Demon Marked (26 page)

“But what are we—”

“Trust me, and keep quiet.” Andre hustled her up the stairs behind Tyrone and followed the large, silent man down a narrow hallway to the right.

Once again, Boudreaux's underwent a dramatic shift in character from one floor to the next. Instead of bright pink or baby blue, the walls were covered in simple wood paneling interspersed with black, numbered doors. The music playing downstairs pumped through speakers in the ceiling, presumably to cover the sounds of the people busy in the sweat rooms to their right and left. At this early hour, the rooms all seemed empty, but Tyrone still led them down to the last door on the right, lucky number thirteen.

Outside the door, a girl in a green silk wrap thrown hastily over her stripper gear stood with a silver tray holding a cup of steaming liquid, a dish of silver powder, several small mixing bowls, and a hypodermic needle still in its plastic wrapping. Just looking at the needle made Andre's skin crawl.

“She can take the powder in the tea or mix it with a little water and inject. Shooting will be faster, but it might make her sicker. If she starts having convulsions, stick the wooden mixer between her teeth so she doesn't bite her tongue,” the girl said, swift and nonchalant with her instructions, as if she talked to people on the verge of overdose every day. She slipped into the room ahead of Tyrone, leaving her tray on a small table by a tidy, twin-sized bed.

The bed was made up all in white, with a simple comforter and sheets that smelled of bleach and cheap laundry detergent, topped with a red pillow like the cherry on a sundae. The floor was bare except for a thick brown and red shag rug, and the walls were painted a deep red with a swirling pattern in dark brown that swept from the floor to the ceiling.

On the whole, it was far nicer—and cleaner—than Andre had anticipated. It would make the testing of his latest hypothesis a whole lot more comfortable now that he and Emma could actually sit down somewhere without catching a venereal disease.

“You've got two hours,” Tyrone said as the girl in green left the room. “But if you take longer, it's no big deal. We don't get many people using the VIP room.”

“Thanks,” Andre said, all but carrying Emma into the room and sitting her down on the bed.

She was getting weaker with every passing minute. If his plan didn't work, he would have to take her down to Jeremiah's office, no matter how the thought terrified him. He wasn't going to let her die, not even if it meant being an accessory to murder.

“Credit card or cash deposit?” Tyrone asked, holding out one meaty hand. “It's two grand for the room and another two for the antivenom.”

Emma gasped at the numbers, but Andre didn't blink. Demon drugs themselves might be relatively cheap, but the antivenom went for ten times the price of an equal amount of Hamma claws. It was cheap to party. It was a lot more expensive to live.

He handed over his credit card.

“You can sign and pick it up at the front desk on your way out,” Tyrone said before turning and leaving the room without a backward glance, apparently unconcerned by the low moaning sound Emma made as she fell to her side on the bed.

But then, he'd probably seen worse. The bodies of the people who didn't survive the antivenom didn't get down all those stairs and dumped in some trash bin on the other side of Southie on their own. Someone had to carry them, and Tyrone was the biggest guy he'd seen around the club so far. He might suit Emma's needs after all.

The thought comforted him. The more potential energy sources, the better, though he still hoped with everything in him that they wouldn't need that sort of “food”—that Emma might not need that sort of food ever again.

Andre waited until Tyrone closed the door and then went to turn the two locks, ensuring them at least a few seconds' notice if Tyrone or someone else with keys decided to interrupt. Andre didn't anticipate interruption, however. From everything he'd heard about Boudreaux's, the establishment was known for its discretion ... at least in everything except decorative choices for their first-floor showroom.

“Please, Andre,” Emma moaned, trying to sit up but failing. “Let's just go. I'll find someone else. We can go out the window, down the hall, and—”

“No more sneaking through windows. You've done enough of that for one day,” he said, crossing back to the bed and easing her onto her back, unable to keep from noticing how beautiful the spark could be.

Lying there, shimmering like some golden goddess, Emma looked too perfect to be real. Even with her hairline damp with sweat and her lips pressed together in pain, she was gorgeous. Katie had been gorgeous, too, but for the first time in years, thinking about Katie didn't hurt quite as much.

“Andre, please. You don't understand—”

“I understand.” He shrugged off his coat, letting it drop to the rug, making a mental note to burn this suit at the first opportunity. “You sucked the life out of a drug addict and it's giving you a bad Hamma trip. You need something to counteract the venom.”

“Yes, but the antivenom only made it worse last time.” Her brows drew together as she watched his fingers work open the two buttons left on his shirt, the ones she hadn't popped off when she'd ripped it off of him earlier. “I promise you, I ...”

His shirt joined his suit coat on the floor, and his hands went to his belt, working the leather through the tight loops. Emma's eyes grew large with understanding.

“Andre. We can't. I—”

“You said you felt charged after we had sex. Right? So why don't we see if I can help you out.” He pushed his pants to the ground along with his briefs, until he stood before her completely naked, his cock thickening at her soft inhalation. She might not feel her best at the moment, but she still wanted him. He could see it in the way her lips parted, in the way her fingers dug into the blanket beneath her. “Now, take off your clothes.”

Emma's wide eyes grew even wider. “No! I'm not going to let you take that kind of risk when—”

“Fine. I'll take them off for you.” He reached for the close of her belt. For a second, he thought she would fight him, but the look in his eyes must have made her think better of it.

Instead, she lay back, breath growing shallow as he unbelted and unbuckled and pulled her jeans and panties roughly down to her knees. For a second, he thought about taking off her boots so that he could finish stripping off her clothes, worried about making her more comfortable. But then he saw the look in her eyes and knew she couldn't care less about comfort. She wanted to feel better, yes, but she wanted him to fuck her nearly as much. He'd seen that hooded look of desire on dozens of female faces, but it had never aroused him as much as it did right now.

“Roll over. Lift your hips,” he said, growing hotter, harder, as he realized he'd be balls deep in Emma Quinn in a matter of seconds.

“I can't.” Emma's lips parted and her tongue flicked out along her dry lips. “You have to help me.”

“Not a problem.” He reached for her again, but this time she lifted her hands, warning him away.

“Do you know what you're risking? Really? Do you know—”

“I know. Now, roll over.”

“Andre, I—” Her words ended in a grunt as her gripped her hips and flipped her onto her stomach, then pulled her legs around until they dropped off the edge of the narrow bed. Her boots hit the floor with a thud Andre could barely hear over the pounding of his pulse. Emma's new arrangement put her pussy in the perfect position, her slick opening pressed tight against the base of his cock. All he had to do was pull back and adjust himself the barest inch and he'd be inside of her, shoving into her heat, banishing the fear and hurt flooding his body in a frantic pleasure that just might kill him.

What if he was wrong about sex creating the energy she needed without hurting him? What if there was a heart attack in his immediate future? More important ... what if fucking didn't give her enough fuel to fight the poison in her body? What if this was a potentially deadly waste of time for both of them?

“Please,” Emma whispered, her voice breathy and her body trembling lightly beneath the fingers he rested on her hips. “Don't make me ...”

“Don't make you what? Fuck me?” Even the thought that she might not want him reopened the painful hole in his chest.

The same hole she'd ripped open when she'd described the last moment he'd seen Katie alive, the one she'd made even deeper when she'd run from him, having the nerve to suspect him of trying to steal that stupid book.

“No.” She turned to look at him over her shoulder, caramel eyes filled with such raw need that he felt the echo of it screaming across his skin. “Don't make me hate myself any more than I already do. I don't want to hurt you. ... I ...” Her voice broke and her fathomless eyes shone with unshed tears. “I think I love you.”

His anger slipped away, the string on a balloon escaping into the sky. “I love you, too.” His voice was so choked with emotion, it was hardly recognizable. What she made him feel ... it was more than he could handle, more than his mind could process with Emma bent over in front of him, vulnerable and yet still so far beyond his reach.

So he didn't try to process or understand; he simply positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside, fear melting away as he sank deeper and deeper, until he was completely encased in her heat, her body, the core of her that was by far the most addictive place he'd ever been. But it wasn't his addictive personality that gave him the control he needed to move slowly, to wait until Emma cried out in pleasure and lifted her hips before he quickened his thrusts, until he drove into her faster and faster with a force that made her groan and shove back against him, as hot and ready and desperate for the pleasure they would find together as he was.

No, it wasn't addiction. Or experience. Or compassion. Or the fact that he was a decent man who would never hurt a woman.

It was love. It was love that made him hold back his own release, to keep driving when Emma's back arched and she came with a long, low moan. It was love that urged him to thrust harder, faster, even when the blue glow came again, illuminating the curves of Emma's pale flesh, highlighting her golden hair with streaks of sapphire.

Almost immediately he could see Emma's vitality begin to return, but the light didn't hurt him any more than it had the last time. If anything, it made the last few seconds before he lost himself even more intense. He was climbing to the top of the world with this woman, taking in the humbling beauty of creation from a pure, perfect place he'd never dreamed existed before toppling off the edge into wonder with Emma by his side. He'd never felt so free, never known making love could be as much a spiritual pleasure as a physical one.

Only with her, only with Emma, had he ever been liberated by desire rather than chained to its side. It made him love her even more, made him certain she was worth this risk, worth any risk. Her power might be the work of evil demons, but there was nothing wicked or bad in Emma Quinn. Despite the lies, he believed that with everything in him.

If he didn't die of a heart attack in the next few hours, he was going to do his best to make sure she believed it, too.

E
mma fought the driving need to come again, but her body was quickly spiraling out of her control. She'd never felt so damned
good
, so satiated, so drunk on sex and love and life. Inside her addled cells, the dark craving fed with a vengeance on the sexual heat she and Andre created, just as it had in the flower shop. There were still no memories, no sense of sin or bad karma flowing from Andre into her. There was only fullness. So much fullness. She was full to the brim with him—his passion, his energy, his spirit. The world spun and pitched and tossed her in the air like a doll, and she never, ever wanted it to end.

But she didn't want to come again, either. She couldn't. Hell, she
could
, she
could
in a heartbeat, but there was some good reason she
shouldn't
. In the fever Andre inspired, it was hard to remember what that reason was, but—

Andre cried out, his cock jerking, the liquid heat of his release flooding inside of her, sending her over the edge.

Emma's head fell back as she lost the battle against bliss. She came, her back arching with the force of her orgasm, her fingers clawing into the blanket beneath her. She screamed—a wild, feral sound—and wiggled her hips in a shameless attempt to force him deeper, to draw the moment of mindlessness out a little longer, to lose herself in the magic of what he did to her.

She'd never imagined sex could be like this. That she could feel so subjugated, yet so powerful, at the same time.