The Vampire Dimitri

15 An Interminable Carriage Ride And A Preemptive Apology

“Do stop screaming,” Dimitri said, his ears ringing, his feet flat on the ground. He hadn’t even staggered when he landed. He adjusted his hold on the squirming woman in his arms, for now that they were on the ground safely, she was bound and determined to get free.

“You’re mad,” she was gasping. “Mad!”

This was no time to talk; Lerina and her make would be out and after them in a moment—either through the window or down the stairs. And though Dimitri had man aged a perfectly executed escape, he was still more than a bit wobbly in the knees and trembly in the muscles. Yet, the rush of energy from real, fresh, human blood had restored him more quickly than he’d thought possible.

But he wasn’t going to think about the consequences of that now.

Definitely not now. Much, much later.

Perhaps even never.

Ignoring Maia’s contortions, Dimitri ducked into shadows and dodged around the close-knit warehouses. They were, as he’d surmised, near the wharf, and even at this time of night, sailors were unloading and loading cargo, drinking, gaming and whoring. An easy environment in which to get lost.

If someone would keep her mouth closed.

“Hush, blasted woman,” he ordered. “They’ll hear you.” The last thing he wanted was to attract attention from anyone at the wharf and have to deal with that delay, as well.

It wasn’t until he flagged down a hack and she disappeared within, disdaining his assistance, that Dimitri was able to take a deep breath. And suddenly everything halted.

The driver waited for him to climb in, his hand on the door, an impatient look on his face. Certainly Dimitri knew he looked beyond disreputable, with blood streaking him every where, and what had been left of his shirt lost somewhere along the way.

But he was Corvindale, and he wasn’t about to be rushed into anything, particularly by the likes of a hackney driver. He glanced into the shadows of the carriage, easily able to make out Maia’s figure even in the dark. The prickling over the back of his shoulders and the upheaval in his gut bordered on unpleasant.

If he climbed into that carriage with her, he knew what was going to happen.

“My lord,” the hack driver said, allowing the barest hint of impatience in his voice as he looked around. “Shall I—er—transport the lady, and return for you?”

“No,” Dimitri said at last, stepping onto the stair. Then he paused and looked at the driver and, making a quick, probably foolish, decision, gave him Rubey’s direction.

He couldn’t take Maia home looking as she was, and himself the same. If anyone saw them in their respective conditions, let alone together, Maia would be ruined. At least they could get a change of clothing and washed up at Rubey’s, and perhaps something that would even hide the mauling marks he’d left on her skin. Damn it all. Damn me.

He snatched the morbid thoughts away and continued on logically. Aside of getting cleaned up, going to Rubey’s would be the easiest way to get word to Giordan and Voss that he and Maia were safe. Despite Voss’s change back to mortality, the establishment remained a central location through which those familiar with the Dracule communicated and socialized. They knew Rubey could be counted on for confidentiality and secrecy even if she and her ladies weren’t providing services.

It was the most expedient, prudent thing to do. Just like intercepting her before she waltzed at the masquerade ball.

With uncustomary care, he climbed into what he now perceived as his own personal hell and settled onto the bench seat across from his own personal tormentor. As the door closed behind him, its latch clicking into place with finality, Dimitri looked across at Maia.

She was not, as one might expect after such a harrowing experience, huddled in the corner, wide-eyed and meek. Not Maia.

He steered his thoughts around. Perhaps it would be best if he went back to thinking of her as Miss Woodmore.

“You could have killed me,” were her first words. Not shouted at the pitch or volume that set his ears to ringing, but in a low, hushed tone.

That was the first sign that something was truly wrong.

“Which time?” he replied, hiding behind a bored tone. Not thinking about how right she was. How close he’d come to doing just that.

He could, of course, see quite clearly in the dark. Everything was tinged bottle-green, and all shades of that hue and black, but he could easily discern the enticing curves of her collarbones, the sagging bodice of the simple dress she was wearing, the fact that her hair hung in a messy knot at the left side of the back of her neck, and that her mouth was a hard, flat line. He was not looking at the tiny marks on her shoulder. Definitely not remembering the taste of her…skin, lifeblood, scent, mouth—

“That’s a very good question,” Miss Woodmore replied, shifting a bit in her seat. Her very movement sent a shimmer of her essence toward him and he had to turn away, trying not to allow the scent to reach him. “Both times, in fact. The time when you threw a stake at me and hit the vampire and the time you jumped out of a window and dragged me with you.”

Dimitri opened his mouth to correct her—after all, he’d thrown the stake at the vampire, not at her—but thought better of it. Perhaps if he simply didn’t talk, he could get through this carriage ride with nothing more than having to listen to her reprimand him.

And that was much preferable to other things that could happen herein.

Things that he simply was not going to allow himself to think about. Or remember.

Like the moment when he really had nearly killed her, when he was so filled with her essence…her lifeblood flooding his mouth, coppery and sweet, her skin beneath his hands as he forgot where he was…who she was…what he was doing. He took, and took, molding her with his hands, tasting, sipping, drawing on her, from her…

He closed his eyes, his fingers trembling, and tried not to smell her. He rested his head against the side of the carriage and pushed it all away.

Had he lost the chance to free himself from Lucifer? Black despair started to build inside him and he squeezed his eyes closed. And yet, he would do it again.

Oh, he would do it again.

Don’t think about it now.

“How are you feeling?” She broke the silence with a voice that was soft, perhaps a bit husky with…worry.

Dimitri opened his eyes. No, that would not be a good direction for the conversation to go. It would be better to fight with her, keep her hackles up and therefore her at a distance.

The cold, hard ball in his gut had begun to grow and swell, despite the fact that he wasn’t going to allow himself to think about what he’d done. What, after decades of control, of sacrifice, he’d given in to. And how good it made him feel. About how she moaned and writhed against him, pleading for something she didn’t understand.

Lucifer’s dark soul, he’d nearly killed her.

It was only a miracle that had brought him out of the maelstrom of need and pleasure. A miracle.

He examined her in the green-gray light. Even now, he could see how drawn her skin was. The ghostly pallor, evident to his sharp eyes.

He should ask her how she was feeling. But he couldn’t speak for fear of what might come out. And so he pulled his cloak of cold, hard emotion around him and looked over at her with deliberately steady eyes. “Other than a rather nasty experience, I couldn’t be better,” he said, deliberately leaving the “experience” unspecified.

She bit her lower lip and lifted her chin in a gesture that he’d come to recognize as one of stubbornness.

Just then, the carriage stopped and it was all Dimitri could do to keep from leaping out with alacrity.

Instead he lifted one eyebrow and said, “We’ve arrived at Rubey’s. It’s not a place frequented by ladies of your esteem, and I’ll preempt your complaints and criticism by offering my apologies now. I suspect we’ll find not only Dewhurst but Cale here, as well, and perhaps even your brother. As well, Rubey will allow you to put yourself to rights before returning to Blackmont Hall.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but, right on cue, the carriage door opened. Dimitri fairly lunged out, drawing in the refuse and smoke-scented air of London.

It was infinitely better than the essence inside the carriage.

Rubey, Maia learned, was the proprietress, or more accurately, the brothel owner. The moment it became clear to Maia that Corvindale had brought her to a brothel, she turned to glare at him and found him watching her with that condescending look as if to remind her that he’d already apologized.

She looked away and instead allowed herself to be brought into a luxuriously decorated residence that smelled faintly of floral and tobacco. Although she had no idea what a house of ill repute looked like, it certainly wasn’t this tastefully and elegantly appointed place.

The woman named Rubey, who looked comfortably like her name—for she had strawberry-blond hair and intelligent blue eyes, and spoke with a bit of an Irish lilt—took one look at Maia, then at the bare-chested earl, and immediately clamped her lips closed.

Corvindale, of course, was lavish with commands and directions, and Rubey was efficient and yet less than obeisant in her response. But her eyes were wide and shocked, if not speculative, and she said nothing as she rang for a maid. Apparently, despite Corvindale’s certainty, neither Dewhurst nor Mr. Cale were currently present.

Not long after, Maia found herself in the deepest, warmest, most fragrant bath she could ever recall having. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she rested back against its edge, as pleasure washed over her, followed by confusion and anger and a variety of other emotions.

She’d sent the maid away as soon as she slid into the bath, telling her to return only when she rang for her. Maia needed time alone.

She could scarcely account for everything that had happened since yesterday afternoon—for the sun was just rising and it was a new day. Come to think of it, she could scarcely comprehend everything that had happened, and that she’d experienced, since Corvindale became her reluctant guardian. Everything from the existence of vampires, to being attacked, fed upon and kidnapped by them…along with her sister becoming engaged to one of them, who had become mortal once again.

In her exhausted and confused state, she could no longer ignore the loneliness that she often forced herself to disregard, that sense of having no one with whom she could truly talk and share the things that worried her. She let it all pour out in tears, silent and furious recriminations punctuated by violent splashes, and even a rash of prayerful words directed to Above.

Maia was grateful for the steamy water, for she used it to wash away the tears of frustration and anger and confusion, and when she was finished, she rang for the maid.

Determined to be as strong and resilient as she always was—for if she weren’t, no one else would be—Maia allowed the maid to wash her hair and to thoroughly bathe her before helping her out of the tub.

Her dress, shift and corset were replaced by ones from Rubey, and despite Maia’s suspicion that they’d be scandalous, she was pleased to find the garments tasteful and stylish.

Shortly after, her damp hair pinned in a loose braid over one side of her neck, strategically placed to hide the marks there, Maia found herself in a parlorlike chamber, waiting for she wasn’t certain what.

Rubey came in, looking fresh and elegant in a light green dress of muslin. She was carrying a tray and that was when Maia realized how hungry she was.

“I’ve met your sister,” Rubey said, offering Maia a short glass filled with amber liquid. “Here, a bit of the Irish gold for you, as my papa called it,” she explained when Maia hesitated. “After what you’ve been through, you should have twice as much.”

Maia took it and sipped the burning liquid as her hostess arranged cheese and bread on a small plate and offered it to her.

“You’ve met Angelica?” Maia asked, sipping more of what she presumed was whiskey. Rubey was right, it made her feel better. Warmer and a bit looser.

“She was here some time ago with Voss,” Rubey explained as Maia nibbled on the cheese. “The night of the masquerade ball where the vampires attacked. By the by, Dimitri has sent word to her that you’re found and safe.”

“I appreciate knowing that. Thank you. You seem more than a bit familiar with the Dracule,” Maia said, and noticed for the first time that Rubey had bite marks on her neck, just below the ear. The sight reminded her of her own experience, and her stomach did a little flutter. “Are you one of them?”

“Stars, no, and I wouldn’t if they asked me. In fact, they have,” Rubey added with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been offered more than once to turn Dracule, and I’ve declined every time. Why would I want to live forever, and then be damned at the end of time?”

Maia flinched at the woman’s use of the blunt word, but found herself fascinated nevertheless. Here was someone who might actually answer her questions without prevarication. “Is that truly how it is?”

Rubey nodded gravely. “It’s unnatural, is what I say to Giordan. He’s kind enough to me, and visits frequently when he’s in London, but I’m merely a replacement for—someone else. And who’d want to live forever anyway? The same, day after day after day? Everyone you know and love, dying without you, while you’re staying the same? Everything dies, everything has a season and a cycle—that’s the way God made it. I don’t mind a few gray hairs, either. But the sagging I can do without.” She flashed a bit of a smile as she made a subtle gesture to her bosom.

Maia nearly blushed, but the woman was perhaps a decade or more older than she, and perhaps sagging was a concern. “Do you mean to say that Corvindale has made a pact with the devil? And that’s how he’s become a vampire?”

“They all have, for one reason or another, made such an agreement. But Dimitri has been trying to break the covenant for over a hundred years. That’s why he studies so much, and why he refuses to drink or feed from mortals. Although—” her eyes glinted “—that appears to have changed.”

Maia’s cheeks warmed. “He certainly didn’t want to, but it was the only way I could think to get him out of there. He was too weak to stand.”

Rubey’s eyes widened. “Do you mean to say, you saved Dimitri? Oh, how he must have loved that!”

Maia blushed more. “I can’t say that’s the whole of it, but—”

She stopped as the parlor door opened.

“Speak of the devil,” Rubey said slyly, garnering her a sharp, annoyed glance from Corvindale.

He strode in as if he owned the place and helped himself to a glass of the same whiskey Maia had tasted. His serving was much more generous than hers. After a brief survey of the chamber—which was furnished with a sofa, where Maia sat facing two armchairs, one of which was occupied by their hostess, he disdained all of the seating possibilities and remained standing near a tall, narrow table to her left.

The expression on his face was haughty and removed, as always. But Maia found herself unable to keep anticipation from fluttering in her middle as she looked at him. His very presence changed the energy in the room, shrinking it, making it warmer. More interesting.

He’d obviously bathed, as well, for his hair was damp and spiked in sharp points around the collar of his pristine white shirt. He stood holding his drink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display darkly haired skin the color of suntanned leather. Elegant wrists connected strong, wide hands to muscular forearms, and Maia knew fully well the shape and girth of his upper arms and shoulders. She swallowed and averted her gaze from the loose ties at the throat of his shirt where just a hint of dark hair showed.

“Enlightening your guest with the darkest secrets of my race, are you, Rubey?” His words might have been light if it weren’t for the way his eyes bored into the titian-haired woman.

She didn’t seem to mind. “She was just telling me how it all happened. Quite a story.”

“I’m certain she was,” he replied without glancing at Maia. “But it was beyond foolish of her to become involved in the matter. Things would have worked out much better if she’d simply stayed home.”

Maia went rigid. “If it weren’t for me, Lord Corvindale,” she said in her iciest voice, “no one would have known about the ruby hairpin. Which is what led me to investigate Mrs. Throckmullins.”

“And there’s where you went wrong, Miss Woodmore. You should never have been investigating anyone. Dewhurst and Cale had things well in hand. They would have found me soon enough.”

Maia could not hold back an improper snort. “I merely went for an afternoon call—”

“Nor should you have gone alone.”

“I didn’t go alone, you dratted man. Do you think I have feathers for brains? I had three footmen with me. How was I to know that Mrs. Throckmullins was your former mistress, and that she would have invited me into tea and then poisoned me? I certainly couldn’t have brought three footmen into her parlor, now, could I?”

He raised the whiskey. “Very well. I stand corrected. You could have done nothing to prevent Lerina from drugging and abducting you.”

Maia drew herself up even more, ignoring the avid interest on Rubey’s face. “Just as you could have done nothing to prevent her from abducting you. Because of course, being the Earl of Corvindale, you know all and see all and could clearly foresee every possible circumstance. Which is precisely why you ended up in the condition in which I found you.”

Rubey drew in a sharp intake of breath that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

“Furthermore,” Maia continued, unable to stop herself, “if I hadn’t managed not only to free myself from being chained to a chaise lounge and then gone in search of you, you would probably be dead by now from loss of blood.”

“Dracule don’t die from loss of blood,” he sneered.

“Even when tied up by ruby necklaces?”

“You were tied up by rubies, Dimitri?” Their hostess looked much too intrigued by such a concept, her eyes narrowing contemplatively. “Now there’s a fascinating idea.”

“Is my carriage here yet?” Corvindale snarled at her. “Perhaps you ought to go check.”

“Oh, but I find this conversation very stimulating.”

“Go.” He didn’t roar, but the room vibrated as if he had. Rubey rose reluctantly and started toward the door, not at all cowed.

But Maia wasn’t finished; no indeed. She had so much to say to the arrogant, impossible, infuriating man in front of her, she didn’t know if she’d be done in a week. “And then you throw a stake at me—”

“I threw it at the vampire who was holding you—”

“You could have stabbed me!”

“Of course I wouldn’t have, you addled woman. Do you think I’m completely incompetent? I knew precisely what I was doing, as is evident by the fact that you are here, intact, and so am I.”

“And then you jump through a second-story window,” Maia continued, her mind blazing with fury, the words tumbling out, “and take me with you! We could have been killed!”

“Dracule don’t die from a fall—”

“But people like me do!” she shrieked, leaping to her feet. Maia drew in a deep breath and realized she’d truly gone mad. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was addled. She reached down for her glass, taking the last swallow of her whiskey while managing not to cough or choke. She heard the faint click of the door closing behind Rubey.

Corvindale didn’t seem to notice; for he was watching Maia from over the rim of his own glass, his eyes dark and steady. Wary. “The fact is,” he said in his chilly voice, “that you were perfectly safe once the rubies were out of my proximity.”

“And how,” she said sweetly, but with a steely edge, “did it happen that those blasted rubies got out of your proximity?” Her hands planted on her hips, she glowered up at him.

“Speaking of rubies,” he said, setting his glass on the table with a definite clunk, “why in the goddamned bloody hell did you not use them?”

She closed her mouth, for she truly had no idea what he meant. “I—”

“I could have killed you, Maia,” he said, his face terrible. Darker and more frightening than she’d ever seen. “I nearly killed you.”

She was shaking her head, anger dissolving into confusion. “You didn’t hurt me, Corvindale,” she said, at last understanding. “You needed to feed. It was the only way.”

He made a disgusted sound and reached for her. “Look at this,” he said, yanking her arm out to display the bite marks there. “And here,” he said, shoving her braid away from her shoulder. “You would have let me go on and on until there was nothing left.”

“But—”

“I’ve done it before,” he said, his voice dropping into an awful pitch. It made her nauseated, the loathing and malevolence therein. His dark eyes glittered, holding hers like magnets. “I’ve torn a woman to shreds, left nothing but mutilated flesh behind. I could have done that to you.” His voice had dropped to an agonized whisper.

“But you didn’t. You stopped. I didn’t realize—”

He gave a bitter laugh, still holding on to her wrist. “Only by the grace of—something, some miracle—did I stop. It had been one hundred thirteen years, Maia.” He drew in an unsteady breath, his thumb sliding over her skin. “And even now…”

He dropped her arm abruptly and turned away. “Where the bloody hell is my carriage?”

“Corvindale,” she said, her voice quiet. She stepped toward him, reaching for his arm. It was in her nature to comfort, to set all right, to take care of things, and for the first time, she sensed the deep pain rolling off him like fog from the sea. It had been hidden beneath that brittle, dark exterior all this time.

When she touched him, he froze, the muscles of his forearm tightening like bowstrings. “Miss Woodmore,” he said coldly. “You are out of line.”

“Look at me and say that,” she said, noting that he didn’t pull away from her grip. He needed something. Something perhaps he didn’t even understand.

He turned. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Miss Woodmore,” he said tightly. “Don’t be a fool. Release me.”

She looked up at him, finding no humor in that ludicrous command, and silently, fearlessly, she met his eyes. Her heart pounded in her throat, echoing through her entire body as she lifted her other hand and placed it on the warm expanse of his chest. Flat, there over one of the solid planes of muscle covered by crisp white linen.

Time stopped. The room shrunk, and she was caught up in a moment of…something. Something potent.

When he moved, it wasn’t to spin away, but to pull her toward him. Hard and quick, with strong arms enfolding her, he brought her up against his tall frame as he bent his head. Maia met his lips with hers, hungry for what they had begun so many times earlier.

Their mouths clashed and fought, his tongue strong and sleek, battling with hers in an erotic melee. She had him under her hands, her fingers against the warm skin of his neck, the damp fringe of his hair, pulling at the strings of his shirt.

Corvindale lifted her onto the table next to him, clinking glasses, raising her to a height that brought her eye level with him. His hands pulled at her hair, loosening it from its braid, his fingers sliding down her neck and along her shoulders, drawing the edges of her dress’s neckline with them. The fresh air felt cool on her warm skin, and the rough pads of his fingers made gentle texture on her.

When he pulled out of the kiss, she made a sound of negation and frustration, but he was merely moving to the side of her jaw, in front of her ear. She shivered a little when he got there and she felt his warm breath deep inside her ear, then his hot mouth covered the wounds on her bare shoulder. Maia sighed and tipped her head to the side, opening her neck and throat, pressing up against his mouth, but he didn’t bite. Instead she felt the little shudder of his torso where it pressed against hers and his tongue sliding over and around the marks, his lips sucking gently on the rise of her shoulder, his hands strong and busy over the rest of her, cupping her breasts, sliding down over the swell of her hips.

The ties at the back of her dress loosened, and the bodice gapped before she knew it, his hands drawing the neckline down over her shoulders, completely baring them and the top of her shift. When he realized she couldn’t recline any farther on the narrow table, Corvindale made a sound of frustration and scooped her up.

Maia clung to his shoulders, dazed and already aroused, as he pivoted around and deposited her on the sofa, easing down next to her. She caught a glimpse of his face, dark and intense, his eyes hooded, and the very image of that desirous countenance sent deep waves of pleasure in her belly.

His weight pressed her gently into the upholstery, leaving her breathless but not frightened or overwhelmed. She started to say something—she didn’t even know what; perhaps to order him to remove his dratted shirt—when he gave a sharp yank and pulled the top of her corset away. He’d already loosened it, and her breast slipped free, round and ivory with a swollen pink tip.

He made a little sound, then ducked his head and flicked out his tongue just over the tip of her nipple. Maia watched, jolting at the light sensation that spiraled through her, and when he covered her with his mouth, the undulating waves of heat trammeled through her, down past her belly and to her core. His tongue sleek and warm, swirling around as he drew her hard and fast in his mouth, made her lose her breath. The pang of pleasure stabbed her belly again, and she felt herself opening, flowering and swelling down at the juncture of her thighs.

Pulling away, he looked up at her. Their eyes caught and Maia could hardly catch her breath at the dark heat there. She could see the tips of his upper fangs just below his upper lip, and she wanted them…inside her.

Instead of asking that, she whispered, “Your shirt, Corvindale. Make it go away.”

His eyes darkened and he eased back, whipping the linen up and over his head with a sharp snap. She had to touch his broad shoulders and the ridges of his belly, the slabs of his chest, slide her fingers through the thick patch of hair and over flat, oval nipples. She moved her hands up to cover the marks on his arm and raised her face to touch them with her mouth, wondering if she might taste more of him there, too.

He was solid and smooth, his skin damp and hot, and she felt something deep beneath leaping and trembling as she scored him gently with her teeth. His head tipped to the side, leaning against the sofa, his eyes closed, his beautiful lips—the mouth she’d so admired at the masquerade ball—parted as he drew in steadying breaths. Maia shifted, and his heavy arm came around as if to keep her from slipping away, but she had no intention of doing so.

She planted her hands flat on the warm slabs of his chest and curled her fingers around his shoulders to pull herself up. She had to taste that strong, corded neck, and it was warm and soft and she felt him groaning deep in his throat as she nibbled along the tendons there. When she closed her teeth over him, giving a sharp nip, he shuddered, his arm tightening around her.

“Maia,” he murmured. “Take care.”

She shook her head in the warmth of his neck, smelling his particular smell, now fresh with bergamot. “You won’t hurt me.”

He gave a short laugh, and she shifted, realizing she was now pressed against him all the full length of their torsos and legs. She could feel the outline of his powerful thighs, fairly twice as thick as her own, her skirt and shift tangled in with them and the hard rise from behind the buttons of his trousers. The very feel of it made her belly ache and her center tingle with sharp pleasure.

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.