Eternal Beast: Mark of the Vampire, page 13
But who protected Gray?
“I would really like to see your brother,” she said again. “How do I do that? He won’t return my phone calls, won’t seek me out.”
Sara put her hand over her mother’s. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll take you to him myself.”
“No, my dear,” Cellie said quickly. There was no way she was having the Order on Sara’s tail as well. “It’s better if he and I meet somewhere. Somewhere private.”
Suspicion clouded Sara’s eyes. “Why?”
Something heavy and thick rested in Celestine’s throat. She thought for a moment about telling her daughter the truth about the Order, about them knowing that Gray was housing a mutore. But what was the point? A moment ago, Sara had been questioning herself, her feelings about the past and her choices regarding the present. She didn’t need to know. It was only Gray who needed the truth.
Her gaze rested on her daughter’s. “I don’t wish to ambush him. Showing up on his doorstep without warning. I’m afraid it would make him even more distant and unforgiving.”
The wariness in Sara’s eyes worried Celestine. Her daughter had always been so protective, so proactive in regard to her brother. From the moment that fire had destroyed their family and Gray’s mind, she’d taken his illness on herself. She’d become a psychiatrist for him, to heal him. Would she relax her cautious nature just this once?
“I think the tunnels below our home would do well for a meeting place,” Sara said at last, her expression now impassive as she took control over the situation. “I’ll contact him and set up a time.”
Cellie smiled. “Perfect.” She took a deep breath and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Shall we have that chat now?”
“Later,” Sara said, her eyes just a little less bright now. “You go upstairs and get your things unpacked. I’ll make us some tea.”
“They drained the shit out of me.”
“They did warn you about that.”
“Not helping, D.”
Dillon pulled Gray away from the wall. “Come on, now. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Fine. But don’t think I’m going to be an easy lay,” he uttered, leaning against her as they walked down the hall. “I’m not that out of it.”
“I’ll try to keep my hands to myself.”
With a quick burst of energy, Gray took her hand and pulled her close, leaned back against the door to his room. His eyes found hers; his lips were just inches away. “Don’t try too hard, okay?”
If Dillon’s heart could beat, if it could thump against her ribs with girlish excitement, it would have in that moment—and at jackrabbit speed. She stood there, breathing in and out as he gazed into her eyes and contemplated kissing her.
Do it! she wanted to shout.
What are you waiting for, Impure?
For a second, she thought about leaning in and getting it done herself. Tasting him, maybe running her tongue across that full bottom lip, but then his knees buckled.
“Fuck,” he grumbled, dropping his head back against the door. “Those greedy bastards. Took a good twenty pints at least.”
“That’d be a clever trick,” Dillon said with deep sarcasm, “since the body has, like, only twelve pints in it to start with.”
“Don’t get technical when I’m about to pass out, Veana.”
Grinning, she hauled him toward her, then kicked the door closed behind herself. “Come on, blood boy,” she said, helping him inside and easing him down on the bed. She made to stand, but Gray wasn’t letting go—no how, no way—and she was forced to land on top of him.
Well, not exactly forced.
She rolled to the side—her side of the bed—and began to inspect his temples. She had watched both Piper and Vincent pull the memory from Gray’s mind. It had taken no more than ten minutes, but it looked brutal, and she wondered how often Gray was having them do this.
She touched one of the bite marks. “Kind of a butchering mess here. An Impure’s bite. Maybe I need to give some lessons in clean strikes.”
“Yeah, they’d be all kinds of receptive to that.”
Her thumb brushed against the wound. “Do you want me to give you a nice blow job?”
Gray’s head turned, his eyes lifted, and a wicked grin broke on his face. “You already did, and for the record, it was way better than nice.”
Dillon’s insides stirred at his words, at the look in his eyes. “Doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.”
His smile softened, and the look in his eyes turned to something far more intimate than sex. “I appreciate that, but if anyone is getting blown tonight, baby, it’s you.”
She licked her lips. “I may act like a paven, talk like a paven, fight like a paven—I may even fuck like one. But there’s no twig and berries down there to blow, Gray.”
“No twig,” he whispered, his gaze hungry, feral. “But there is a berry, sweet and ripe and buried within the hot, wet lips of your cunt.” He gazed into her eyes, no doubt watching to see if there would be shock there, heat there, need there. If he was reading her right, he saw all three. “In fact,” he continued, “I felt those lips against my palm not too long ago. Remember?”
She swallowed thickly. As if she could forget. That touch had started it all, cooled her shift while heating her body to a point of desire so worrisome she’d pulled away from him so she didn’t have to examine the effect of his hands on her.
Remember? Ah. Yeah.
In fact, her lower half was getting a repeat performance right now. Bitch.
Gray rolled onto his side, which sent Dillon onto her back. He gazed down at her, growled possessively as he noticed what she was wearing. “I like you in my clothes. Shit, I like you in my bed.”
Trying to ignore the warmth that moved through her at his words, Dillon nodded at the bit of blood seeping from the wound on his temple. “Let me close those bite marks. Come here.”
Gray lowered his head, and Dillon leaned in. She was about to release her healing veana’s breath on his left temple when a sudden animal-like instinct took over her and she lapped at the excess blood instead.
Gray hissed.
“Hurts?” she asked, concerned.
“Like a wet dream,” he said roguishly.
Dillon smiled, then licked him again.
“You lick me and I get to lick you,” he uttered with dark hunger. “It’s only fair.”
“When have I ever cared about being fair?” But Dillon could hardly deny the lust, the need, the urgency rippling through her body at his words, at the images those words brought to her mind.
She opened her mouth then and blew. First on one side of his temple, then the other, until both wounds were closed nice and tight.
When she released him, Gray let his head drop down to her pillow. His eyes were closed and he looked tired and pale.
“You all right, Impure?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. But the thread of concern she had for him—that she was having quite often lately—was back again and more intensified.
“I’ll be fine in a few hours,” he whispered against her ear.
Dillon chewed her lip. If she was smart—if she was the Dillon from a week ago, that hard-ass who cared about no one but herself—she’d get up out of this bed and let the guy sleep it off. He’d be fine; clearly he’d been through this before.
Problem was, she didn’t want him fine.
She inhaled, exhaled, then whispered, “Drink from me.”
“Oh, damn, D,” he uttered, his lips just a millimeter away from her neck. “I don’t know if I can handle Beast blood right now.”
She shivered. “Don’t be cute.”
He chuckled softly. “I’m serious. Hot, rich, potent, and highly addictive. I may turn rabid.” His hand came up, and he trailed one finger down the other side of her neck. “Do I get to pick the spot?”
“You’re being cute again,” she said, everything above and below her waist churning with heat.
Gray inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as though he could scent that heat. “No, baby, I’m just hungry.”
Goddamn it, he needed to stop calling her “baby,” and she needed to toughen the hell up. Panic was beginning to wrestle with the desire inside of her. The male needed blood, and she was cool with giving it to him. It was just…Shit. She turned and eyed him dangerously. “Take as much of my potent and highly addictive blood as you want, Impure—”
His brow rose severely.
“Gray,” she amended with an eye roll. “But there’s a condition.”
He chuckled softly. “Tell me what you need.”
“No memory grabs.”
A surprised gleam flashed in his eyes and his mouth hardened just a touch, but he didn’t question her. Instead, he lowered his head and whispered into her neck, “Agreed.” Then he kissed the vein at her neck, and as he did his hand came to rest on her stomach. “I won’t go back in time, D,” he whispered into the curve of her ear, “but what about here? Can I go here?”
Dillon sucked in air as he eased his hand over the skin of her belly, down, down until his fingers touched the waistband of her jeans. His jeans.
Mimicking his hand, he grazed his fangs down her neck too, then circled the spot, the sweet spot where she would feed him. “While I take, will you let me give?”
Heat pooled inside her cunt, making her clit pulse with anticipation. She could say no. She could say no and he would take his hand away and leave her be. She could say no and he wouldn’t be angry, wouldn’t punish her.
She could say no.
So she said, “Yes.”
She felt him smile against her neck, lap at it with his tongue; then, with the utmost gentleness, he pierced her skin and sank his fangs into her vein.
A sound escaped Dillon’s throat, like pleasure and release and melancholy all wrapped up into one.
He uncurled the waistband of her jeans and pulled at the button. With deft fingers, he eased down the zipper and opened the fabric wide. She felt the air on her skin, on her shaved pussy, felt him shudder as his hand encountered nothing but smooth, hot skin. As he took slow, deep pulls at her vein, drank her rich, pure blood, his hand cupped her possessively.
There was something inside her brain that warned her not to take any pleasure from this male, but her body had other ideas. It craved Gray Donohue; it desired the touch of his long, fire-damaged fingers. It wanted to know what it would feel like to be completely without control. For just a little while. For one climax.
She released a breath, a soft moan of satisfaction and pleasure as his fingers played with her lips, first with the outside, so gently, so softly. She pressed her hips up, hoping he’d get the hint, wishing he could hear her thoughts in that moment. Then again, maybe he did. He dipped one long finger inside her wet slit and stroked her sensitive flesh back and forth. There wasn’t anything hurried in his touch. Gray Donohue wasn’t trying to get her off, then take off. He was an explorer, utterly gentle and highly erotic.
She didn’t need to hear him say it to know that he wanted to feel her, experience her movements, the shake of her lower half when he slid another finger between her soaking pussy lips and circled her clit, urging it to swell.
The slow-moving but powerfully shocking buildup of heat spread through every part of her, and Dillon grabbed the sheets at her sides and fisted them. Her eyes closed, her toes pointed, she listened to him suckle as he played her. For one brief second, the image of the monster, her monster, tickled the exterior of her mind, but she refused it entrance. Instead, she forced her mind on him, on Gray, the one with the magic hands and the fangs that belonged inside her vein and only her vein.
As Gray nursed at her neck, Dillon opened her eyes and looked down, watched as he pressed her lips open with his thumb and middle finger, then circled her shiny red clit with his slick index finger. Though it was highly erotic to watch, there was also something comfortable, stable in his hands. They were so big and scarred and yet they were the kind of hands that wanted to bring only pleasure to her body, never pain.
As his fingers feathered her clit, Dillon felt Gray’s other hand tunnel behind her back, then move down over her ass to the slick wet trail that led to the opening of her body.
“Oh God,” she uttered, feeling her body release even more moisture as she pumped against both of his palms, begging him to continue, begging him to come in, come in where it was warm and drenched and aching for his touch.
Gray groaned against her neck, pressed his fangs in deeper, then entered her with one long finger, one delicious thrust. Dillon gasped, her fists tightening around the sheet. Shards of electric energy raced through her system. She wanted to move, wanted to attack, wanted to scream—and God, she wanted to touch him. But when she called upon her limbs to respond, they wouldn’t. Her body, inside and out, was no longer her own—and yet she’d never felt more in control. She bucked, rolled her hips, moaned his name, and let her head thrash to the side.
Gray released her then, pulled from her vein. But as he did, he slipped another finger inside her.
“I’m inside you,” he said hoarsely. “But you’re inside me too. Not just your blood, but your jaguar. And it’s screaming and clawing at me to give you more.”
His thrusts grew quick and intense, and every time he drove up inside of her, he pressed the pads of his fingers against the sensitive spot of her clit.
“Oh God, yes, Gray,” she cried out, then whimpered as he gave her clit another flick. “God, yes! Fuck me, Gray, please.”
She couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and she let her head drop back against the pillows. Knees bent, hips pulsing, Dillon let her thoughts evaporate. Gray’s fingers were working her over like nothing ever had, thrusting, pistoning inside her as he circled her clit faster and faster.
“That’s it, baby,” he said, his tone a hoarse, hungry demand. “Come for me. Shit, no. Come for you—you and the tight, hot pussy that’s riding my fingers, drenching them, suckling them.”
She was dying—or was it living? She didn’t know, but whatever was slamming through her right now, spark after spark—whatever it was that had just made her mind and body connect for the first time—she wanted more of it. Her back arched off the bed, and as the walls of her pussy trembled, then clenched around his fingers, she cried out. Again and again. Climax ripped through her, sending wave after wave of delicious, bone-melting satisfaction to her limbs—hitting her from all sides, beating her against the smooth, unmoving rocks of impossible heat and wondrous pleasure. And as Gray rode them with her, his fingers still thrusting inside of her, her hips canted, again and again, as she stretched, trying to hold on, wanting more, until finally, the waves receded and she released a weak, shuddering sigh.
Her hips dropped to the cool sheet at her back, her breath hitched, and she just lay there. Then, through her exhaustion, her haze, she felt that old sense of doom creep in. It was that feeling she’d always had after sex, after orgasm. The need to run. To leave before anything got heavy, serious, intimate.
But she didn’t, didn’t move. Instead, she lay there, waiting for him to try to climb on top of her, take her, pull down her jeans and get something out of this encounter too.
Would she let him? she wondered, the doom inside her growing. Maybe.
Probably.
Her mind got fuzzy and her skin grew tense, and then Gray Donohue leaned in and kissed her neck, lapped at the spot where he’d bitten her and released her. Not pushed her away or acted as if she owed him something and she’d better get to it, but just released her. He lay against his pillow, opening his arms, letting her know she was the boss; she was in control.
Her breath caught somewhere in her throat, Dillon stayed where she was. She wasn’t sure what to do with this, with him—with herself. Especially when the feelings of panic and doom receded and she was left only with a raw and honest need for intimacy. So instead of turning away, giving him her back, as was her nature, she moved closer and curled in to him.
For several minutes, she remained tightly pressed against his side, breathing in and out. It wasn’t until she noticed his T-shirt was wet that she realized she’d been crying.
What a fucking pussy, she thought.
What a fucking loser.
And then he pulled her closer and kissed her hair, and she released a mighty breath from her aching throat, wrapped her arm around his waist, and pulled herself tighter against him.
10
Gray had a hard-on the size of New Jersey, but he wasn’t going there. Not now, not yet—not until he knew she was ready. Sounded kind of nuts in his head, because ever since he’d met Dillon she’d been openly sexual, up for anything—with anyone.
But now he knew better.
He didn’t know the details—but he knew better.
She pulled herself even closer, her core pressed against his thigh, her face buried in his side. For a second, he’d thought maybe she’d been crying. He didn’t know…but maybe he’d heard something, and maybe his T-shirt was wet where her face was tucked in.
But that had to be sweat, right? D was no tear dropper. Hell, the veana got pissed, not sad. She got annoyed, not sad. It was her way.
“You got some seriously talented hands, Male.” She glanced up, grinned. “You just said I couldn’t call you ‘Impure,’ right?”
No tears, Gray thought, but those hazel eyes were glassy and a little red. Could be from climax. Shit, she’d come pretty damn hard a moment ago.
But even as he reasoned away the possibility that Dillon had gotten even the smallest bit emotional from their encounter, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and brushing his thumb along the upper ridge of her cheekbone. The skin felt pliant, cool with the last shades of moisture. His chest hitched like he’d just had a blade thrust into it.
Her mouth thinned and her eyes hardened. “What are you looking for?”
“Just looking at you.”
“You’re staring. Thinking. I can feel it.”
