Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (24 page)

BOOK: Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire
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“My princess…” Bright, greedy eyes roamed over her, flashing with a hunger her blood could never feed. “You are so beautiful.”

Her own eyes glistened with thankful tears as his hand moved down her shoulder, his thumb tracing the curve of her right breast.

“I have thought about this,” he said, his fangs descending, “thought about you—touching you, tasting you, for as long as my memory will hold.”

“So have I,” she uttered, her hips pressing forward, trying to get at him, get closer to what her body craved.

He laughed softly. “In your bed. I remember.”

“That was not for you to see.”

“That was
only
for me to see.” He lowered his head and licked her nipple.

She gasped as the feeling shot straight down through her belly to her core.

“And I will not apologize for it,” he said, his breath on her nipple causing it to swell and beg for him. “For my covetous stare. For watching, panting as you touched yourself, your hands moving down your belly. Your fingers sliding through the lips of your cunt to find the hot, aching clit beneath.”

She could barely breathe, barely rasp out the words, “Bad
paven
.”

Chuckling with satisfaction, Lucian bent his head and pressed his lips over her nipple. He drew it so deeply into his mouth, Bronwyn cried out with the pain/pleasure of it. The wetness between her thighs said everything, said yes, Lucian Roman had claimed her. She was his. Truth or a lie, she didn’t care, and she brought her hands up and thrust them into his hair. She wanted him to suckle her deeper, take her under him and bury his large prick inside her where he could truly declare ownership.

Her gaze slipped down to watch him, his head to her chest, his white hair bracketing her breast like a cloud, his harsh, demanding mouth, wet and stroking. Oh, God…Her core clenched, releasing more moisture against the thin fabric of her underclothes. The agitation, the need—the need to be filled was making her writhe, her legs moving, her hips lifting—she just wanted her panties off, wanted to feel his hips against hers, feel his long, thick rod pressing against her nether lips, begging entrance to the hot, wet sheath it craved.

Or demanding it.

Lucian’s hands slid to her nightgown again and down it went—over her belly, her hips, down to her knees. She was nearly completely exposed to him—all that remained was the strip of white cotton that covered her. The soaking wet strip of cotton.

His nostrils flared then, and he lifted his head. “Oh, God, Princess. Your scent. As much as I would love to see you work your cunt again, up close and personal this time, I must have you, taste you. Fuck, I want to drown in you, bury my face in your pussy and lap up every drop.”

His words had her moaning, moaning his name—she sounded so desperate. His hands were on her belly now, moving down—his head too. Bronwyn wanted to feel embarrassed, maybe even momentarily startled by his direction, his course of action, but she felt only the electric pangs of passion and the provocative urgency of a
veana
who wanted everything her
paven
had just described.

“You have my blood inside you, Bronwyn,” he said, his chin resting just above her pelvic bone as he stared up at her.

“And you have mine.” Her gaze locked with his, so beautifully fierce, so tight with desire.

“I want to taste more than your blood.” His fingers closed around the waistband of her panties. “I want the very essence of you inside me.” He looked at her through his lashes and grinned. His eyes were the darkest she’d ever seen them. “I want to show you just how good a simple kiss can be.”

Her stomach fluttered, her core releasing more moisture, and before she could stop him, Lucian bent his head and ripped her panties from her hips with his fangs.

Her hips jerked and her breath hitched in her throat.

“Part your legs for me, lass,” he commanded on a growl. “Wide, so I can go deep, drink deep. Fuck your sweet cunt with my tongue.”

Bronwyn licked her lips. She felt a quick shudder of nervousness as she stared down at him, his gaze so viciously hungry, so dark and excited with his lust. She knew how wet she was, how it rained from her, relentless. What if she didn’t please him, what if—

His growl turned into a stream of curses as his gaze took in the sight before him. “Ah, lass, this is torture—this is the real torture. You, my princess, are the most delectable thing I’ve ever seen in my long life.” One hand, the shackled hand, grasped her knee and drew it back. “Hot-pink and so wet. Crying for me.” He lifted his eyes to her. “You have the sweetest pussy, Bron. And it’s mine. All mine to taste, to suckle, to devour.”

He lowered his head and lapped at her with his tongue, running it straight through her slit, then up over her clitoris.

Bronwyn’s hips jerked like a wanton, like a
veana
who wanted more, wanted deeper and quicker.

Lucian spread her pussy lips with his fingers and groaned. “Yes. Fuck yes, there you are. That’s where I want to go.” Then he dropped his head and slid his tongue inside her.

Bron gasped and writhed beneath him. The feelings running through her were savage and untamed. Electric pulses hit every muscle, every cell. Never had she felt such all-consuming pleasure, never had she wanted something, someone, so much. And as he worked his tongue in and out of her like his prick had done on the island, she melted, died, ached, but with absolutely no relief. Not that she wanted relief. God, now she didn’t want this to end, ever. She wanted the pleasure of his tongue, his teeth on her forever.

“Ahhhh, yeah,” she heard him moan between her legs. He gripped her hip bones, the long chain stretching, slapping gently against her thigh as he slid up to her clit. “It’s begging for me, Bron. It’s so red, so full.
Should I lick it nice and slow or suck it into my mouth and make you come?”

“I can’t come,” she cried, her ears filled with the sounds of the fire crackling behind her and screams of pleasure coming from her body, her skin, her core. “Not yet. Please, Luca, not yet.”

He chuckled softly, his lips, his breath so close to her clit. “Tell me what you want, lass.”

“You’re doing it,” she uttered. “It’s perfect.”

“Tell me,” he urged. “Tell me to lick you.”

She shook her head, her body on fire, her nipples so hard it was painful. She couldn’t. She couldn’t…

“You must,” he said wickedly. “Say the words. Say the words and I will lick your sweet clit so softly, feather-light strokes until you fall apart under me.”

“Oh, God,” she cried out, her hips jerking, shaking. She was desperate, so desperate for him she’d do anything, say anything he asked of her. “Lick me—”

“Lick my tight cunt, Lucian,” he corrected, dropping his head and giving her pulsating clit one soft lap. “Say it, Princess.”

She pulled in a breath, her lungs so tight she thought she might die from the pressure. “Please, Lucian,” she begged. “Lick me, lick my tight cunt.”

His head disappeared between her thighs and his tongue went to work on her clit. Slow, gentle circles as his fangs grazed the flesh surrounding. It was too much. Bronwyn felt herself slipping away, her mind unhinged, perhaps dead now—dead and gone. All that remained were the sounds of him as he fed from her. She arched her back, moaned, gripped his head, his scalp, his white hair with her fingers until he hissed.

“Oh, yes,” she called out, riding his mouth as the heat began to build inside her.

No!
She wasn’t ready. She wanted him all day, for hours. She wasn’t going to come.

But as his tongue moved quicker over her clit, as the heat and the pressure collided into a mass of uncontrolled sparks, she knew holding on was impossible.

And then he slid two fingers inside of her and she lost all control. Her skin went tight, her head buzzed, and she felt herself cream all around him.

“Ah, you have the sweetest taste any
paven
could wish for,” he whispered, his breath moving tantalizingly, achingly over her wet, sensitive lips. “I will lick every last drop from your pussy, lass; then I will hear you scream.”

His mouth closed around her clit and as his fingers played inside the hot, wet channel of her body, he sucked.

Bronwyn’s hands left his hair and fisted around the pallet, her breathing so ragged she couldn’t keep up with her own movement, much less the hope that she could prolong her climax. It was too much, too wonderful, too perfect, and so she let go, let his fiercely passionate suckle on her clit, his fingers moving inside her like a piston, drive her over the edge.

Without the thought of his earlier command, she screamed—loud and long and without care. A shower of sparks had erupted inside her and she could do nothing but take them and cry and pump and die under his mouth.

Her blood—or was it his?—rushed from her veins toward his mouth, his tongue, and she came, tumbled over the edge, her legs shaking, her hips spasming as
she rode the waves of pleasure, rode his mouth and fingers until exhaustion struck her down.

“Oh, God,” she uttered, unable to breathe, to think. He’d destroyed her, and yet given her life in the process. She lay there, trembling, wanting to move, wanting him, but unable to move. Tears fell from the corners of her eyes, but not from sadness, from the purity of release. She’d never felt so boneless, so heavenly, so deeply relaxed, and she wanted to remember the feeling always.

Lucian was beside her in an instant, pulling her into his arms. “Come, my tired one.”

“Your blood is a drug to me,” she said, burrowing into him where it was warm, safe.

“As yours is to me,” he growled.

“But your body,” she murmured, unable to think properly…“Your hands, your tongue…”

“I know. Fuck, I know.”

“I want to touch you, Luca. I want—”

He kissed her temple. “Not now. Now, you rest.”

Her breath was gone, her words too. All she wanted was him, all she wished for was to stay in his arms forever—for the pure true mate love she had longed for since
balashood
to be real. But what was the truth? She burrowed deeper into his flesh to avoid answering, even silently. Yet it was there…He could have no true mate, and in the blink of an eye, his safe arms could become weapons to hurt her—her perfect fantasy into her most ultimate nightmare. Conflicted down to her soul, she whispered, “What are we going to do, Luca?”

“Sleep,” he said, his jaw tight, and yet his hand on her back was so gentle.

“Not that,” she said, utterly wiped out now, the warmth of the fire lulling her. “About us. What is the future for us?”

Too late, she wished she could call the words back. Future? Us? She was a fool. How could there be a future?

“Not tonight, Princess. Tonight you must rest.” He turned onto his back and took her with him, let her fall easy against his chest. “I will read to you, shall I?”

“Hmmm,” she breathed, “that would lovely.”

Her eyes closed then, and as he read
Treasure Island
to her in a soft, husky baritone, she drifted off into a sound, gentle, and very warm sleep.

Lucian, however, remained awake.

Something was happening. A sound he knew touched his ears, a feeling of foreboding pulsed through him. Then, on the stone wall before him, moving in those slow, easy waves he both recognized and despised, were letters carved with an unseen hand.

Beware, my son. Cruen and his
mutore
advance. They will not stop until they have you caged. They will kill whomever they must to get to you.

Including Bronwyn Kettler.

The only words in the message that had Lucian’s fangs extending were the final ones. He pulled Bronwyn closer to his side and growled a word of warning himself…

Mine
.

Synjon’s insides felt as though they’d been stuffed through a meat grinder. But he didn’t give a donkey’s arse. He needed to see her again. Up close. Know that what he’d seen through those razor-sharp specs had
been complete bollocks—that his mind was playing tricks—bloody cruel tricks.

Couldn’t be his love, his
veana
. It was impossible. She was dead. And though her body had been stolen before he’d ever had a chance to give her over to the sun, he’d seen her murdered. He’d chased her killer into the woods near their home until the coward had flashed away with her body in his arms.

Syn had never forgiven himself for being a premorph and unable to flash, and his body, his veins, had never stopped craving her. Never would.

On the rock ledge facing one window in the compound, Synjon raised his blade and cut through the glass, popped it out, then expertly slid through the opening.

He’d be quick, unseen like the ghost he was named for, and he would find this imposter who tortured him with a hope he could not have, did not deserve. And once he revealed her identity, he could get back to work.

He had to find the one who truly waited for his rescue.

Bronwyn.

The
veana
he would never let down.

The
veana
he would never fail.

With the memory of his father’s warning still very much imprinted on his brain, Lucian flexed his muscles in frustration. “If you’d free me, I could help you with that.”

Bronwyn was warming water on the stove for the bath, but glanced over her shoulder to answer him. “I don’t have the key. One of the guards has it and, as we both can see, they haven’t returned yet. It’s why I need to go to town. Find those males and bring them back.”

Yes, the guards—where were those bastards? Screw his own protection; how the hell was he to protect Bronwyn?

“I should be going with you.” Not chained to the wall like a dog, unable to bite if any problems should arise.

“Agreed,” she said, carrying the water over to the tub and pouring it in. “But unless you’re capable of ripping down the stone wall and taking it along, then you’re sort of stuck here.”

He watched the steam rise from her nearly full tub. He didn’t want to overreact to what Titus had written on the wall and scare the
veana
before him, but he needed to find a way to calmly talk her out of this journey. “You don’t know your way.”

BOOK: Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire
11.88Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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