Blood Kiss (24 page)

A
s Butch emerged out of the hidden door under the mansion's grand staircase, his only thought was of finding his mate.

And the sound of her laughter was both an instant locator and a source of high-octane relief. She'd been so distracted as soon as she'd woken up after a day of restless sleep, the weight of what was on her mind giving her the look of someone dragging a baby grand piano around after them. But he'd promised her he would get her something on the girl, somehow, and he was beyond ready to tell her he had an in.

Striding across the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom, he entered the billiards room, and—

Lassiter lifted both his hands up from his prone position on the couch. “I put my pants back on. I was a good boy.”

Butch's fangs threatened to drop and his upper lip twitched. “Excuse me? And think carefully before you explain that one. You're wicked close to the line.”

Marissa took a sip from a glass of water. “It's perfectly innocent.”

“I'm doing a naked calendar,” the fallen angel started.

“He had a jockstrap on.”

“It was all done with a selfie stick.”

As the pair of them talked over each other, Butch had a sudden urge to plug both his ears, shut his eyes, and go “la-la-la-la-la.” “You know, I'm good. I'm
really
good not knowing anything more.”

On any of Lassiter's antics, for that matter. Bitch had a way of making the ordinary complicated and the mundane insane.

It was a gift.

Just ask the fallen angel. He'd tell ya.

“Will you excuse us for a minute,” Butch said as he walked over and gave Marissa a kiss on the forehead. God, her scent smelled good in his nose, and wow, could that female make slacks and a blouse look like a goddamn ball gown. “I've got to talk to my girl.”

“NFW, I'm watching
Melrose
.”

“That wasn't a request, angel.”

“Is there something wrong?” Marissa asked as she wiped her mouth with a damask napkin. “Did someone get hurt in training?”

He pulled out a stool and sat next to her. “Lass, you were leaving.”

“The fuck I was.”

Butch grimaced and hated making the offer: “You can use the couch at the Pit.”

“Will you make me change the channel when you guys get back there?”

“Will you leave now if I say no?”

“Are you saying no now?”

For godsakes, Lassiter was perfectly capable of playing a round of question tennis until dawn—or one of the parties involved kicked the bucket from dehydration and exhaustion. “Yes, I'm saying no.”

“Wait, does that mean I can watch
Melrose
or not? The double negative confused—”

“Jesus Christ, will you just go!”

Lassiter was muttering as he got to his feet. “How many times do I have to tell you that is
not
my name.”

“I need a drink.” As the fallen angel left, Butch got back on his feet and went behind the bar. Pouring himself some Lagavulin, he didn't beat around the bush, because he knew his
shellan
wouldn't want him to. “So I think I have a lead.”

“You do?” She put her fork down on her plate. “What? How?”

He put two pieces of ice in a rocks glass and gave
them an amber-colored bath. “That piece of metal is a key, and it gets you entrance into a private club that's for humans only.”

“Oh, my God, if we can get a membership list, maybe we can find her name.”

Yeah, not a country club, my love, he thought as he took a deep drink.

“How did you find this out?” she asked.

“One of the trainees belongs to it. He's taking me there ASAP—I just have to check in with the other Brothers about the next couple of nights. I think if I switch some classes around, I can free up Friday.”

“So we'll go! This is amazing!” As he froze with his glass halfway back to his lips, Marissa frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that. Butch. Seriously, I am going with you.”

He shook his head and followed through on the swallow. “No, I'll handle this. Don't worry, I'll let you know what I find as soon—”

“I am going with you.”

As he got a good look at the set angle of her jaw, he put his Scotch down on the bar. “Marissa, this is not the kind of place you need to even drive past, much less go into. It's a sex club.”

“So.”

He blinked. “Honey, it's not—”

“Need I remind you what we did after the movie? Four times?”

“Marissa.”

“Butch,” she echoed.

To keep himself from cursing, he tossed back his drink and poured another. “You're not up to something like
that. There'll be people fucking all over the place, doing freaky shit to one another. You can't handle that.”

“Or maybe it's more like you can't handle me being there.”

He rolled his eyes. He couldn't help it. “You don't know what you're saying. Or what that kind of thing is like.”

Marissa folded her napkin in slow, precise little squares and laid it beside her mostly full plate. “Well, we'll just find out when we go together, won't we.”

“I'm not taking you there. This is not up for discussion.”

“Yes, you are.” She slid off the stool and picked up the tray of food. “And if I find out you went by yourself? I'm going to consider it a betrayal of the highest order of our relationship—and
that
is not up for discussion.”

He tried to picture her standing next to a couple dressed in black latex getting it in the ass by a set of DD twins wearing matching purple strap-ons.

“Marissa. I'm not going to have time to handhold you,” he said roughly. “My focus is going to be on fitting in, figuring out where the staff is, finding the right people to talk to. Distraction is not going to help that dead girl.”

“Don't you
dare
play that card. I am fully aware of why we're going, and I'd like to point out that you're my
hellren
, not my
ghardian
. So shelve the
paterfamilias
bullshit, and pop a couple of valium before we go if you have to. But I cannot make this clearer—I'm coming with you and I'm going to help figure this all out.” She leaned in. “Newsflash—just because I have a pair of ovaries doesn't mean I don't have a brain—or the right to think independently.”

In the silence that followed, all he could do was shake his head back and forth. The words that were on the tip of his tongue were not going to help this—and he couldn't believe they were arguing again.

So much for the restart button they'd hit the night before.

“Or is that what you're worried about?” she challenged.

“What?”

“That I might like it.”

With that little ditty dropping at his feet like a grenade, she walked off, head held high, shoulders back, a whole lot of get-over-yourself steeling her spine.

Bracing his palms against the granite countertop, he leaned into his arms and tried to keep from screaming in frustration.

At least the bottle of Lag was still three-quarters full.

He was going to need it.

•   •   •

Peyton exhaled a stream of smoke and let his head fall back onto his pillow. “Here.”

Passing the bong over to Anslam, he closed his eyes and felt himself float about a foot over his body. The familiar sense of relief reminded him that Parry was probably right; he probably needed to not do this. But shit, after the two nights they'd just had?

He needed a little vacay.

Fuck that—he'd earned it.

“So what do you think of them all?” he asked.

The sound of Anslam exhaling just like he had was like someone laughing at the same place in a movie that you did, or enjoying the same good meal. Comradery was a nice thing.

“Boone's cool,” the guy said. “Axe is a fucking freak. I mean, get over yourself, asshole with the black clothes and the spiked hair and that bullshit tattooing crap.”

Peyton waited for the guy to continue. “And what about Novo.”

“She is fucking
hot
.”

For some reason, even though he agreed, he didn't like the idea of Anslam walking around with that opinion—or worse, popping a chub because of it.

“I don't know,” Peyton muttered. “She's okay.”

“Did you see her doing sit-ups? I can't believe Boone got to hold her feet. I wanted that fucking view.”

“She'll break you in half.” Although if this kept up, Peyton might take care of that himself. “Besides, I don't know if she does males.”

“I'll turn her,” Anslam said in a low voice. “I'll fucking set her right on that one—”

“What about Craeg,” Peyton cut in.

“He's the guy to beat. No offense to Paradise coming in first at the end of night one, but Craeg's probably going to go the full distance.”

“Yeah.” At least they could both agree on that—without a coffin coming between them. “Who are you taking to the ball at her father's place?”

“Right now, no one. I like to keep my options open. Hey, before we crash, can we food up?”

Peyton opened his eyes and glanced over at the antique Cartier clock on his nightstand. “Yeah. Defo. Let me call Paradise first. I wanna make sure she got home.”

“You sure you two aren't courting?”

“Nah. Friends only.”

“She's a piece.”

Peyton wrenched around and glared at the guy. “Watch your mouth about her.”

Anslam shook his head and put his palm up. “You got some unresolved shit with her, my friend. Don't kid yourself.”

Whatever.

Reaching for his phone, he called her contact out of his recent calls list and waited for her to pick up. As the connection rang, he looked around his room. His parents' mansion was a newer one, with big arching windows running down the back side that overlooked the gardens. With high ceilings and good woodwork, he'd always thought his room was airy even with all the stuffy antique crap his mother insisted on making everyone live with whether they appreciated it or not—

“Hello!”

He frowned. “You okay, Parry?”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “It's you.”

“Who the hell were you expecting?”

“Ah, no one. My aunt. My—her cousin. My aunt's cousin. You don't know him—her, I mean.”

“Have you been smoking up?” He smiled. “Because if you have, you need to put the pipe down now and start sleeping it off.”

“No, I haven't been. But you have. I can hear it in your voice.”

“How?”

“Huskier than normal.”

For a split second, he wondered whether she found that sexy or not. Shaking himself, he said, “I just wanted to see if you made it home. Your dad there with you by now? He must be off work.”

“Yeah, we had Last Meal together. Now I'm just up here in my room.”

“Anslam and I are stoned out of our minds.” The guy gave a thumbs-up from the other end of the bed. “We're going to carbo-load and crash. It's going to be fabulous. Anyway, glad you're tight.”

“Don't eat too much ice cream. It makes you bloat and then you complain the next day that you've lost your girlish figure.”

“I have never done that.”

“Really. Really?”

“Okay, fine,” he muttered.

“And do I need to remind you about the cookie-dough incident.”

Peyton groaned. “I could have sworn I shit my internal organs out.”

“That's right. I still say you might be lactose-intolerant. Just something to consider. I love you.”

He glanced at Anslam, and didn't want to say the words back in front of the guy. “Me, too. See you tomorrow—”

“Oh, hey, listen, I found your photograph.”

“My what?”

“Photograph. On the bus. It fell out of your backpack or your pocket or something.”

“I don't have any photographs to lose, sweet cheeks. But thanks for thinking of me—and if it involves anything naked and female, I'll take it off your hands free of charge. Just because I'm a straight-up Good Sam like that.”

She laughed. “No. I don't know what the image is, actually. I thought you dropped it, but guess not. It's an old-fashioned Polaroid.”

“A Polaroid? Jesus, that's an antique.”

“Well, anyway, I'll hold on to it until someone claims it. Have a good day. And you really shouldn't be smoking up.”

“So you keep telling me. Good day, too, baby.”

As he ended the call, he reached across and put his phone down by that clock. “That is one fine female.”

“What was she talking about? A photograph?”

“I don't know. Some Polaroid she found on the bus.” He sat up. Stood up. Tried walking. “Wow. That's some strong-ass shit. Let's go down to the kitchen the back way so no one sees us bobbing and weaving.”

A
s Paradise paced around her room in her bare feet, she was careful to go toe-heel, toe-heel, so that she made no noise—although considering how hard her heart was beating, she was surprised she wasn't waking people up on the other side of the river with the pounding.

Quick stop. Check the time.

Six fifty-eight. Or maybe six fifty-nine—it was hard to be precise with the old clock on her bedside, especially from across the room.

Rubbing her sweaty hands on her blue jeans, she went over and looked at her cell phone. She'd deliberately laid the thing facing up, and she stared at the black screen. She'd put the ringer on mute, but it would vibrate when Craeg called.

Any second.

Really.

Frowning, she bent down and woke the cell up, just in case she'd missed something. Which, granted, would be like someone not noticing a neon billboard in her room. Nope. No missed calls on the screen. No texts, either.

Just to be triple sure, she put her passcode in and checked the call log.

Nothing.

God, this was awful. She felt like she was standing on a parapet, looking at a long way down with nothing to catch herself on. Which was nuts—and a sign that her adrenal gland was waaaaaay over-assessing the threat to her personal safety. For godsakes, she wasn't going to lose an arm or a leg if he didn't call like he said he would. She would be perfectly fine.

And jeez, he wasn't even late yet.

Putting the phone back down, she resumed pacing.

That didn't last long. Two minutes later, she was back at the cell again.

Nothing.

Turning away, she got pissed at herself. Here she was, making this bid for independence and autonomy, and getting all GRRR about rejecting the
glymera
stuff—and yet she was worried whether some male called her for what was probably going to be a phone sesh just so he could get off.

Yeah, that really made her a feminist, right there.

Besides, she'd never had an orgasm before. What made him think that he could—

The sound of a snare drum rolling out over by the bedside had her racing back so fast she slipped on the carpet.

“Hello!” she barked as she caught herself.

There was a beat of silence. And then that deep voice, that delicious male voice, was right in her ear: “Where are you in your house.”

She looked around. “My bedroom?”

“Are the lights on.”

“Yes?” Funny, that ostensibly he was asking the questions and she was answering, but the reality was the reverse. She felt like she was the one making the inquiries.

“Get on your bed. Turn off the lights.”

“Okay.” She went over by the door and hit the switch—then she made her way back across and got up on the high mattress, kicking her shoes off and stretching out. “It's dark.”

Try pitch black.

Craeg made a sound, something she couldn't identify—and the experience was amazing. With the lights off, it was as if he were right next to her.

“You kill me in class,” he said in a guttural voice.

“Why?”

“I can't stop staring at you. I look at the nape of your neck.” That sound came again, and she realized it was
halfway between a purr and a growl . . . clearly, he was utterly aroused already. “I have these fantasies of going up behind you and tilting your head back. I run my hands down your throat . . . under your uniform . . . onto your breasts.”

Paradise's eyes fluttered shut. “Oh, God . . . you do?”

“All the time. Why do you think I couldn't get up out of my seat tonight.”

She had an image of him frozen in the back of the classroom, no expression on his face, his big body tense. “What are you talking about?”

“I was hard. And it would have showed.”

Paradise's body arched as she pictured what the front of his loose pants would have looked like, all stretched tight over that big rigid length of his.

“I need to sit down in front so I don't see you as much.” As she laughed softly, he moaned. “Do that again.”

“Do what?”

“That laugh. It's so fucking sexy.” When she obliged, she heard rustling. “Have you ever touched yourself, Paradise?”

She had a brief image of Novo, so secure, so sexual, so confident. And she thought about lying. “No.”

“I've been touching you in my head since I got back here.”

More images of him flickered across the black backdrop of the darkness in the room: him fighting the Brother Butch with such honor; him pumping weights; him staring at her in the locker room.

“What are you wearing?” he breathed.

“It's like you're here with me.”

“I am. What do you have on top?”

She glanced down in the dark and saw nothing. “I have a button-down blouse on.”

“Don't take it off,” he moaned. Or maybe that was another purr. “Put your hand inside the collar.”

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to
do what he said, and the sensation of her own fingertips going over her skin made shivers rush down her body.

“Are you wearing a bra?”

“Yes.”

“Can you feel one of the straps? It's warm from your skin, right?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Loosen the top button. Do it for me. Now go inside deep—is your nipple tight against the cup?”

As she complied, she meant to answer him yes, except she was breathing too hard and her mind had gone on the fritz. But he didn't seem to mind the silence.

Craeg laughed, the deep, dark ripple thrilling her. “I want my mouth on there. I want to look up and watch you gasp when I lick at you, suck on you.”

For a male who didn't say much, he sure could put a string of words together.

“I keep thinking about the clinic,” she heard herself say. “Your hand under the sheets. I remember exactly what it looked like, going up and down—”

“Fuck
.
”

“—until you—”

“Rip the shirt in half.”

“What?”

“Rip the fucking thing off your body,” he barked. “Put the fucking phone down and rip it in half!”

Buttons. Everywhere.

And God, that felt good, her torso arching up again as she tore the thing apart, the fastenings offering no resistance as she put her strength into the job.

Flopping back against the mattress, she scrambled to get the phone to her ear once more—and then heard him breathing harder and harder, except then he stopped.

In a tight tone, like he'd clamped his molars together, he gritted out commands for her to go under the cups of her bra and rub her nipples and feel the swells of her breasts and then get rid of the bra altogether. She didn't
hesitate, and was astonished to feel her own fingertips exploring the soft skin, the tight tips, creating bolts of electricity and heat that went straight to her core. And the entire time, he was talking in that velvet voice of his, coaching her in a deliberate way in spite of the erotic charge to it all, building her up slowly, inexorably. The higher she got, the hotter, the wetter, the less she cared about the modest, lady-like crap—and the more she wanted what he was giving to her.

But she kept her wits enough to stay relatively quiet. Even though she wanted to scream his name, the idea of a
doggen
or her father trying her locked door because they'd heard something would lead to conversations she wouldn't be able to fake her way through.

“Now what,” she moaned.

•   •   •

In the darkness of the bedroom he'd been assigned, Craeg was all in. All fucking in. The training center could have caught fire or been rocked by an earthquake and he wouldn't have cut the connection.

He had no idea what Paradise's room looked like, where her bed was, how many pillows she was up against, or what color the duvet might be. But he had a crystal-fucking-clear picture of what she'd be like, all stretched out and writhing, torn shirt hanging from her arms in two pieces, simple, modest bra undone, her breasts exposed.

Little nipples all high and tight, ready for his mouth.

“Can you feel me on you?” he demanded.

“Yes . . .” she gasped.

Good, then it was time to go down farther. Not on himself, though. He'd had to stop working his cock,
because when he did, he started to orgasm and that conked his brain out: More than anything, more than getting off himself, he wanted to make this right for her.

Because this was all they'd ever have. He had no fucking intention of taking her virginity—and if he wanted to keep that resolution, then he had to make sure there was an insurmountable distance between their naked bodies: The phone shit was the only safe way to do this. She would still be able to be considered respectable afterward, because touching herself was a very different proposition than some Neanderthal like him penetrating her sex until he came hard a couple of dozen times—and robbed the male she was eventually going to mate of his due.

As long as he never got her alone for very long, he was going to be able to do right by her—and he wasn't fooling himself. Their attraction was off the chain, but after the training was done? After all this was finished, assuming they both made it through?

Separate ways. Even if they ended up working together from time to time.

Bottom line, there was no domestic future for him to offer her. Especially after he began to work on his true purpose for all this training: Revenge. On the aristocrats who had allowed his father to be killed by the enemy.

He would not rest until their blood was on his hands.

“Take your fingers and bring them down your stomach,” he ordered. “What do you find?”

“The waistband of my jeans.”

“Undo the button.”

“Yes . . .”

There was a rustling, and then she was back talking to him. “And now?”

“The zipper.”

Another rustling. During which he imagined he was the one undoing things, spreading the fly wide, taking his
mouth and pressing a kiss to the lace of her panties. Or in her case, probably the cotton.

“Take the jeans off. Leave the panties on.”

More shifting around, the speaker in his ear fuzzing out.

Under the light sheet that covered his naked body, he couldn't help but grip himself and give a stroke or two. But as the top of his cock started to burn like it was going to blow, he had to stop.

Grinding his back teeth, he gritted out, “Put your hand between your thighs, spread those long legs . . . do it.”

He'd wanted to ease into it more, but he was too greedy. And so was she: The rippling moan she let out threw him right over the edge, his cock way done waiting for his palm to get with the program.

“Rub it,” he moaned as his erection kicked under the sheets, hot jets landing on his stomach as he orgasmed. “Oh, God, Paradise, stroke yourself through the cotton . . .” As she cried out, he could tell, even through his own release, that she was getting close. “Under—go under, feel the wet and the heat—feel it—oh, fuck . . . it's so smooth . . .”

She was panting now, and then she said his name like it was being torn out of her throat.

“Imagine my mouth on you there.”

That was when she came. And so did he once again as he listened to her suck air in and blow it out, a really fucking delicious pleading, begging sound coming across the connection.

Just the sound of her release gave him orgasm number three. And four.

“Keep going,” he said hoarsely, “feel my tongue lapping, my lips sucking . . .”

Sometime later, when it was finally over, all they did was breathe together.

For some insane reason, he found himself wanting to
be next to her and hold her—or some shit. He didn't know. All he was aware of was that he had this burning drive to make sure she was all right after what had gone down.

Now, the miles that separated them seemed like a punishment of some kind.

“You okay?” he asked roughly.

“Oh . . . yes . . .”

As he heard the smile in her voice, he started to grin himself—and didn't that make him glad he was alone and in the dark. He probably looked like a complete fucking idiot.

“You're beautiful,” he heard himself say. “You're amazing. You're incredible.”

She laughed in a burst. “You're silly.”

“Hardly. I was born without a sense of humor.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I'm the most unfunny male I know, and I never get jokes.”

“You know . . . come to think of it, I don't believe I've seen you smile yet.”

“Don't hold your breath.” He reached over to the bedside table, opened the drawer, and took out the pack of cigarettes and the Bic lighter he'd bought on the way back to the training center. “I smoke, by the way.”

Only after sex, he almost explained. But he didn't want to underscore that he'd ever been with anyone but her for some reason.

Tilting his head to the side to hold the phone to his ear with his shoulder, he fumbled around to open the Marls and take out a cancer stick. The lighter made a
shhhhht
as he fired it up, and he got a close-up visual of his fist as he brought the flame closer to his face. That first inhale was enough to make him moan all over again, and he kept the cig between his teeth as he patted around in the drawer for the ashtray, which he put on his bare chest.

“It's a bad habit,” he said by way of apology. “But at least vampires don't get cancer.”

As soon as he'd arranged this with her, he'd started planning about how he could get a cigarette for the afterward. Not very romantic.

Not that he was interested in romance, he reminded himself.

“So why don't you smile, Craeg.”

On its surface, the question/statement, whatever it was, could have been taken as a lighthearted, jokey kind of thing, but her serious tone cut that interpretation right off.