. I slept twelve hours in the past twenty-four, but I feel like I haven’t had a single minute of rest in the past week.” His voice is empty, flat. The same as it has been since Jhez and I arrived. Now, the lack of inflection frightens me, chills my skin down to the bone.

Three hours until the dosage in my blood wears off, if I go by Blue’s estimation. How long until the drug is out of my system completely, though? ’Til the side effects wear off completely? What do we do until then? I’ve never been the death of anyone. Ever.

I don’t want to start now, not with him. Yeah, he’s a
lyche
. A vampire. But . . . I care about him. Can’t bring myself to stand by and watch him hurt. Waste away. No. I want this to end, but not this way. Not like this.

There’s still a sliver of suspicion and distrust in me, a temptation to believe this entire situation is intentional, calculated. He sought me out on the boulevard because he was trying to locate a chi-thief of some notoriety. But the rest of this? Surely there’s no way someone could have premeditated a mess of this magnitude. He turned the tables on me because he could, never guessing what would happen as a result. And seriously. To what end? Or should the question be, how deep do
lyche
politics go?

His eyelids slide to half-mast again when I uncross my legs and push to my feet. He’s watching me, head resting on the back of the couch and canted slightly at an angle. His shaggy, wavy hair looks rather mussed now that I study him, as if he did no more than run his hands through it a few times after getting dressed.

I try to suppress the surge of pity. He wouldn’t want me to make the offer I intend to, based upon that. I don’t pretend to know him intimately, but I know he will refuse if he senses it.

In hindsight, I can’t blame him for not trusting Blue. For questioning his motives. I would too, were he anyone else. And at this point, were it anyone but Leonard, I wouldn’t bother doing this . . .

I walk around the coffee table, moving slowly, letting his gaze track me. His irises are just a sliver, barely visible, but I dare not look away. Worst thing I could possibly do is startle a
lyche
who’s feeling weak and vulnerable. I might not know a great deal about their culture or society, but I’ve learned enough of their physiology, their instincts.

They’re just like any other predator out there in the jungle.

I sink a knee into the cushion by his hip and lower myself to sit facing him. He still has his hands clamped together in his lap, and when I hold my palm an inch above his skin, I have to squeeze my eyes shut. They’re burning, making everything look blurry. With my aura touching his, I can feel him again. It’s faint, muted by the drugs. Frustration slams through me, drowning out the last shred of pity. What if this doesn’t work? What if I haven’t given myself enough time to recover from that debacle he called a dinner party?

What if he’s so desperate, so weak, that he can’t control himself?

Worry about it later. Don’t lose your nerve. You didn’t ask for this, but neither did he.

And he doesn’t deserve to die. Which, in all honesty, looks like what he’s on the verge of. I remember the cryptic sheets of circles and lines and empty spaces. Who stands to gain the most if he and I can’t see this through to the other side?

Questions later.
My palm finally starts to itch and tingle. It takes a great deal longer than it should. I try not to frown as I settle my other wrist against his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” His voice is whisper-soft. I glance up from studying the quick throb of pulse in his neck. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. I wonder if this is what he looked like when he slept next to me in his bed. Shame I was unconscious. He looks so peaceful.

I ease my palm against his neck, my other hand onto his. Skin to skin. I inhale sharply at the faint spark of shock that accompanies the contact, as it races through every nerve ending in my body. His cologne is faint, but I can smell it. Dragon’s blood incense, leather, and sandalwood. Makes me want to lick his skin, bury my face in his neck and inhale. Which is utterly inappropriate at the moment, according to the rational half of my mind.

I watch the tension bleed from the
lyche’s
body in gradual increments. His skin, cool and dry beneath my touch, begins to heat. He exhales an almost soundless sigh and rolls his head to the side, toward me, tucking his chin so my hand cradles his jaw. His nostrils flare as he inhales, and the signs of his burgeoning hunger are everywhere.

Too many to enumerate, but a beautiful thing to behold. Money isn’t the only reason I’m still a Nightwalker after all these years. It’s an involuntary biological attraction or something. Yes, I know. Excuses, excuses.
The addict always has one.

“I know you’re fully aware of what you’re doing,” he murmurs. His voice is stronger, but now he sounds drunk instead of lifeless. “I just don’t understand why.”

I lean in close and rest my cheek against his forehead. The more skin contact, the better. As excuses go, I think it’s my most legitimate one yet. Shame Jhez didn’t get to hear it. “Consider this an apology.”

Leonard hums softly in approval. “Best apology I’ve ever had.” He grabs me by the waist and hauls me onto his lap and I shift to maintain contact with him, both hands curling around the nape of his neck, cheek pressed against his.

His breath is warm and moist as it puffs over the sensitive spot behind my ear. His fingers fumble with the buttons down the front of my shirt. “More skin.”

I don’t stop him. I understand. The
lyche
hisses at the loss of contact when I pull my hands from his neck, but I stroke my cheek against his, angling my head to get a view of his shirt.

With the drugs in my system, and the aftereffects for however long . . . he needs to feed, and I don’t know if it will be as easy as that first time. Not that I recall much. I do know, however, that the more skin contact a
lyche
has, the less difficulty they have in penetrating the aural shield. Because if you do it right, they’re already inside it.

Yes, this is a tad uncomfortable with my sister in the next room. Only slightly less so because she understands the concept. I’d be completely at ease if she didn’t spend every moment in Leonard’s presence looking like she wanted to kill him.

“Stop thinking about your sister.”

My fingers still on the final button of his shirt. “What?”

“You heard me. Your aura does funny things. Think about something else.” Cool air wafts over my chest and shoulders as he shoves the material down to my elbows. Frustrated by the tangle of our arms, he slides his hands around my waist and up my back. Tingles run up my spine, filter through to every nerve in my body. Gasping and shuddering, I abandon his buttons and slide my hands over his ribs as he pulls me forward. Crushes me against his chest with arms like steel bands.

A gasp of breath escapes him, transforms into a moan halfway through. My skin burns; the sensation reminds me of that first sizzle of flesh when you put a raw steak on the grill. Garthelle buries his face in my neck and inhales, long and deep.

When I slide my hands around his back and stroke his spine, he relaxes again, arms loosening to a more comfortable embrace. His skin reminds me of the acres of silk draped over every square inch of the foyer. Of a warm breeze on a chilly spring day.

He trails his lips along my shoulder, the tip of his tongue following clavicle to neck. “My God, you taste good.”

His hair tickles my face. Every breath I take smells of dragon’s blood and sandalwood. I close my eyes and let myself go, let the sensations wash over me. His skin, smooth beneath my hands, cool and warm against my chest; his scent, oh Gaia, his scent. The feel of his hips. I tighten my legs, let myself enjoy the sensation along the muscles of my inner thighs. I’ve never had sex with a
lyche
, but I’m more than willing to revel in the sensuality of the experience and the moment. I’ll worry about what I really think of it later. I’m not a virgin, but I’ve never felt anything quite like this.

Mmm, something else to get addicted to?

Leonard trails his lips up my neck with open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing roughly over my skin, scraping and nibbling his way to my jaw. When I return the affection by sucking the lobe of his ear into my mouth, he growls and turns his head further. Twisting, searching recklessly. His lips brush mine, his hand—how did he get untangled from my shirt so fast—clamps down on the back of my neck, and then his lips are on mine, tongue thrusting into my mouth.

A freight train of sensations slam into me as he meshes his mouth to mine and taps me. His arm tightens, fingers digging into flesh. He pulls on my chi and rolls his hips up, arousal blatant, however unintentional it might be. White pinpricks of light flicker and dance across the inside of my eyelids. His mouth moves with the same rolling rhythm of his hips and his feeding, overwhelming my senses, overloading my nerves, more aural interaction than I can register.

He slides his hand down my back, fingers dancing down my spine, and pulls my hips closer. My nostrils flare as I pant and struggle for air. Even with layers of clothing between us, his arousal brushing along my own is heady stimulation.

Gaia, he’s going to make me orgasm just by feeding on me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, with the single brain cell standing apart from the overload, I know I should stop him from doing this. Associating sex in any way with a vampire’s feeding turns one into the worst sort of Nightwalker—the kind that doesn’t last long at all on the street.

Yet each rhythmic thrust of his hips makes the flickering lights multiply, sends tingling chills racing up my spine, and within moments I’m frantic, uncaring, incapable of considering anything except that pinnacle moment of ecstasy just out of reach.

Leonard grabs my hips, holding me closer, prolonging the exquisite agony of his rhythm. His breath becomes as labored as mine. Desperate, I unwind my arms from his back and grab his shoulders, slide my hands up into his hair.

His draws grow longer, shallower, his thrusting hips and tongue no less insistent for the change in pace. Finally, with a long, low moan of pleasure, his head falls back to rest against the couch. Each gasp of breath washes over my cheek, my neck.

Fingers digging into my flesh almost painfully, he lifts his head and buries it against my neck again, teeth latching on with rough abandon. His body tenses and spasms, and suddenly my chi—and his—pulse back into me in a crashing tidal wave of backwash. It sends my body spiraling out of control, his pleasure flooding through mine, searing along my nerves and pushing me that final distance to orgasm. I feel my body trembling against his, his arms curling gently around my waist, his ragged breath puffing along my neck.

Letting my head rest on his shoulder, I keep my face buried against his skin. Enjoying the scent of his musk and sweat blending with the incense. Minutes pass in silence, save for the sounds of our breathing. In sync.

That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced.

“Apology accepted.” He has one hand hooked around my lower back and clamped onto my hip. The other he trails up and down my ribs, over my back, down my spine in a crazy lethargic sweep of satiated contact.

“Good,” I mutter against his neck, and despite the fact that I slept most of the day away, I want to fall asleep again. My eyes refuse to open. His hair feels like a thousand silk ribbons tangled through my fingers.

The silence stretches, peaceful. Content. I have no idea how long. I may have fallen asleep. He brushes his fingers along my temple, moving my hair out of my face, and I decide it’s time to move. Make myself presentable, find a shower. Untangle myself from this situation.