Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment) Page 8

  “When I woo you,” he murmured into her ear, “you won’t have to ask. You’ll know.”

  Her nails bit into the muscles of his chest. He nipped her earlobe. She whimpered. He shuddered. Both of them stilled. Silence quivered in the room as if it too waited, holding a breath to see what would happen next in this battle of wills.

  Rich, verdant green, heavy with morning rain—the lush fragrance rising off her skin—wrapped him in its embrace. Arousal. Hesitant, unsure, but there. He sampled the desire, savored it…wanted to fucking bathe in it. His heart stuttered then wrenched, the sensation almost painful.

  Impossible. He’d known Sinéad but a blink of time and Alesia had been the woman of his dreams. His ideal partner. For years when he’d imagined his future, sweet-natured, shy Alesia had been by his side.

  Hippogryphs usually mated for life—separation, or what mortals considered “divorce” was rare but not unheard of. Mates were chosen partners, similar to the humans’ marital commitment. They loved, shared lives and had children. But for the pair who was bondmates, the connection went much deeper than mere ceremony and companionship. This couple shared the same gifts, the same soul. They were the other half, Fated for each other. Only when a male bonded with a female did it trigger her latent ability to access her hippogryph beast. While females would always have the strength, power and gifts of their race, only bonded females experienced the dual forms—human and beast—of their kind.

  Yet even knowing he and Alesia weren’t bondmates hadn’t lessened his desire for the lovely princess. Another reason why her betrayal had damaged something inside him, made him feel undeserving, less than. And Sinéad’s subsequent rejection had cemented the unworthiness in stone.

  Still, knowledge of Sinéad’s aversion didn’t prevent him from rubbing his scarred cheek against her hair. Didn’t stop him from wanting to ask, do you want me? Why did you pull away from me, leave me? Didn’t keep his beast from raking its talons over his soul in hungry demand.

  “We need to get ready to leave.” Her tremulous whisper brushed the front of his throat. “Let me go. Please.” She exerted pressure on his chest, pressing against his pecs with her palms, and he obeyed her request.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. He shifted back, his arms falling to his sides. His hippogryph protested releasing her and he curled his fingers into his palms, clenching his fists. And ignored the twinge of hurt echoing in his chest.

  “Las Vegas.”

  “Give me a few more hours sleep and we can leave at sundown. I can have us there in several hours.”

  “Fly? I thought hippogryphs didn’t allow people to ride them.”

  Damn. She stared up at him, a thoughtful frown wrinkling her forehead, her eyes guileless. Bastien bit back a groan. Her innocent turn of phrase conjured up images that passed in front of his eyes like a Kama Sutra how-to video. A vision of her arching over him, her small, firm breasts thrust out, begging for his palms to cover them, to pinch the dusky brown nipples. Her slender thighs flexing as her hips rolled and slid against his, the bare mound of her pussy grinding against the dense hair surrounding his cock.

  He closed his eyes, inhaled a harsh breath. The fangs pricked his gums, descended in his mouth. Hunger. But not for blood—the thickly flowing liquid in her human veins didn’t call to him. She did. The craving ripping at him, demanding satiation was for her. For the sweet, hot flesh between her thighs.

  She would be tight—so damn tight her walls would clench his cock and resist every insistent thrust for entry into her sex. Yet she would take him. Oh yeah, Sinéad would rise and fall over his dick until sweat slickened her torso and her folds were swollen and pink and her thighs trembled with exertion. And she still wouldn’t stop, not until she completely held him deep within her wet, quivering sheath.

  True, his people rarely let others ride them—not many of them, male or female, would willingly tolerate the dominant, controlling position by a weaker being. But with Sinéad… He lifted his lashes, smiled.

  “Sweetheart,” he whispered, the heat from the erotic images coursing through his veins, pounding in his dick. “I would love to have your legs around my neck.”

  Chapter Five

  “Damn. This is so…” Bastien scanned the dark street of the residential Las Vegas neighborhood, “homey.”

  Behind him, Sinéad didn’t respond. She was too busy trying not to eye the wide span of his shoulders or the brawn of his sculpted back. Not to mention struggling against the tingling racing up and down the inside of her thighs like a hundred, tangled live wires. Her first ride on a hippogryph had been exhilarating, magic—and so damn sexy she hovered on the edge of…something. An explosion. And all it would take was one more second on the back of Bastien’s beast, the magic humming under his hide and vibrating over her sensitive, swollen flesh, to make her combust.

  That damn arousal again. She blew out a hard breath, dropping her eyes to avoid looking at him. But then her gaze stroked down his spine, lingered over the taut muscles of his ass under the low-riding jeans and caressed the columns of his hard thighs. Thighs that had trapped hers just this morning. A shiver skipped over her skin, skated down her belly to tremble deep in her sex. She didn’t want to think about how he’d plastered his body against hers or the unyielding grip on her neck. Or the small stinging bite to her ear. Lady. She just needed to not think.

  Hard to do when she still shivered from the sleek silk of his chestnut feathers under her fingers and palms. When her heart still galloped from the cold, exhilarating wind over her face, arms and chest. When her core still throbbed from the heated caress of the bunch and release of his massive bulk between her thighs.

  This thing coiling and contracting inside her like a living, breathing creature had worsened since it first stretched and awakened the previous evening. In the kitchen, she hadn’t touched him yet, hadn’t been imprinted by the solid wall of his chest, hadn’t had the long, thick length of his cock brand her thigh.

  Hadn’t seen every golden, hard, muscled, bare inch of him.

  And, sweet Nef, had she seen every inch! When Bastien had shoved her behind him, crouched low and ready to protect her from a perceived threat, her eyes had latched onto the taut skin poured over sinew and tendon. The expanse of his back tapering down to narrow hips and a muscled ass. Then he’d spun around and… Heat flooded her face, prickled her palms.

  She’d seen naked men before—hell, she was three hundred years old. But none had ignited an inferno that razed her insides to ash, made the air in her lungs evaporate. His chest and abdomen could have been chiseled from the rocky cliffs lining the western Irish coasts. The patchwork of scars and wrinkled whorls only added to his gorgeous masculinity.

  And his cock. Her heart pounded a primal drumbeat in her ears. His cock had been a thing of beauty. A large mushroom-shaped head capped the long, thick stalk and weighted the wide column to hang halfway down his thigh. A dull ache pulsed in her sex, as delicious as it was disconcerting. She’d never before experienced this need to touch—touch him, touch herself. This craving clawed at her belly with vicious demand. She knew the mechanics of sex, understood Slot A slid into Slot B. Or C. But she hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t desired to find out for herself what made women do silly things with a man like imitate clinging ivy or lose control enough to grope in the shadows of buildings. She hadn’t wanted to discover that kind of passion…until now.

  Despite how his smallest touch sent her into an emotional Chernobyl.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Shadows surrounded them, shading the damaged half of Bastien’s face and throwing the unmarked side into sharp relief. She glimpsed the visage of the man he’d been before the battle with the rogue. He would have been classically handsome, his green eyes only one of the striking features in a face full of angles and sensual curves. Yet she preferred the scars scoring his mouth and cheekbone. Though she’d been struck with the malady of humanity, a soldier’s heart still beat in her chest. And the soldier a
dmired and respected the marks of courage, suffering and victory. He’d been pretty before—now he was a warrior, with a warrior’s beauty.

  “Sinéad?” His fingers curled around the back of her neck. Squeezing lightly, he tilted her head back, his thumb stroking the skin underneath her jaw.

  Curiosity. Sorrow. Anger. Hunger. Longing. Sinéad gasped softly. His feelings? Hers? Lady. Whenever he touched her it all became a dark, roiling tangle she couldn’t unravel. Except for the pain and loss. Though she’d never experienced such grief personally, she’d tasted others’ sorrow, choked on the heavy, smothering weight.

  “I’m fine,” she said, angling her head and breaking free of his grip. Don’t ask. She stepped around him. It’s none of your business. Don’t. Ask. “Who was it?” She pulled up short, rounded on him even as Damn! echoed through her head.

  Bastien arched a white-gold brow. “Who was who?”

  “The person you lost? Died?”

  Silence met her rapid-fire questions. The resounding quiet screamed none of your business as he stared at her with his jeweled, unblinking gaze.

  “Why do you think I lost someone?” he finally asked.

  She ignored the ominous, dark tone warning her to back off. “The sadness. It’s so…” heavy, piercing, soul-rendering, “obvious.”

  “I apologize.”

  “So who was it?” she asked again, waving aside his sardonic pseudo-apology. “Parent? Friend? Patient?”

  “Fiancée.”

  Shock kicked her in the chest and only by sheer force of will did her knees not buckle under the impact. A fiancée. She’d never suspected…never imagined… Her eyes searched his, glided over the cold, impassive expression. Hell, his face could have been chiseled from the mountains in the distance.

  “She,” Sinéad cleared her throat, “died?” The thought of him loving someone so much he grieved for her even now set up a dull pounding that resonated in her gut. Like a badass stomachache.

  “No. She’s still alive.” The corner of his mouth curled into a humorless half-smile. “But lost just the same.”

  Oh. Her eyes widened. Oh sweet Lady. No wonder he resented her. “Because of what I did,” she stated flatly.

  Another one of those smiles that wasn’t a smile. “No.” He shook his head. “She killed what was between us all on her own.” He turned away from her. “We should go. Maybe we can catch your sister before she heads out for the night.”

  Sinéad murmured an agreement and strode forward even though her mind whirled with questions regarding his cryptic remark. Bastien fell into step beside her, his footfalls as silent as the night. Did he still love this female? Did he want to find the Cross so he could go back to her? Was she pretty?

  Oh fuck. She was officially human.

  “I can’t believe she lives in a place like this,” he murmured. “I would go nuts.”

  Sinéad nodded. The sameness of the place was eerie. Cookie-cutter houses in perfect rows like huge, uniformed soldiers lined both sides of the street. The cars in the driveways differentiated one home from the next, but the vehicles were the one variance. The scene, though peaceful and the epitome of suburbia, was stifling. Yet she comprehended Cyra’s reasons for settling here. This particular cruxim would find this living arrangement like an all-you-can-eat buffet. The tightly packed neighborhood full of humans—and their emotions—would be like plugging into a constant source of energy…of power.

  “Her house is the last one on the block.” Sinéad frowned as they crossed the street. “We might have already missed her.” While warm lights burned in the windows of the other homes, Cyra’s house remained dark, the glass casements like black, empty eyes staring out at them.

  “We can still go check—” Bastien drew up hard. A rumble, like the ominous harbinger of a storm, emanated from him.

  “Bastien.” His big body quivered. Head lowered, his chin nearly touching his breast and fists clenched at his sides, he was a dangerous predator on the scent of his prey. “Bastien,” she repeated softly, reaching out but halting at the last moment.

  “Give me a…minute,” he rasped, voice muffled, thick. His large frame jerked as if caught in a violent spasm. “Please.” The harsh lash of his breath whipped the air. A shudder passed through him and Sinéad fisted her hand. The need to ease his obvious torment ripped at her natural reserve. She stepped back from him.

  Bastien’s head whipped to the side, pinning her with a stare dancing with flames. The gleaming white tips of pointed fangs pinched his bottom lip.

  “Don’t,” he ordered. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  No—she studied his altered features—he wouldn’t. But it wasn’t her blood he lusted after.

  “How long has it been since you last fed?” she asked.

  “A few days ago. I took the last of the vial of blood I bought from the pleasure den.”

  Sinéad nodded. That explained why he’d come looking for her—cruxim blood as well as a cure.

  “Are you going to be okay going in there? Do you need to wait out here?”

  He shook his head. Inhaling deeply, he turned away from her. After a long moment, he straightened his shoulders, stretched his fingers then faced her again. Grooves bracketed his mouth and his skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, but his fangs had receded and, except for a faint reddish glow in their depths, his eyes had returned to normal.

  “I’m fine.” He inclined his head toward the house and the rigid line of his mouth didn’t invite any more questions. Left with little choice but to trust he could control the blood hunger, she approached the home of the cruxim currently guarding the Blood Cross.

  They strode up the paved walk bisecting the wide front lawn. Her eyes skimmed the exterior of the house, including the empty driveway, the blank windows and shallow porch. After climbing the three stone steps, she raised her arm and knocked on the front door. Several seconds passed without a response and she rapped again.

  Disappointment arrowed through Sinéad. “We must have missed Cyra. We can come back at—”

  “She’s here,” Bastien growled. “I can smell her.”

  Sinéad lifted an eyebrow, not taking her gaze from him as she thumped on the door and called, “Cyra, it’s me. Sinéad.”

  Almost immediately, the door swung open. Darkness framed the silver-haired female like a yawning cavern. She was clothed in a black long-sleeved shirt and pants, the only spots of color her moonbeam hair, bright eyes and pale skin.

  “Sinéad,” Cyra greeted, her soft tone steady and flat in the way of their kind. Her gaze flicked up and touched on Sinéad’s hair, but she didn’t comment.

  “Cyra,” Sinéad said. “Can we come in? We need to speak with you about an important matter.”

  The cruxim dipped her chin in acknowledgment and stepped back, granting them entrance. The darkness in the foyer swallowed them up. As an immortal, it wouldn’t have bothered Sinéad as she would have been able to see perfectly. But now she stumbled forward, her toe catching on what she assumed was a throw rug. A firm grip caught her upper arm and steadied her before she pitched forward in a face plant.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. With his preternatural sight, Bastien would catch her small nod of thanks. He slightly squeezed her skin then released his hold. Sinéad forced her arms to her sides, resisting the urge to rub the flesh branded with the imprint of his fingers.

  “Would you mind turning on a lamp?” Bastien asked, his low rumble booming in the tomb-like space.

  “Of course,” came Cyra’s cool reply seconds before light appeared, a radiant, momentarily blinding beacon. Sinéad blinked at the sudden brightness and took precious seconds acclimating to the change.

  By the time the dancing spots cleared before her eyes, they had exited the foyer and entered Cyra’s living room. The spartan area contained a couch, a lone wingback chair, coffee table and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf crammed with paperbacks and hardcover novels. It was the only sign someone inhabited the home—for, even from across t
he room, the lined, worn spines of the paperbacks indicated they had been bent and handled often.

  “You’ve traveled a long way from Ireland, sister,” Cyra said, standing next to the bookshelf. In spite of the sparse furniture, it was plain to Sinéad her sister spent most of her time in this room. Otherwise she wouldn’t have her books here. Inside, Sinéad snorted. Hell, who was she to judge? She could sing the theme song to The Brady Bunch, numerate every case solved or unsolved on Dexter and had the first and second seasons of True Blood on DVD. No, Cyra would get no condemnation from her.

  “We’re here for your help,” Sinéad replied. Turning, she waved a hand toward Bastien who stood silent beside her. “This is Bastien Sarris.”

  “A hippogryph,” Cyra added, her silver eyes narrowing.

  “Yes.” Sinéad shifted, aligning her body next to Bastien’s. What had compelled her to move, she couldn’t explain. Bastien needed her to shield him as much as Superman required Lois Lane to save him from a flying bullet. This didn’t stop Sinéad from pressing her shoulder to his arm, though. “Long story short, Bastien and I met when I found him hurt and almost dying. I fed him my blood to start the healing process. It worked, but unfortunately had side effects we couldn’t have foreseen. He now craves cruxim blood.”

  Cyra didn’t show an outward reaction at either Sinéad’s actions or Bastien’s bloodlust. But her shock prickled against Sinéad’s senses like a sprinkle of freezing rain.

  “You feed from cruxim?” Cyra asked, voice calm as if she discussed directions to the nearest casino instead of a creature that lusted after her blood.

  Bastien shook his head. “I haven’t fed directly from one of yours,” he said, truth and sincerity ringing in the words. “When I realized what afflicted me, I went to a pleasure den where just about anything can be had. Except cruxim blood. Out of the five I visited, only one had a supply. And they possessed one vial. It lasted four months, but I drank the remainder of it a few days ago.”