Scorched

Constance twitched when his fingers reached her knee. The undercover touch seemed somehow more illicit than flagrant display. Mac’s hand crossed the barrier of her ribbon garter and found bare flesh to stroke. He ran his hand under her chemise, cupping her rump in a gentle squeeze.

“You’re not wearing anything under here,” he said in a very male tone.

“Only men wear drawers. No proper girl wears men’s underthings.”

He chuckled. “I need to introduce you to Victoria’s Secret.”

“Why would I need her secrets? Haven’t I got plenty?”

“Oh, yeah.”

His caress made her restless. She braced against his shoulders and hitched herself up until she could turn completely, straddling his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. Mac shifted, carrying her along as he found a comfortable position.

“Now what are you going to do?” he teased.

She noticed he’d kept a possessive grip on her hip. She wordlessly gathered her skirts up in front, working them until nothing was trapped beneath her legs. He slipped his other hand beneath the pool of cloth until both were holding her bare hips, steadying her as she hooked her fingers into his waistband and began working the buttons of his jeans.

He was wearing nothing beneath, either. Sliding away, she let him free himself of the thick denim, find a better angle on the heavy sofa. Settling again, she sketched the hard, sharp tip of her nail—one of the more dangerous attributes of the female vampire—around the base of him, then gently dragged it up the shaft, watching it quiver and blossom under her touch. Another stroke, and another, and she had him, plump and full, between her hands.

Constance felt wanton, an explorer in an exotic land. She was starting to ache in all the right places, her breasts feeling tight in the confines of her stays. She rose Up, balancing like an equestrian for the best angle to kiss. Their lips met, her hands gripping his shoulders, tongues teasing each other. He was demon-hot, his skin warm as that of someone who had been standing before a fire. She luxuriated in it, pressing herself against him, drinking in that heat with every pore.

And then she let her tongue slide down his strong, long neck, torturing herself with the spicy taste of him. Her jaws throbbed with the urge to bite, but she held back. If she was going to walk in the outside world, she had to prove she had self-control. Tears started to course down her cheeks, the effort almost too much to bear.

And then she moaned as his clever fingers found the private territory between her thighs. He stroked her in small, tight circles, filling her and then making her cry out as he withdrew, exploring until he found the perfect nub that made her gasp her surprise. She rocked against him, quivering as he wound her tighter and tighter. She dug her nails into his shirt, crushing the cloth in her grip as he finally brought her with a last skillful touch. She bucked against him in frantic, pulsing waves, her mind white as a snowstorm, free of anything but blind sensation.

She was there, floating free, when she felt the press of him. She opened, her body generous now, taking him in a bit at a time, stroke after stroke, mourning a little every time she had to let that fullness go. Mac had her by the hips again, guiding them both, his teeth gritted. His hardness stretched her—uncomfortable, exquisite pleasure. Her immortal body could take it, glorying in his size and strength, gorging on him. Every angle, every glide unfolded new sensations. New pleasures. New gratification.

Blood hunger raged through her, growing ever sharper as she denied it, becoming part of the exquisite torture. The pain of it was almost erotic in its own right.

Mac’s eyes glittered red, his skin gone from warm to burning with demon heat. Their surging rhythm quickened. Tension was building, layering, growing like something crystalline and bright. Then it shattered, a thousand shards of pleasure slicing at her flesh, drawing a piercing cry from her lips. She heard Mac roar and felt his rush of heat inside her. Oh yes, wherever he led, she would follow.

Ashe woke. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been out, but it was light now, sun peeping through the hospital room’s curtains. She looked around, moving only her eyes because her head felt like a balloon. Drugs.

A page turned to the right of her. She jerked toward the sound, feeling her medicated senses swirl with the sudden motion. Holly was slumped in a chair, her stockinged feet propped on the edge of the metal bed frame. She was reading a textbook—the same one Ashe had shoved at Caravelli, tricking him into revealing his vampire speed.

Now Ashe regretted the act, sort of. It had been a cheap shot. “Hey.”

Holly looked up. “You’re awake.”

“Yup.” Ashe took in the monitors, the ugly fluorescent lights, the other two patients in the room. Both looked asleep or unconscious, but it was hard to tell. All she could see from this angle was lumps under thin hospital blankets.

The place smelled of disinfectant and death.

Holly closed the text, setting it on the floor beside her. “How are you feeling?”

They put me in a pink hospital gown! Pink? Do they think I’m twelve? “Like I’ve been in a garbage compactor.”

“You need more painkillers?”

Ashe tried to sit up but abandoned the plan. “Nah, I’m woozy enough as it is.”

Holly fussed with the covers, doing the pillow-plumping thing. Ashe swatted her away.

Holly sat down again, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry Alessandro put you in the Castle. He’s sorry, too.”

Yeah, right. Ashe rubbed her eyes. They felt gummy. A wave of fatigue swamped her, followed by a mood the same color as the sickly green bed curtains. “I didn’t give him much choice.”

Holly looked puzzled. “Are you saying you’re going to back off about him?”

Ashe heard the hope in her voice. It cut her quick-deep. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. I don’t.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I’m an incredibly powerful witch?”

“I know. That doesn’t make me worry about you any less.”

Holly folded her arms. “Why not worry about Eden instead? It’s not that I don’t want you around, but she needs you more.”

Eden was a tender place she’d rather leave alone. “She’s fine. I’ve already made sure of that. I wasn’t sure about you.”

“I have Alessandro. Whether you believe it or not, he does a good job of looking after me.”

Ashe could tell Holly believed it. She sighed as much as her sore ribs allowed.

A doctor came by, but went to the patient across the room. A cart clattered along the hall. Ashe wondered whether they were going to feed her. She was starving. Not that hospital food was anything to look forward to.

Holly leaned in closer. “How did you meet your husband? You never told me.”

Oh, Goddess. Sharing time. “In a bar. He picked me up. It worked out.”

“That’s it?”

Not by a long shot. “We both loved action—mountain climbing, dirt bikes. He taught me a lot of fighting moves. He didn’t care where I’d been or what I’d done. He was a here-and-now kind of guy. Brilliant. Energetic.” Dead.

Ashe felt her throat closing up with unshed tears. Damned medication is making me weepy. “We called our daughter Eden because we were in Paradise when we had her.”

“That’s sweet,” said Holly.

More like ironic. A hot tear escaped, sliding over her temple into the pillow. Damned, damned medication. “Roberto died when she was six. Then I was on my own. I didn’t have any job skills. I couldn’t afford to give her a good life. The couple of years after that were a huge struggle.”

“So you went into—your current job?”

“Uh-huh.” Ashe heard the quaver in her voice, hated it, but kept talking. For some reason, Holly needed to hear this. Best to get it over with. “I started out finding missing children. The cases just got stranger, more dangerous, and paid better. Now Eden is in the best, most secure school I could find. She lost her father. It was the least I could do for her. She has a future. I’m not saying I’m a great mother, but she’s got absolutely