With both hands on my hips, Eli lifted me to his waist; I wrapped my legs around him and, kissing me, he began to move. I didn’t know where we were going; nor did I care. One second we we’re in the corridor; the next, in his bedroom. He loosened his hold, I slid down his front slowly, and Eli grasped my face, lowered his head, and tasted every inch of my mouth, and when the angle didn’t suit him, he tilted my head. Then his hands left me, found the clasp at my halter strap, and unfastened it. My dress pooled around my ankles, and Eli’s hands covered my breasts. I moaned as pleasure shot through me.
His lips left mine and moved to my ear, the sensation of his mouth dragging against my skin making me shudder and my cravings increasing to a painful pitch. My fingers dug into his back, my eyes closed, and my head dropped to the side, weightless.
“I hope I’m more than a good fuck to you, Riley,” he whispered against the shell of my ear. His hands moved to my lower back, then slid over my ass and pulled me tightly against him.
The words froze me, and my head snapped up. Amidst the haze of horniness, I stared into Eli’s eyes. I’d regained my senses; yet I could say nothing. We simply stared at each other. I had no way of answering him convincingly, except with my mouth, my body. Words meant nothing. I lifted both of my hands and grasped Eli’s jaw, and I kept my eyes trained on his as I pressed my lips against his. He stood statuelike still as I kissed him, gently, slowly, pouring all of my unstated feelings for him into that one act. Then, I wrapped my arms around his neck and simply hugged him. I buried my face in his neck and snuggled against him. His arms went around me, wrapped completely around me, and pulled me close, just as gently.
Now will you fuck me?
Damn. I couldn’t help it. I’m telling you. I. Could. Not. Help. It. The dirty request slipped out of the restraints deep in my brain and into open, vampiric-readable gray matter. Dammit!
Eli’s body shook against mine, and it was a few seconds before I realized he was laughing. I pulled back and stared into his shadowy face, peered into the depths of his ancient, disturbing eyes, and I knew then he understood me—fully. Then, he lowered his head, pressed his lips to mine, and kissed me.
“I love you, too,” he said softly. It was the first time he’d said it. I’ll never forget it, although I couldn’t say the words back. Not then, anyway. Hopefully later. He then kissed me deeply as he backed me up until we reached his massive bed. Eli lifted me, kicked off his shoes and the pants that had dropped below his hips, then followed me down into the softness of a white down comforter. Not once taking his gaze from mine, with his forearms, he braced his weight, his body above mine.. Lifting one hand, he smoothed my hair back, traced my brows, the bridge of my nose, and with his thumb, grazed my lips. I saw nothing more than half his face; the other half was swallowed in darkness. The image was intimate, sexy, and Eli exploring my facial features like a blind man became the single most erotic experience I’ve ever had. It sank to my soul, and I felt my insides flutter with excitement. I couldn’t believe someone like Eli belonged to me.
Slowly, he lowered his head, grazed my lips with his, then moved to my ear. “Watch me,” he whispered erotically, and I felt myself grow wet at his seductive words. “Watch what you do to me, Riley.” He pulled back and stared into my eyes; the possessiveness, the intense longing I saw there rocked me. Without another word, he moved, pushing his hard length fully into me. I was wet and ready and about to absolutely die with need, and his eyes grew dark with desire at contact. I wrapped my legs around his waist and moved with Eli, our bodies and rhythm becoming one, my heart beating enough for the both of us, and the whole while I kept my gaze trained on his. I held on as the orgasm built, strong, intense, until it erupted deep inside me. Its strength finally forced my eyes to close, and my body arched with pleasure against Eli’s as waves crashed over me; over him. Finally, the climax began to descend. As it came to a rest, Eli wrapped his arms and legs around me and encased me completely, and I let him. It was as submissive as I’d ever get—with anyone. Eli wasn’t after submissive, though. I knew what he wanted—the L-word—but I couldn’t give it to him right now. Not that I didn’t feel it, but . . . it’s hard to explain. He knew, though, and patiently waited. My feelings for him were greater than for anyone I’d ever encountered, and it scared me. He knew it scared me. I hoped one day it wouldn’t.
How long we lay there, our bodies wrapped and melded, I had no idea. I’m not even sure when I fell asleep. One minute I was completely relaxed, content, being drugged by the sensation of Eli’s fingers dragging up and down my spine, his intense intimacy unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The next minute, or hour, or however long, I sat up, looked around, dazed and confused. Eli was nowhere, and I was in a strange, unfamiliar place. A church? An old Spanish mission? In ruins, the brick and mortar were covered in vegetation, something wild and out of control like wisteria or ivy, and surrounded by a dense wood. It wasn’t Savannah but somewhere . . . else. I was alone. The heavy scent of rain and damp, along with ripened plant life, permeated the ruin, and overhead, the roof was almost completely gone. Nothing but a few old rotted rafters remained, the rest of the gap spindled and webbed with aged vines. It was night, and shots of moonlight breached the porous roof, illuminating the floor in splotchy, distorted, uneven patches. And although I was alone, several lit candles sat clustered together near the front of the ruin, and their flames caused shadows to skip across the brick. In the corner, beneath the only remaining stained glass arch, a long, wide stone bench stretched invitingly. After glancing around and seeing nothing or no one, I noticed how weary my body was, and I picked my way across bracken, sharp-hulled acorns, and scattered pine straw to the bench and sat down. One lone candle flickered in a ruby-colored glass holder on the sill. I pulled up my feet, which were bare, and wrapped my arms around my knees. It was then I noticed I wore nothing more than a white silky slip with satin straps, and it glided smoothly over my bare skin as I moved. I could have been completely naked, the slip was so skimpy, and as it was, I had nothing beneath it, anyway—no panties, no bra. No wonder I was so cold....
“Riley,” a voice said.
I jerked my head toward the voice but saw no one. Adrenaline raced through me; yet my heart pounded slowly. My eyes searched every inch of the ruin, but found nothing.
Then, the whispers began.
Riley, Riley, Riley, Riley . . .
Over and over, my name fell from unseen lips, harsh and intimate at the same time, and I gripped the brick sill of the window and scanned the room. Whispers were everywhere; yet there was no body, no physical voice to connect them. A gnawing sensation of panic crept upon me, and I hated the feeling. I wasn’t scared of anything or anybody, but I’d rather see what was coming at me than cower like some fool by a window. The sense of dread grew, and I knew someone was about to die a horrible death.
Then, suddenly, as if those particular thoughts beckoned, in the time it took me to involuntarily blink my eyes, he was there—Victorian Arcos.
“Riley,” he said, smiling, and I immediately knew the whispering voice I’d heard seconds before did not belong to him. “You came to me.”
“Not a willing participant,” I assured him. “You brought me here.”
“Are you sure?” he said, still smiling.
“Dead positive,” I answered. He moved slowly toward me, and I watched his every step as he seemingly glided over the bracken. His hair, dark and wavy, fell loose to his shoulders, and brown eyes regarded me without blinking. He wore dark jeans and a dark shirt, loosened at the collar. His skin was young and flawless, his lips perfectly shaped, the cut of his jaw that of a vibrant twenty-one-year-old man. A thick vein ran from the side of his neck and disappeared beneath his collar—another sign of youth, vitality. He smiled then, white teeth flashing against an olive complexion, and I knew having me inspect him so thoroughly thrilled him. “Don’t get your hopes up, sunshine,” I offered. “I just like to know my enemies inside and out.”
Victo
rian squatted beside the bench I sat on and traced my jaw with his forefinger. “I am not your enemy,” he said gently. “I am your destiny. And you will know me inside and out. I promise.”
I flinched. “Sorry,” I said, and shifted so my face wasn’t so easily accessible. “I’m not into younger dudes.” I glanced around, hoping to change the subject. “Where am I and how in hell did I get here?”
“Like it or not, my love, this is your fantasy. Your dream,” he said in a heady Romanian accent, and without my permission, moved closer. I was thrilled and appalled at the same time. “I am honored to be in it. And for the record, you are much, much younger than I.”
“You’re a killer,” I accused. “I saw what you did to that girl, in the parking lot, and the one at the bar,” I said, knowing he wasn’t the killer, but I had to know who was. I darkened my expression. “You make me sick. And don’t kid yourself. You force your way into my dream, just as you force my reactions. I damn sure don’t have them willingly.”
A look of puzzlement crossed his features. “What are you talking about?”
I smiled. “Don’t fuck with me, Victorian. I’m not an idiot. Like you repeatedly say, your venom is inside me forever. I can see, feel your moves, your kills, feeds, how you terrorize innocents.” I glared at him. “You’re a monster.”
His puzzlement grew; his brows furrowed into an expression I’d not witnessed before. It was almost believable.
“I never terrorize, my love,” he said. “And I’m anything but a monster. I adore women. I control my feeds, and my victims live.” He shrugged. “With tendencies, of course.” His eyes penetrated me, intense and sincere. “I have mercy, Riley Poe. I swear it. And of course I force my way into your dreams. You’re a hardheaded mortal.” He smiled. “I like that about you. And the chase gives me a hard-on like no other.”
I ignored his confession and perversion. “The Duprés paint a very different picture of you and your brother, and I tend to believe them. Not you. I mean, seriously. You did try to suck all my blood out at Bonaventure, or did you forget that?”
Victorian’s eyes darkened. “I could not forget if I tried,” he said gently, his voice even, controlled, seductive, and if I wasn’t mistaken, somewhat remorseful. “But you are mistaken. I would never have killed you. I would have turned you, yes, and then you’d be mine forever. I am selfish, but I am nothing like my brother.” His eyes scanned my body, regarding me closely, intensely, like a lover’s caress. “I know what you need, what you want and desire, Riley Poe.”
“Yeah, I desire for you to stop calling me Riley Poe,” I said sarcastically.
Victorian laughed softly, his eyes trained on mine. “I’ve watched you for far longer than you think, Riley. Since you were a young girl, I’ve known you, desired you.” The muscles in his jaws clenched; then, without warning, a hot, seductive sensation washed over me, uncontrolled, unwanted, insatiable. Victorian didn’t move an inch; yet I felt his hands on me, everywhere, his voice an erotic brush of air against my skin. I wanted to scream in protest. I struggled not to writhe with desire. He easily controlled me with his mind. “You want my hands on your body, tracing every curve and bit of softness you have,” he said, his words drugging me, and at the same time I felt the sensation of his hands trailing my arm, skimming my collarbone, pushing the satin strap aside, letting it fall over my shoulder. “You want my mouth on you, my lips following my fingertips,” he whispered. I felt his lips in the hollow of my neck, then across my collarbone, my jaw. I sat, totally frozen, powerless to move as Victorian awakened every sexual sensation he had no right to awaken. Invisible manacles held me hostage as I sat in the window seat, and although I struggled, I could not break free.
“You want me, Riley,” he said, and though he sat stone-still, my slip eased down my breasts as if invisible fingers grasped the silky material and pulled. “I am only obeying your silent command,” he whispered, and warm breath brushed the sensitive peaks as though teasing with his lips. The slide of silk against my thighs as the hem of the slip rose slowly made my insides rush with excitement. I hated it. I wanted it. I tried squeezing my thighs together, but they wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t fight it, Riley,” Victorian said smoothly. “It is me you desire, me you long for, me you want to feel deep inside you. Open ... for me.” Invisible fingers dragged over my skin as my slip rose above my hips, and sensations of unwanted pleasure darted my body like needle pricks. I gasped as hot breath brushed between my thighs. “Open,” he demanded seductively. “You are so unique, so beautiful.”
“No,” I said, the sound barely above a whisper. I wanted to cry, shout, kick out; I wanted to hurt....
I wanted to come.
Warmth, wet and delicious, delved inside me, again and again; I gasped. I lost my breath. “No!” I sobbed, louder, just before the intensity of climax crashed over me.
“Riley!”
My eyes fluttered open and stared into Eli’s angry, flashing eyes. Confusion webbed my conscious thought, pleasure made my body shudder, and I had to blink several times and look around before I remembered where I was and what was happening. Eli, his arms braced on either side of my hips, stared up from between my thighs. He moved over me, and with his hands he held my head still, forcing me to look at him. We were naked, in his bed, his body covering mine, my senses and nerve endings humming from the sensual caresses from his mouth and his tongue.
A split second before it hadn’t been Eli.
All at once, and so fast I didn’t see him move, Eli pushed off me. Looking at him as he stood beside the bed, his face angered, his body rigid, I had a crazy moment of raw adoration. I thought I’d never seen a more beautiful soul than Eligius Dupré.
I hated that he was angry with me. Shame flooded me; ire built, and at that moment I didn’t think I could hate anyone—rather, anything—more than I hated Victorian Arcos, and I was damn tired of his screwing with me. I pulled the sheet up to cover my naked body.
“I’m not angry with you,” he said quietly, his voice controlled, totally on edge. He knelt down and grasped my chin, then turned my face toward his, almost painfully. A dangerous fierceness took over his features; gently, he grasped the sheet from my fingers and released the sheet. “Never feel shame,” he said. “You are powerless, and he is powerful and obsessed with you; you cannot fight him. You will not win, and you will never rid your mind of him. He won’t let it happen.”
I stared in disbelief. “What?” I said incredulously. I pushed up on my elbows, and, unable to say anything, I gaped. No way was he right. “I don’t believe it.”
Holding my chin, Eli crept closer, covered my lips with his, and kissed me. It was more than a kiss; it was a brand, a memory of possessiveness I was surely meant to carry until death. The firmness of his lips, the drag of his mouth as he claimed mine, the slow tease with his tongue, made my body quiver, my nerve endings fire, my skin flush with heat. Suddenly, he pulled back and regarded me.
“You’re mine, Riley Poe,” he said, his voice dark, determined. “And while you may not be able to stop Victorian, I can.” His eyes searched mine. “I don’t share. Remember? He has’ to be stopped.”
Eli moved so fast, my vision saw nothing more than a hazy streak. I leapt from the bed, allowing the sheet to fall to the floor. “Eli, wait!” I cried, and I knew panic was close. “What are you going to do?”
At the door, Eli stopped, and I noticed he’d already changed. Dressed exactly as he had been the first day I saw him through Inksomnia’s storefront window, in worn jeans, a white tee and boots, with a shouldered backpack, he looked like any average badass guy on the street; mysterious, dangerous, not to be messed with. I knew he was all that and much, much more. I also knew his answer before it left his mouth.
With a look of longing that will haunt me for the rest of my days, I watched Eli’s face change from loving to one of pure determined hatred. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” He turned and moved through the double doors, then stopped. His back r
emained to me, his posture unyielding, still as death. “Wait for me,” he requested quietly.
Then, he was gone. Within minutes, the rumble of his silverback sounded, idled, and then roared up the street. I stood and listened until the motor faded completely away.
Eli was going after Victorian. Just like that, up and gone. Really? How would he even know where to look for him? I wanted to beat the hell out of Eli, and it was a helluva lot easier to stay pissed than it was to mope about his leaving. I didn’t have time for that, so pissed seemed the better route for me. After climbing in and out of the shower, I pulled on the dress Eli had so sexily discarded hours before, then grabbed my purse and pumps. At the double doors I paused and glanced over my shoulder at the rumpled bed. The clock read 4:58 a.m. With what seemed an involuntary muscular action, I drew in a deep, long breath, taking in Eli’s scent to litter my lungs, my taste buds, my memory. I knew what he did, he did for me. I also knew, somehow, he wouldn’t find Victorian. Not easily, anyway. The other invading my mind? How could Eli find him if we didn’t even know who he was? Eli had an explosive character. His emotions ran high in everything he did. When he was pissed, he was pissed. When he was happy, he was elated. And when he loved, man, he seriously loved. So it really didn’t surprise me that he’d taken off in an angry cloud of dust to find the two things causing me misery. It didn’t console or take away the edge I already felt inside. Within my rib cage, my heart ached—my fucking heart—and a hole had begun to tear, ragged inside my chest. Who knew what would happen? I hated that it all mattered enough to me that I felt pain. Angry, I closed my eyes briefly, breathed, then shut the doors and started down the corridor.
Philippe Moreau, the Duprés’ butler, stood in the kitchen, a white cup and saucer in his hand, and a kettle on the stovetop. Dressed in a long navy robe and slippers, he turned at my entrance. Aged eyes regarded the dragons inked into my arms, the angel wing at the corner of my eye, and then, met my gaze full on. “Will you have tea, Ms. Poe?” he asked, in a very proper and French manner.