The Vampire Dimitri (26 page)

Before she could slide her hand down over the gentle ripples of his stomach, he moved, easing all along the length of her until his knees were on the floor. Before she could sit up, he had his hands up and under her skirt, sliding the layers up and baring her legs. When he bent to kiss the
inside of her thigh, Maia felt uncontrollable shivers starting up along her.

What if he bit her…
there?

His tongue moved sleek and strong along the sensitive skin inside her leg, and Maia watched his dark head moving against her ivory thigh. She caught a glimpse of his teeth, white and sharp, against her flesh, her breathing coming faster and harder as he moved higher up. A flash of a fang had her veins surging and pounding, and when he spread her legs, burying his face down in the heat of her there, Maia nearly arched off the sofa.

His fingers were clever and gentle, baring that most sensitive, most private part of her, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Maia realized she shouldn't be doing this. Not her, not Miss Woodmore, not the woman who was going to marry someone…else….

But she didn't care. This was it, this was
him,
this was what she wanted…and his mouth was hot and fervent, and she quivered, swollen and wet, and when his tongue slid over her quim, she knew she couldn't stop this. She didn't want to, especially when he did something that made her insides gather up and explode into deep trembling waves.

Nothing…she'd never felt anything like that before.

“Oh…” she whispered, her hand closing over his head, still settled between her legs, her fingers buried in his warm hair. But she knew there was more, and she wanted it.

“Please,” she murmured as she'd done before, not knowing precisely what she wanted or needed, but knowing that he—only he—could give it to her.

He shook his head against her, down by her knee, giving her a quick slip of tongue in the curve there.

“More,” she whispered.

“No.” His breath and lips were hot against her. “Don't be
a fool.” He slipped his tongue down around in the heat of her and she gave a little squeak of pleasure, a shot of fire rippling through her. “You can't,” he said. “Yes…
please.
I want…all of it.”

And when, suddenly, he pulled away, his face hot and eyes burning, she almost wailed in distress. She throbbed, ready again for more. For the rest of it.

But then he was tearing at the buttons on the fall of his trousers, and she was helping him, and he gave a short, sharp shake of his head as he muttered, “Always interfering, Miss Woodmore,” and then he was there, against her again, this time his bare chest warm, printing on her skin.

She didn't see him, that hard bulge she'd felt earlier, and for a moment, she was bereft, feeling lost…but then his fingers moved between them, and found the very hard, tight core of her being, and before she knew it, they'd slipped and slid around so that she was even more full and hot and throbbing, and then he paused.

“Maia,” he breathed, withdrawing his hand. She knew it was a question. “This is—”

“No,” she said, shifting against him, in distress. “Please.”

He made a soft, strangled sound, and the next thing she knew, he shifted and fitted himself to her. Maia sighed: this was it.
Yes.

Then he moved and she felt a snap of pain deep inside. Maia froze for a moment, her eyes opening, the pleasure filtering away…but before she could think, he began to move. And her mouth gaped, her body heated, and everything in her world became focused on the sleek slide, in and out. It was long and beautiful, this feeling of
right,
the tingle of desire centering there between them.

He muttered something deep and low near her ear, but she couldn't understand. She didn't care. There was the heat and
the rhythm and the growing blossoming, and she cried out when he sank his teeth into her shoulder, her body seeming to explode deep inside.

Pleasure undulated through her in little echoing ripples as he groaned into her skin, his body hot and damp against her. And then he moved one last time, hard and deep, with a soft cry of exertion. He pulled his face away, burying his forehead into her neck, the scent of blood in her nose as he shuddered against her.

N
o sooner did the blaze of pleasure and fulfillment begin to fade than a cold, hard stone settled in Dimitri's middle.

By Fate, what have I done?

A chill washed over him and he drew in a deep breath, his mind shooting off in many different directions.

He halted it with cold control.
No
. There'd be time for recriminations and regrets later. Now he must keep his thoughts clear and extricate himself—literally and figuratively—from…
this.

This…moment of quiet fulfillment, of delight, of something that had shaken him deep in his core. Something that made his insides move, like a heated flower opening and sending its warmth through him. But that quickly turned bleak.

He forced himself to open his eyes, pulling up gently from her shoulder. He'd already retracted his fangs, but the essence of blood still lingered on his tongue, filtering into his nostrils.
Beautiful.
Her eyes were closed, her face slack with
satiation. He'd never seen anything that made his heart ache like this. Though he must, he couldn't look away.

Her lips, full and moist, rosy and inviting, were half-parted. The damp braid that had confined all of the strands of blond, bronze, copper, auburn and walnut was a distant memory, and her long, thick hair clung in places to her skin, and his, as well. Bare throat and shoulders, with an uncovered breast that couldn't have been more perfect. The mere sight of it, the memory of its smooth, sweet texture, the hard, sensitive nipple beneath his tongue and lips, made his body begin to tighten all over again.

What have I done to you? To me?

Even as he pulled away, Dimitri struggled with how to undo what could not be undone. He pulled down the cold wall behind which he could be safe, and watched as Maia—
Miss Woodmore, she must be Miss Woodmore again
—opened her eyes with a flutter.

So wrong.

He wanted to poke at her, to cut with his words and send her reeling away. If he did that, then she could continue to loathe the Earl of Corvindale. She could wed Bradington with perhaps a twinge of conscience, but at least she would still wed him.

Instead of demanding that Dimitri come up to snuff. Tempting him.

That would…could…never happen.

“Corvindale.”

Even the way she said his name, still used his title in all formality, sounded husky and intimate.

He'd sat up and was putting himself to rights, rebuttoning his trousers and then locating his shirt in a crumpled wad on the floor.
Your shirt, Corvindale. Make it go away.

You won't hurt me.

Please.

He closed his eyes.
Lucifer's bloody hell.

She was sitting up now, and he dared not look at her and see those wide, questioning eyes. Hurt. Or perhaps they would be filled with anger and recrimination—as they rightly should be.

“Corvindale,” she said again, more firmly. “Look at me.”

He hesitated, then did as she asked. Thank the Fates she'd pulled up her bodice and righted the rest of her clothing. The only sign of their activities was the new bite on her shoulder. He slid his gaze up to her face. What he saw there was not question nor confusion, neither was it anger or recrimination. There was a hint of softness, the heavy-liddedness of pleasure, and something else. Acceptance?

“I suppose this wasn't what Chas had in mind when he named you guardian,” she said, pulling all of that thick bundle of hair forward over one shoulder. She began to plait it in a fat braid.

He swallowed a derisive sound. “You do realize, Miss Woodmore, that, while I cannot begin to make things right in regards to this, nothing will change.”

She lifted an eyebrow, her green-brown eyes fastened on him with a bland expression. She was silent for a moment before replying, “What precisely do you mean that nothing will change?”

He noticed that her busy fingers were either very quick, or they were trembling a bit. Sorrow pitted his insides. “I mean that we need never speak of or acknowledge this…er…event to anyone. No one need ever know, and you will go on to wed Bradington without even a whiff of scandal.”

Maia—blast it, Miss Woodmore—continued to watch him steadily. She'd finished with the braid and now her fingers
settled in her lap, within the folds of her gown so that he couldn't tell if they were shaking.

“The way you put it, it's really rather simple then, isn't it, my lord? We both go on as if nothing has happened. But in fact, Corvindale, you clearly realize that a great deal has happened.” Her voice became more strident, rising a bit at the end. She wasn't shouting, or even furious. But simply strong. Knowing.

“I realize that you can never—nor should you—forgive me for my behavior today. It was beyond inexcusable. I shall settle an additional dowry on you for a wedding gift as an apology and a clumsy attempt to comfort you. I'm quite certain, as well, that your brother will remove you from my guardianship immediately.”

“I thought,” she said from between unmoving lips, “you just said no one need ever know. I presumed Chas was included in that statement. Or,” she continued, a new flash of fire in her eyes, “was this all a great ruse to entice him to remove me and my sisters from your custody?”

“Certainly
not,
” he snapped. “I had no intention of ever coming near you, Miss Woodmore. Let alone—
this.”

She nodded. “That is what I thought. I'm relieved to know that my impressions were correct.” Standing, she continued, “So I am to understand that, firstly, you are apologetic for today's events. Secondly, you wish for no one to know what has transpired. And third, that you intend to bestow a great deal of money upon my nuptial union in order to assuage yourself from any lingering guilt you might have. Do I have that right?”

Dimitri managed to nod. This was so…odd.

“A
great
deal of money,” she repeated, spearing him with her eyes. “Correct?”

He nodded again.

“Because of your behavior.”

He nodded a bit more slowly this time. Was this some sort of snare?

“Then I have one further question for you, Corvindale.” Again, those syllables took on a bit of a note of intimacy merely because they came from her mouth.

“And what is that?” He glanced toward the door of the parlor, for he'd heard the sounds of someone approaching. Or, more likely, Rubey listening at the door.

“What sort of recompense do you expect me to offer for
my
behavior?”

He stilled, staring at her. “Er…”

“After all,” she continued even as the parlor door rattled, “I was a fully participatory member in what occurred here. In fact,” she added, spearing him with her eyes, “I do believe I was rather instrumental in them. I did say please, did I not?”

The door opened and Rubey stood there. “Dimitri, your carriage has arrived.”

What the hell had taken so long?

 

Dimitri didn't join Miss Woodmore in the carriage. He wasn't that much of a fool.

Instead he sent her back to Blackmont Hall with a relieved Tren handling the reins. Then he glared at the far-too-fascinated Rubey and induced her to loan him her vehicle.

He had a particular visit to make.

The fact that it was yet another gray, foggy day in London only added to the ease with which he alighted from the carriage in front of Lenning's Tannery and ducked under the wooden awning that stretched in front of the antiquarian bookstore.

For a moment he hesitated, peering through the window,
aware of the sun's rays filtering through the fog and teasing the back of his neck between hat and collar. The shop seemed dark and empty, and he was suddenly terrified that Wayren had gone.

But when he pushed on the door, it opened and he stepped in.

Drawing in a deep breath of peaceful, musty air, Dimitri closed the door behind him. The place was silent and the only illumination came from a distant corner of the shop. It was a soft, orange-yellow glow that displayed the dust motes he'd just stirred with his entrance.

For some reason, he felt odd about disturbing the silence and calling for the shopkeeper. Or perhaps he feared that she wasn't there, and that he would have to continue to face his confusion and frustration on his own.

When he heard the soft scuff of a foot on the floor, followed by the whisper of fabric over the ground, Dimitri's heart leaped and he turned.

Wayren appeared from around a corner. Interestingly enough, she didn't emerge from the area with the light, but from one of the more shadowy ones. Today, she was empty-handed and without her spectacles.

“And so here you are,” she said, eyeing him steadily.

Dimitri nodded. His mouth didn't seem able to move, nor his brain to form the words he needed to speak. He didn't know what to say—how to ask.

She waited. Peace and serenity emanated from her, along with the indefinable scent of something warm and comforting.

“You were there,” he said at last. “You…stopped me.”

She continued to watch him with those peaceful eyes. “You stopped yourself, Dimitri of Corvindale.”

He shook his head, the black bubble of uncertainty
spreading like tar inside him. “If you hadn't appeared in my mind…I would have killed her. I would have taken and taken, I would have drained her to death.” It had been the flash of a vision, clear as if she'd been standing in front of him, that had erupted in his mind as he fed on Maia. That peaceful face with the serene blue-gray eyes had broken through the red-tinged world of need and pleasure, easing the desperation. Giving him a reprieve.

“As I said, you stopped yourself. I did nothing.”

“But you did show yourself to me.”

She raised her brows with a noncommittal expression, and he realized that he would get no confirmation from her. She seemed to know whereof he spoke, but that was the most she would give.
I can do nothing for you,
she'd said once.

She had done something.

But it hadn't been enough. Where had she been when he was first faced with the choice from Lucifer? Why hadn't she stopped him then?

Wayren was looking at him, almost as if she could read what was in his mind. “You had the choice then, Dimitri. You made the decision of your own free will.”

“I was weak. He took advantage of my weakness,” Dimitri replied. But even to him, the words sounded hollow. Even then, he'd known there was something wrong. Something evil. He'd hesitated, yes, but then he'd allowed himself to be tricked, manipulated in a moment of desperation. For all he knew, Meg might have lived anyway. For all he knew, Luce had known it then, as well.

“Aye, Dimitri. He did. That is what the Fiend does.” Despite her words, Wayren watched him with a calm, peaceful expression. “He makes it easy to see his way. He takes advantage.”

Just as I did.

The image of Maia's face, slack with pleasure, filled with her own sort of peace, slid into Dimitri's mind. He shoved it away.

It was too late. He'd lied when he told Maia nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

“And so now all of my years of self-denial are for naught,” he said. “It's over.”

She looked at him searchingly. “Is that so?”

“Of course it's so,” he replied, more angrily than he'd ever spoken to her. “How can I expect to break the covenant, to distance myself from the devil, if I act like the demon he turned me into? If I take from people, feed on them, pull their very life from them, how can I ever become human again?”

“So you've fed on a mortal, for the first time in decades, and you believe that action has destroyed your chance to be released from the Fiend? Oh, yes, I can see that a century of self-denial has already gotten you so very close to your desire.”

He glared at her mutely. She was looking at him with a sort of arch expression that he'd never seen before. “You don't understand,” he said tightly. “I
fed
from a person. I drank her blood. I…” His voice trailed off as saliva filled his mouth. Even now, he could hardly control the physical reaction of his long-denied body. He could still taste it. Feel the energy, the
life
flowing through him. “It's a violation. A sin.”

“But has denying yourself done anything but make you a cold, hard, empty shell? Hardly a person at all.”

To his shock and eternal mortification, Dimitri felt a stinging in his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose fiercely before any tears could form. “My…dislike of social
engagement has nothing to do with the problem at hand.

I've never been…particularly social.”

“Have you read the story I gave you?” Wayren asked.

Dimitri frowned, blinking hard. “The fairy tale about the beast? A bit of it. I found nothing of relevance.”

“Indeed?”

Impatience flooded him, and he made a sharp, frustrated gesture with his hand. “I'm sorry to have bothered you.

I thought…” He shook his head sharply, pressing his lips together.

“Dimitri of Corvindale,” Wayren said. Her voice had gentled. “If you want to become truly human again—no longer bound to the Fiend—first you must allow yourself to live again. To feel again.”

“I
feel,
” he snarled.

“Do you? Or do you snarl and growl—as you've done here, today—and then run in the opposite direction when ever something begins to soften your heart?”

“Earls don't run,” he snapped, but something shifted deep inside him.

She smiled at him. “No, not this one. Instead you lock yourself away within a barricade of stone walls so that none can touch you, so that you can keep yourself from feeling anything.”

It was safer that way. Easier. Less complicated. “I lock myself away so I can study,” he said. But even to him, the words sounded false. “I don't like to be bothered.”