The King

THIRTY-ONE

Trez knew that none of this should be happening.

Not the way he’d taken Selena’s throat instead of her wrist. Not that crazy-ass shit on the bed. And really, totally not the fact that she was laid out on the fur rug, her breasts bare to his eyes, her sex ready for the taking, her scent all about the aroused.

“Take me,” she said in the sexiest voice he had ever heard. “Teach me…”

Her stare was dead to marks on his, and on some level, he didn’t understand. She’d turned him down before, and then … now she wanted him?

Who cares. His erection throbbed. Who cares! Take her! She wants us!

Us. Like there were two parts of him. And actually, that wasn’t as moronic as it sounded. His cock was, in fact, talking on its own at this point.

“Selena,” he groaned. “Are you sure? I get any more of you, anywhere … and I’m not going to be able to stop.”

Hell, he was barely holding on to this pause.

She reached her hand out and ran it up his forearm, stroking him. “Yes.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he heard himself say.

Shut up! Sit down!

Great, now he was channeling Howard Stern’s father.

“Selena, I’m not … worthy of this.”

“I want you. And that makes you worthy.”

I told you not to be stupid, you moron.

Yup, that was defo Ben Stern.

Trez closed his lids and swayed, thinking it seemed a goddamn cruel twist of fate to be offered this tonight.

“Please,” she said.

Aw, fuck. Like he was going to say no to her?

When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t know how he was going to get them both through the sex in one piece. It was the worst possible moment to open this can of worms, but he wasn’t going to turn away from her: He was raw in places he didn’t like to acknowledge even to himself, and this was going to be a Band-Aid, something that was going to help him.

Even though only temporarily.

And at least he could do his damnedest to make it good for her.

Moving up on Selena, he braced his arms on either side of her undulating body and slowly, inexorably brought his mouth down until it was barely a millimeter above hers.

“No going back,” he growled.

She linked her arms behind his neck. “No regrets.”

Fair enough.

To seal the deal, he kissed her, brushing his mouth against hers, plying at her until she opened herself on her own. His tongue had already penetrated into her sex—but only by a degree. Hell, he’d shocked himself with that licking. Now? There was no holding back. He extended himself into her fully, fusing his mouth to hers, tilting his head to the side as he drew against her lips.

It was the strangest dichotomy. He was so ready to take her, prepared to split her legs wide and drive into that hot, wet place between her thighs—and yeah, he wanted to mark her internally with his come, leave his scent all over her inside and out, make it so no male dared to touch her, look at her.

Yet he had all the time in the world for this kissing.

Then again, she was sweet as ice wine, smooth as double-batch bourbon, heady as port. And he was drunk before he even lifted his head for a breath.

But he wasn’t going to stay forever. There was another place he wanted to get back to.

As he kissed his way down to her neck, he regretted the raw marks he’d left at her vein, and brushed them with his lips, once, twice.

“I’m sorry,” he said, roughly.

“Whatever for?”

He had to reclose his eyes as that husky voice of hers penetrated his haze—and promptly sexed him up even more. What had she asked … oh, yeah.

“I shouldn’t have been so rough.”

“Well, I didn’t mind being held down. At all.”

Annnnnnnnnnd didn’t that get him seeing double.

“Are you going to return to where you were?” she asked.

Fuck yeah. “Yes … right now. If you want—”

The undulation of her body and that moan was the best “I do” he’d ever heard.

Trying to keep a lid on his inner beast, he kissed his way over to her collarbone and then had to pull back and just look at her. Her breasts were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen: She was perfectly built, her nipples tight on top of the pale swells, her skin smooth, her breathing a taunt to his self-control.

He was as careful as he had been with her mouth.

Extending his tongue, he licked a circle around her nipple—and going by the way her hands speared into his hair, she approved.

“Oh…” she groaned.

He smiled before he sucked her in. Nursing at her, he eased onto his side and swept a hand down to her waist, her hip, her thigh … her inner thigh.

She gave way for him like water, her body loose and trusting as he suckled and inched his touch higher, and higher. He was almost at her core, and planning exactly where to stroke her when—

An image of a human invaded the space between his ears.

At first, he couldn’t figure out what the fuck his brain had coughed up … but then he recognized the random woman as one he’d nailed in the back of a car over a year ago. And the clarity was a killer. He saw everything in HD, the lipstick smeared on her front teeth, the mascara smudges under her eyes, her botched boob job where one of her nipples was wall-eyed.

But none of that was the worst part.

No, the worst was the way her head moved up and back, up and back—because he was inside of her. His cock was in her sex, going in and out, the rhythm growing faster so that he could come and be done with the session.

His erection, the one that he was getting ready to slip into Selena, had been in a cesspool. Had been in … hundreds of dirty human women who hadn’t brought up safe sex or STD tests or whether or not they’d already contracted AIDS from letting sluts like him into their panties.

The fact that he couldn’t contract their diseases did not matter in the slightest.

Filthy was filthy.

Jerking back, he hissed and closed his eyes, trying to order an evac for all of that shit.

“Trez?”

“Sorry, I…” Shaking his head, he refocused on her breasts—and felt nauseous from self-hatred. “I’m just—”

Another human woman tackled his brain, this one that real estate agent he’d done at the warehouse he’d just bought: He pictured her hands spread against the wall as he fucked her from behind, her wedding ring flashing.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted. And then it was more with the head shaking—like the memories were objects he could knock off his table of consciousness. “I’m…”

In rapid succession, he saw the brunette he’d let suck him off in his office. The redhead he’d done with that blond in the club bathroom. The threesome with those college girls, the Goth at the cemetery, the waitress at Sal’s, the pharmacist when he’d gone to get Motrin one afternoon, the bartender at that place, the woman he’d seen at the car dealership …

Faster and faster, until the images were like bullets one after another after another, firing into his brain.

As he peeled off of Selena, it seemed both bizarre and totally appropriate that the only thing he could think of was that the Shadows were right.

Sex with humans had contaminated him.

And he was paying the price for the poison, right here and now.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Assail could only stare at his cousins. The pair of contract killers, drug dealers, and enforcers had not only washed up before the meal, they were now easing back in their seats and looking like they wanted to loosen their pants.

As Marisol’s grandmother got to her feet again, Assail shook his head. “Madam, you must enjoy this food on which you worked so diligently.”

“I am enjoying.” She headed back for the counter and cut more bread. “These boys, they need to eat more. Too thin, too thin.”

At this rate, she was going to turn his backups into—what was the expression, sofa potatoes?

And what do you know, even though those two males were stuffed, they took another slice of her homemade bread, and dutifully layered on the sweet butter.

Unbelievable.

Assail shifted his eyes over to Marisol. Her head was down, her fork testing the mettle of the food. She hadn’t eaten much, but she had opened the copper-colored pill bottle Doc Jane had given her and taken one of the gray-and-orange capsules inside.

He wasn’t the only one watching her. The eagle eyes of her grandmother were monitoring everything: Every move of that fork, each sip from her glass of water, all the non-eating that was going on.

Marisol, on the other hand, was watching no one. After the emotional reunion with her bloodline, she had closed up, her stare staying on the meal, her voice limited to yeses and nos about condiments and seasonings.

She had retreated to a place he didn’t want her to dwell in.

“Marisol,” he said.

Her head came up. “Yes?”

“Would you like me to show you to your room?” The instant that came out of his mouth, he glanced at the grandmother. “If you will permit me, of course.”

According to the old ways, the senior female would have been Marisol’s ghardian, and though he rarely showed respect to humans, it felt appropriate to pay mindfulness to the woman.

Marisol’s grandmother nodded. “Yes. I have things for her. There.”

Sure enough, there was a rolling suitcase parked by the archway into the great room.

As the grandmother went back to her own food, he could have sworn there was a slight smile on her mouth.

“I am just exhausted.” Marisol got to her feet and picked up her plate. “I feel like I could sleep forever.”

Let us not talk of such, he thought as he, too, stood.

After she kissed her grandmother’s cheek and spoke in her mother tongue, he followed her, putting his dishes in the sink, and then going over to the suitcase. He wanted to put an arm around her. He did not. He did, however, pick up the luggage when she went for it.

“Allow me,” he said.

The ease with which she gave in told him that she was as yet in pain. And assuming the lead, he took her out to the stairs. There were two sets: one that went up to his chamber, another that proceeded down into the basement, where there were five bedrooms.

The grandmother and the cousins were on the lower level.

Glancing over his shoulder, she was silent and grave behind him, her eyes drooping, her shoulders slumped from fatigue that was more than just physical.

“I shall give you my room,” he told her. “In privacy.”

It would not do for him to stay with her. Not with her grandmother in the house.

Even though that was where he wanted to be.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Before he knew what he was doing, he willed the reinforced pocket door out of the way, exposing the highly polished black-and-white marble stairs.

Oh … shit, he thought.

“Motion detectors, huh,” she said, without missing a beat.

“Indeed.”

As she mounted the steps, Assail tried not to notice her body’s movements. It seemed the height of disrespect—especially as she was limping.

But dearest Virgin Scribe, he wanted her like nothing and no one else.

His quarters took up the entire top floor, the octagonal space providing three-hundred-sixty-degree views of the river, the distant urban core of Caldwell, the forested flats to the west. The bed was a circular one with a curving headboard, its platform set directly in the center of the room beneath a mirror ceiling. The “furniture” was all built-in: burled walnut cabinetry served as side tables, bureaus, and the desk area, absolutely none of it getting in the way of the glass walls.

Hitting a switch by the door, he triggered the drapes, which swept forth from their hidden compartments, their flowing lengths billowing as they locked into place.

“For your modesty,” he said. “The bath is through here.”

He reached around a doorjamb and flipped another switch. The color scheme of the bedroom was almond and cream, and it was repeated in the marble floors and walls and counters of the loo. Funny, he had never thought one way or the other about the decor, but now he was glad for the calming tones. Marisol deserved the peace she had earned in her hard-won battles.

As she walked about the bathroom, her fingers drifted over the veins in the marble as if she were trying to ground herself.

Pivoting around, she faced him. “Where are you sleeping?”

Never one to hesitate in stating his position, he nonetheless cleared his throat. “Downstairs. In a guest room.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t there another bed up here?”

He felt his brows lift. “There is a pullout cot.”

“Can you stay? Please.”

Assail found himself clearing his throat again. “Are you sure that’s proper with your grandmother here?”

“I’ve got the heebs so badly, if I’m alone, I’ll never be able to sleep.”

“Then I shall be pleased to accommodate the request.”

He just had to make sure that was all he did …

“Good. Thank you.” She eyed the Jacuzzi tub beneath its windowsill. “That looks amazing.”

“Allow me to fill it for you.” He went forth and cranked the brass handles, the rushing water crystal clear and soon-to-be hot. “It is very deep.”

Not that he’d tried it out himself.

“There is also a petite cuisine here.” He popped open a hidden door, revealing a squat refrigerator, pint-size microwave, and coffeepot. “And there are victuals in the cupboard above if you get hungry.”

Indeed, he was a master of the obvious, was he not.

Awkward silence.

He shut the little cabinet. “I shall wait downstairs whilst you attend to your—”

Marisol’s breakdown arrived without preamble, the sobs racking her shoulders as she put her head in her hands and tried to hold the noise in.

Assail had no experience comforting females, but he went to her without missing a beat. “Dearest one,” he murmured, as he pulled her against his chest.

“I can’t do this. It’s not working—I can’t—”

“Cannot what? Speak unto me.”

Muffled into his shirt, her reply was clear enough. “I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.” She lifted her head, her eyes luminous from the tears. “It’s what I see every time I blink.”

“Shh…” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not…”

Cupping her face in his hands, he felt both rage and helplessness. “Marisol…”

In lieu of a response, she grasped his wrists, squeezing—and in the tight quiet that followed, he had the sense she was asking something of him.

Dear God, she wanted something from him.

It was in the stillness of her body, the wildness of her stare, that grip upon him.

Assail closed his eyes briefly. Mayhap he was misreading this, but he didn’t think so—although in any event, she could hardly be credited with sound thinking, given all she had been through.

He stepped back. “The tub is almost full,” he said roughly. “I shall go confirm the accommodations of your grandmother, yes? Call upon me if you need aught before I return.”

Indicating the in-house intercom, he hastily made his exit, closing the door behind him. Falling back against it, he wanted to bang his head a number of times, but did not want to alert her to his conflict.

Passing a hand down the front of his slacks, he intended to rearrange his erection into a socially acceptable position—but the instant contact was made, he groaned and knew he needed to take care of things.

He barely made it down into the bathroom off the first floor office. Locking himself in, he braced his hands on the marble of the sink and hung his head.

He lasted three rapid heartbeats.

The belt came undone with the alacrity of fabric falling apart, and the fasteners of his slacks were just as accommodating—and then his cock, his rock-hard, throbbing cock exploded out from his hips.

Biting his lower lip, he palmed himself and started stroking, his full weight leaning on that arm he had thrown out, the pleasure intense to the point of pain.

The moan he let out threatened to carry, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was too far down the rabbit hole to stop or even alter the course or his response.

Faster, up and back—until biting his lip wasn’t enough: He had to turn his head into his arm and bite his biceps, his fangs sinking deep into the muscle through his sweater, through his shirt.

The orgasm hit him hard, the peaks sharp as knives going into him, the ejaculations caught in his free palm as he covered himself.

Even at the height of release, he honored his Marisol: He deliberately kept all images from his mind, determined to make this solely a physical act.

When it was done, he was not relieved in the slightest.

And he felt dirty even after he cleaned himself.