Beautiful Danger

Chapter 12

Domingos poured Lark a goblet of dark red wine, kissed her mouth, wet with wine, then whispered for her to go wait for him in the bedroom. She pulled the silver poniard from her hair, letting the soft darkness spill over her shoulders, and winked at him as she strolled down the dark hallway toward a glimmer of moonlight that drifted through a window.

“Don’t be long,” she called back on a sexy chime. “Or maybe...yeah, take your time. I’ll be waiting, thinking of you.”

She turned a corner, and he squeezed the neck of the wine bottle so hard, it cracked. He barely managed to get it to the sink before the bottle fell and he dropped the thick, shattered glass into the stainless steel basin. Gripping his head, he tugged his hair and clamped his jaw tight.

“Go away!”

The clattering in his brain rattled right back at him, defying him to expect that he could have another night of sanity with the sexy woman who had teasingly walked away from him.

He scented blood, and his phoenix growled, slapping his cut hand to his mouth. The taste of his blood did not satisfy, but it reminded that it had been too long since he’d fed. He’d spent the entire day on the cathedral rooftop and had tracked Lark home, ignoring the insistent blood hunger.

Normal vampires had but to feed once or twice a month. Since Domingos had escaped the pack? He needed blood daily. The madness demanded it—or perhaps it was the phoenix—and when he thought he could starve it, the world only went darker and his bones began to shake within his skin.

He should have fed before bringing Lark to his home tonight. Slithery whispers coiled inside his brain in wicked agreement. Could he slip out and quickly find a donor? It was well after midnight, and he lived in a quiet neighborhood. Unlikely to stumble upon someone taking a stroll this late. Most of his neighbors were elderly and hit the mattress as soon as the sun set.

Squeezing his fist forced out blood from the cuts that then dripped onto the crimson wine stains in the sink. He risked letting his hunger loose should he venture into the bedroom in search of the sensual pleasures Lark’s body teased him to enjoy.

Go get her! We want!

“If you keep quiet,” he muttered, “then I will give you what you want. But give me sanity this night. That is all I ask.”

No reply clanged about inside his skull, so Domingos took that as an agreement. He washed the blood from his hand under the faucet, then claimed a new bottle of wine from the rack beside the fridge and padded down the long dark hallway.

He could smell her, the sweet, dark richness of her blood mingling with the citrus scent that must be shampoo or body wash. It was a deliriously gorgeous flavor he could already taste on his tongue. And he knew her skin tasted salty-sweet, clean and warm. And bright, so bright. And there, between her legs, he liked to lick her until she moaned and grasped his hair, pleading with him to never stop, never stop—oh, he never would.

Pausing outside the bedroom door, Domingos put a palm on the wall and bowed his head. Tendrils of discordant violin notes prodded the edges of his thoughts. He would not bite her. He must not, for he risked losing her trust, and that was all he had in his life. One woman who trusted him.

Heh, echoed the repulsive nightmares in his head. Heh, heh.

Blocking the intrusive madness, Domingos swung around the doorway and leaned against the frame, presenting a forced smile that he quickly erased for fear she would see the lie in it.

Sitting on the bed, her back to the gothic, carved wood headboard and wine goblet lifted near her chin, sat the sexiest bit of flesh and blood he had ever known. A finger toying with her lower lip, she cast him a glance from under a fall of lush, thick hair as black as his own. Drawing out her tongue along her upper lip, she teased up the jittering desire that fizzed through his veins. Now it melted throughout his system, relaxing him, chasing the madness to the depths, and stirring his greedy wants to the surface.

“Too perfect,” he said, thinking he was undeserving, and then not caring, because he wanted to take all of her while he was able and worry about the consequences of right and wrong later. “Mine.”

She tilted her head. “Yes, yours. Come to me, my dark lover.”

She stretched out a leg and drew the other to the side, opening herself to him. She’d taken off her pants and wore only the long T-shirt, but the move revealed the soft darkness between her legs. Her eyes sparkled teasingly.

Domingos set the wine bottle on the dresser and, taking off his shirt, approached the bed and glided forward like a cat, coming up between her legs. He kissed her there, upon her mons, a worshipful morsel for her beautiful design. Drawing his kisses down into the crease where her thigh met her torso, he then worked upward, pushing the soft cotton T-shirt higher with a hand.

She sipped the wine and, with a sigh, imbued the air with the heady grapes from the Rhône valley. “You want to know what I was thinking before you got here, lover?”

Had to be better than his struggle with the broken wine bottle in the kitchen and the resulting hunger pangs. Domingos moved onto his knees, straddling her. He tugged up her shirt, lifting it to reveal breasts unhampered by lacy things. “Yes.”

“I was thinking about how much I love this wrong. The we wrong.”

That label hurt him, but he didn’t lose his composure, and instead bowed to kiss her breasts, one, then the other. Small yet round, they sat upon his palms lightly and beckoned a good squeeze, which he gave each of them.

“I am wrong,” he had to agree, “but we are not.”

“We are, lover. Don’t deny it. But I’m okay with that. In fact, I think I need this wrong. Everything right hasn’t been working so swell for me lately.” She strolled her fingers through his hair, which always made his scalp tingle and tighten. “Will you be my wrong?”

He didn’t want to be that for her, but he knew it was the only truth they could have. A hunter and a vampire defined wrong. And so Domingos nodded but couldn’t force himself to audibly agree.

He dashed his tongue around her nipple, losing himself in the luxury of Lark’s lithe, toned body instead of dwelling on her wine-induced theory of their relationship. When he suckled her she responded with her entire body, arching her back, spreading her legs wider and moaning sweetly. Her stomach brushed his chest. One foot hooked about his ankle, and she drew her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck, where her fingernails grazed, yet did not worry the tender skin on his back.

Undone, this woman literally unfurled beneath him, changing from a controlled, bladed and vengeance-seeking hunter into a soft and supple vixen receptive to pleasure.

Beautiful danger, she.

He lifted his head from her breast and she tilted the goblet to his mouth. The wine was not sweeter than she, but it was just tart enough to ward off the growing desire for something else he wanted to drink from her. Yet the blood hunger pangs poked at his nerve endings, unwilling to let him forget the one thing necessary to his survival.

And when she stroked his fang—he never should have told her how that action aroused him—he had to grip the sheets tightly not to lunge to her neck and sink them into sublime heaven.

“You torture me, Lark,” he said on a tight moan.

“Don’t say that. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

He took her fingers from his mouth and kissed them. “It is a torture I could endure ever after. Lost in you, falling deep into your skin, your breasts, your mouth.” He glided his fingers down between her legs. “Your wetness.”

Setting the goblet aside on the nightstand, he moved up to kiss her mouth, and she pulled him in for a greedy devouring, wrapping her legs about his hips and crushing her breasts to his bare chest.

“Give me your madness,” she whispered. Her eyes sought his. “Take me beyond the strange darkness that haunts you and show me how you want me. Kiss me. Bruise me. Kill me with your need.”

Her words frenzied his want, and Domingos followed her commands, kissing down her jaw—avoiding her neck—and moving to her breasts, where he suckled roughly and brought up the color of a bruise to her skin. Pretty, his mark. And there, below the gorgeous mound of bosom, he licked along her ribs, snaking his fangs over skin, teasing at making a cut, but knowing he must not.

He could, but he mustn’t.

You can. We need her.

Lark’s body responded to the tease, nudging against his mouth, begging for a roughness he was willing to give. Sucking hard at her skin, he tasted the salt and sweet of her, and when he pulled away, he admired the love mark coloring her pale flesh.

Gliding a hand down between her legs, he pushed one leg aside and pinned it down with a knee. With his other hand, he gripped her wrist and pressed it high against the headboard.

Lark sucked in a gasp, her lips parted as her gaze locked to his. Pleading? Yes, she was his now, and he could do as he wished, and while she squirmed, she didn’t utilize anywhere near the strength he knew she possessed.

Hooking a hand up under her knee, he drew up her leg and she pressed the heel of her foot against his shoulder, her toes curled against the skin that wasn’t damaged. Domingos bent to worship her with his tongue. No roughness here, only the soft yet insistent lashes that he knew would bring her to the edge. She clutched his hair, which he liked because he could gauge her needs with each tug or push against his head. Yes, more, like that. Or maybe, no, not so hard. Or even, linger, do that longer.

“Domingos.” She thrust back her head, releasing her grasp on him and stretching her arms out across the pillows. “Find me, find my core and burn it. Mark me.”

Mercy, he wanted to do just that. Mark her with his fangs.

Not yet.

Soon.

Keeping his tongue on her clit, he slid his fingers inside her, moaning at the heat of her, the slippery entrance and clutching muscles that greedily begged for all that he could give. Unrestrained gasps, short cries of “Yes!” assured him she liked it all. And when her hips bucked and her voice let loose loudly, he did not stop until she pushed away his head and rolled to her side, drawing up her legs to her stomach briefly, then rolling again to her back and letting out a laughing sigh.

He loved that orgasmic laughter.

“Fuck, that was good,” she said breathlessly. “You are a master.”

He licked a fang and offered a wink. “I could listen to you come all day. Much better than the noises in my head.”

“You’re okay?” She pushed up onto her elbows, sweat pearling on her breasts and belly, and lush hair spilling into her lashes.

“Yes.” He lied only a little. The insistent nudge to bite her tingled at the roots of his fangs, but the voices only whispered for him to take her and did not yowl like a skinned cat. One small, yet odd, blessing. He could manage for now. Stroking aside the hair from her lashes, he asked, “Again?”

“Mmm...” She reached for the goblet and finished the last of the fragrant wine. “It’s my turn to make you come, lover. But first more wine.”

He claimed the bottle and instead of pouring another goblet, offered her the bottle, which she took and tilted back to those lush red lips. Quickly sliding her legs over the side of the bed, she handed him the bottle, which he indulged, while she unzipped him and hastily drew out his cock.

Domingos groaned at the contact of her hot fingers to his shaft. Wine dribbled down his chest. Lark bent to lick it away, teasing her tongue to his nipples, all while squeezing his rod and drawing him closer, onto the bed again.

He tilted up her head and tapped her mouth. She lashed his fingers with her tongue and she drew them into her mouth as she would his cock. The intimacy of their hold, her hand on his cock and his fingers in her mouth, floored him. A man should be thankful for such trust, and he was.

Her pretty little moans composed a melody, and in that moment, Domingos decided he needed more music in his life. He’d denied himself that precious song too long. Be it a woman’s voice, or perhaps the mournful bellow of a cello, he would seek it more often from here on out. Be damned that he was a vampire. He would not taint the music any more than the madness could kill him.

The fingers about his cock tickled across the head of him, a delicious touch that flashed sensation from his shaft and throughout his body. So sensitive there, he felt each stroke as it tightened his muscles, then released them in anticipatory awakening. Every nerve alight with brightness that set him to an ultra-aware state.

“Suck me,” he said, daring his tousled sex kitten. He’d learned she favored a good challenge.

Eyebrow arching, and mouth kissing his wet fingers, she gave him that look he’d seen the first night they’d stood defiantly facing each other in the alleyway—bring it.

Lark bowed to his erection and enveloped him in her hot mouth. On all fours, and kneeling at his side, she wiggled her gorgeous derriere and he smoothed a palm over the soft curve of it. He cried out at the intense pull at his root and almost came were it not for her tight grasp just under the head of his cock. Her tongue stroked him up and down, alternating with suckles and squeezes that put his mind in another universe, one that could never house screaming cats or screeching violins or any other dark diversion that threatened to destroy him.

Lark renewed and saved him. She gave him the desire to continue, to move beyond...

To be better?

Only if you stop the killing.

Pushing the dread thought away in favor of ecstasy, Domingos wove his fingers into her dark veil of hair that spilled across his stomach and, when he could no longer hold back, released it all. The anger, the pain, the fear and the torture. He slammed his hands to the sheets beside him and shouted for the freedom he had gained and would forever have.

And then the phoenix laughed and the cacophony raged anew inside his brain.

* * *

Morning brightened the room, and Lark rushed to pull the curtains shut before the sunbeam could breech the bed and her lover’s bare skin. But as she turned away from the heavy curtains, she felt Domingos’s hands slide up her waist and cup her breasts. His mouth landed on her shoulder, whispering soft kisses along her skin. And he turned her abruptly away from him, her palms catching the high wood dresser that she knew was empty, for he owned very little clothing, save a few things in his closet.

Facing away from him, she cooed as he tilted her hips back and toward his hard cock and pressed his steely length between her buttocks. With one hand at her breast, squeezing, kneading, hurting so sweetly, the other guided his hardness inside her pussy. Slow, so slowly, achingly teasing, until she insisted, “Harder.”

Taking her demand to heart, Domingos slammed into her repeatedly. Gripping her hair, he pulled none too gently, holding her pinned against the dresser to suit his needs.

She loved the possession, the utter surrender to a man’s needs. Arching her back and thrusting her hips up higher, she ensured that he could hilt himself completely. He muttered things like “need you,” “want you,” “fuck you,” “so hot” and “blood.”

She couldn’t ignore that last hissed word—blood—nor did she expect the intrusion of his fangs at the side of her neck.