The Vampire Queen's Servant (48 page)

Long, slow strokes. Short
strokes to tease her clit, but then back to long and slow interchanging strokes
that began to inspire low, guttural noises of demand from her, noises he
answered in kind as she began to arch back for him, meeting his thrusts. He
picked up the pace and the strength, making those deep strokes harder, deeper,
more forceful and punishing. Working her hard, covering her like a male predator,
sure of his power, seeking his own pleasure but also seeking to make her
acknowledge his claim. She saw it flash through his mind. There'd been Rex, and
Thomas, and others he didn't want to know about. There were the things she'd
made him endure tonight. Richard's touch. The whole performance, her punishment
for his disobedience. Through it all, there'd been one word to help him
maintain his control. Hearing him utter it in his mind, she lost hers.

Yours
. The way he spoke it was a brand he placed on her soul. It was that
which pushed her over, taking away her choice so the ripple of her cunt
startled her, a strong, hard reaction seizing her in its grip and tearing a cry
from her lips as she threw her head back. Baring her fangs to the firelight,
she knew her eyes glinted red as her body rippled with the power of the climax.
He anchored himself to her with a hand around her waist, continuing to drive in
hard, stretching out the length of the climax so a cry became a scream, her
breasts heavy and aching until his hand found one and gripped it, giving her
even more anchor for the wild thrusting of her hips. He came as she was riding
the second crest, and it pushed her onto the wildly rocking sea of a third, her
cunt spasming, her clit so sensitive she screamed when his testicles slapped
against it over and over, as he shot his seed into her.

"Yours," he said
fiercely in her ear. "Yours, no matter who you force me to fuck to prove
your damn dominance. All yours, lady. Heart, soul, mind… every drop of my fucking
blood is yours."

And every tear, she thought,
wondering if he realized that the wetness between his jaw and her cheek came
from him.

As Tara had said. Overly
sentimental, these Irishmen.

Her Irishman.

They lay by the fire for the
remainder of the night, saying little. She let him doze, knowing he wasn't
quite used to her hours yet. It took the human body a long time to adapt to a
vampire's schedule.

The third mark made that much
easier. The mark she couldn't give him, no matter how strong the compulsion in
her to do so was growing. The third mark would give him a much greater level of
strength, enhanced senses on many levels. Not to mention the far deeper level
of connection. She'd lied to Jacob somewhat on that. While she had been able to
disconnect the link between her and Thomas, the awareness of his existence
could not be totally blocked from her. She'd known the moment Thomas had died.

What's more, Thomas had known
it, because she'd heard his dying words. Perhaps because when she'd felt his
life essence slipping, she'd torn away the veil between them, acting on pure
emotion, desperately seeking one last touch with him.

Good-bye, my lady.

Then nothing. That chamber of
her heart forever empty in a blink, populated with inanimate memories. Dusty
bookshops he'd loved, his spectacles sitting on a side table by firelight.
Places he'd been with all the evidence of him except his living presence.

Her reverie drifted into a
predawn doze, for she woke out of it only as Jacob lifted her, took her to the
bed and slid her naked under the covers, arranging them over her.

"You aren't going to lie
with me until dawn comes, Sir Vagabond?"

He bent over her, studying her
as she reached out. When he pressed his lips to her wrist, she thought she
could look at that straight nose, the firm lips and clear, clear blue eyes, for
hours. She tangled her fingers in the strands of reddish hair that fell forward
over his shoulder. "My lady only has to ask," he murmured as if there
was something sleeping in the room he didn't wish to wake. "There's
nothing I'll refuse her."

"Until dawn," she
murmured back, closing her eyes.

Jacob lay down next to her. She
curled against him with the deceptive docility and appeal of a kitten, when a
few hours before she'd done everything she could to tear his soul to ribbons.
He reflected there was nothing linear about their relationship. They didn't
even have the upward consistency of a spiral. He was beginning to sense this
was the way she loved, as mercurial as a fairy in truth, choosing by some
random path of her own which thought or action she would pursue next. He might
as well predict the direction to chase a butterfly through a meadow of
wildfiowers so colorful he could barely distinguish between the creature he
chased and the nodding blooms.

Of course a bat flitting through
the night sky after a mosquito was more apt. A smile tugged at his lips. He saw
from his watch dawn was minutes away. She'd had a long night and her body was
settling. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he brushed his lips over her
ear. "Sleep, my lady. I'll take care of everything aloft."

"I know you will," she
said sleepily. "Go now. Let me rest."

Because he knew it was a
command, he did, albeit reluctantly.

When he looked back from the top
of the stairs, he watched her until the opening slowly faded, taking her and
the mystery of her thoughts away from him. Except for the jagged cut of the
last drowsy sentence she uttered in his mind.

I won't have need of you
tomorrow night.

He'd apparently put in a long
day. She found a neat stack of her account books and the usual summary of daily
tasks addressed on her credenza in her office when she got up. The routine she
preferred when she didn't want his attendance was to rise, review the status of
her household and business interests, and then either pursue her evening
errands or seek him out on her own time, if at all, if she then had need of
him.

The vampires who ran businesses
in Lyssa's Region had regular correspondence with her, and she skimmed the
report of their requests and questions, noting Jacob had handled most of those
as her agent and handled them well. She could tell her servant's intuition was
benefiting her interests. He'd noted Jonas of the Savannah territory seemed
nervous about his fourth quarter estimated earnings. Myra in Raleigh needed an
additional employee but was preferring to work herself to death rather than
admit she needed help running the lucrative crystal shop.

The window people had come to
replace the piece of plywood he'd put over the window in the upper hall with a
new sheet of plate glass until she decided if she wanted to commission a new
stained glass work. Despite her preference for a hired limo, she had three cars
in her garage. He'd checked them for operating condition and found two in need
of work. He'd gotten to one and would handle the other later in the week. Today
also had been the cleaning staff's day and he left her a general inventory of
what was in the kitchen in case she had any other events planned for the near
future. He'd called in a carpet crew to clean the Aubusson in the dining room.

"I ought to take that out
of your salary," she observed with amusement.

As the clock ticked and she
finished her review, she made herself sit back in her chair, tap her fingers on
the desk. One at a time, a ripple of motion. She'd told him he wouldn't see her
tonight. After last night by the fire, her own desires meant nothing. She had
to rein it back in. They were not lovers. She couldn't let him develop
emotional ideas.

"Damn it," she
muttered. The tapping became a drumming. Hadn't she as much as said this would
happen?
You'll be like a dog I've allowed to misbehave
…

Why shouldn't she spend time
with him if she wanted to do so? He was
her
servant. She didn't have
to justify anything.

Rising abruptly from the desk,
she moved into the hallway, headed toward the sound of the television. It was
coming from the den area, which she knew was his preferred place for leisure
time, though he didn't take much of it. The quick swim in the pool, playtime
with the dogs, an occasional movie or news program. He didn't care for
idleness, her vagabond knight.

But why would he? He was a
strong young man in excellent health, in the prime of his life. Which brought
her the image of his arms, muscles taut, in a variety of favorite images.
Playing tug-of-war with Bran, replacing a rotted piece of framing board on the
second level, the hammer descending in smooth strokes. Drawing her close so
that her fingers could whisper over the curves of those firm biceps.

The closer she got, the more her
step increased, though she kept her movements silent and blocked Bran's
awareness of her approach.

The den library was a sunken
area. She sat down on the top of the steps leading into it, preferring to watch
the scene unnoticed for a few moments.

Jacob was stretched out on the
couch, wearing just a pair of jeans. He had a bowl of popcorn on his bare
abdomen, remote in hand as he watched a movie. His feet were propped up on the
opposite arm and he was occasionally throwing Bran a piece of the popcorn. The
dog was amusing him by catching it in midair, most of the time.

"Don't give me that look.
That pitch was not too high," he informed the wolfhound as Bran had to go
retrieve a piece that went under the adjacent chair, managing to scoot it back
several inches in his hunt. "It does you some good to move. Getting all
lazy and fat, lying around watching television."

"From where I'm sitting,
that sounds like the pot calling the kettle black," she commented.

Jacob tilted his head, then
swung his legs to the floor. She was almost sorry for the change of pose,
enjoying the sight of that lean half-naked body on her couch.

"I can turn this off, my
lady, if you wish to—"

"No. Leave it." She
paused, feeling incomprehensibly awkward.

He considered her. "Did I
misunderstand you? I thought you said you wouldn't require me tonight."

"I don't." She rose,
smoothed her hands across her skirt.

"Did you want the room? I
can go to the servant's quarters to give you privacy."