Born of Ashes (Guardians of Ascension #4)(44)
Author: Caris Roane

Her fear swamped her all over again, of living this difficult life. How simple things had been for her in Boston, the wife of a wealthy man of commerce. She’d been in command of her home, her servants, her children; she was a leader in her social circle.

Then captivity and life had undergone a long series of new definitions. Now, with Jean-Pierre, though it wasn’t his fault, she sometimes felt as much a captive of the breh-hedden as she had ever felt under Rith’s thumb.

“We need to take this slow,” she said. Of course visions of what it had been like to make love with him just a few hours ago sort of shattered her slow concept. In what way, exactly, could they now take it slow?

He nodded. “Oui, chérie. We should take it slow.”

At least he didn’t argue with her.

“Good, I’m glad you agree, that you understand.”

He stepped into her and put his hand on her right hip, very lightly. He held her gaze. “We should take it very slow. I would like that.”

He would like that? What was she missing here?

Then he dipped down to her and she felt those sensual lips, now very moist, on her neck just below her right ear. He kissed her then moved his lips in a long slow line down her neck, down and down, onto her shoulder and down to the mound of her breast. Very slow, he sent.

When she weaved on her feet and her mind started playing “La Vie en Rose,” she began to understand he was thinking of something else entirely. Just like a man.

Yet here she stood, desire washing over her in a heavy ocean-like wave, so that she didn’t even protest, not when he rose up and rubbed her lips with his thumb.

“Open your mouth, chérie.” Another command, and dammit, she obeyed him.

He slid his thumb inside and her knees buckled. But he was a quick vampire and he caught her around her waist. Then he did the most terrible thing: He began moving his thumb into her mouth then pulling back in a slow, deep rhythm.

She couldn’t help herself … she began to suck.

He groaned and released a whirlwind of his coffee scent, heavy with all that was male.

He went back to her neck, licking in a long slow line up to her ear. Once there, he said, “I want you sucking me … très lentement. Chérie, would you do that for me? Would you enjoy taking me in your mouth and sucking me?”

Oui, Jean-Pierre. Absolument.

Then his tongue dipped into her ear and he Frenched her slowly in a rhythm with his thumb so that she was close, so close. She moaned and sucked harder.

But much to her intense frustration, he drew away from her. “I must go, chérie, but we will finish this, oh-so-slowly, when the night’s work is done, ça va?”

She nodded. Her lips felt bruised they were so swollen. She blinked up at him and he bent down and placed a light kiss on her lips. Then he backed away from her and leaned against the wall. He stared at the floor.

She understood, or thought she did. Arousal was very different for a man, especially one as large as Jean-Pierre. He needed time to grow calm so that he could change into battle gear and head out to slaughter death vampires. An erection wasn’t easily concealed with a kilt.

She needed some space herself, and some air. Maybe a bucket of cold water would help. She smiled and with a little off-site telekinesis, she put a washcloth from Jean-Pierre’s sink under a flow of tap water. A moment later she brought the damp washcloth into her hand.

She immediately placed it at the back of her neck.

She heard him chuckle, then she looked at him and in a quick motion she flung it at him. “This is all your fault. What a tease.”

He laughed again. He unfolded the cloth and put it over his face.

“And your hair is sticking out in a ridiculous manner. You look like a clown.”

He laughed a little more then flung the washcloth back at her. She caught it in her hand. She loved his smile, all those big gorgeous teeth. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath. A split second later he wore black leather battle gear. He lifted his now very bare and supremely muscled arms to pop the cadroen and take command of the mass of his hair.

Okay, this was so not fair, to be presented with so much male beauty. She wasn’t sure who had designed the flight gear but that black leather kilt just did it for her. Of course, it helped to look like Jean-Pierre from head to foot.

She forced herself to remain where she was, she worked hard at it, because all she could think was that she wanted her hands under that kilt, she wanted to fall on her knees and savor what he’d asked her to savor slowly just a few minutes ago.

“Your beautiful patisserie scent, chérie. Mon Dieu!”

“Jean-Pierre, don’t take this the wrong way, but I really wish you would leave right now and please don’t come over here and touch me. Okay?”

“Fiona, look at me.”

She once more followed his bidding and met his gaze.

He looked so serious, but then a very sneaky smile curved the corner of his mouth. “Slowly,” he said.

Then he moved with preternatural speed, crossed to her, kissed her, then left the room.

The bastard!

But she smiled as she touched her lips. He was a tease and much too demanding but then he would smile and disarm her, keep her off balance. And the real problem was, she loved it!

He was so not helping to keep their relationship headed in the right direction … as in a very necessary eventual separation.

Just not tonight, when she would return home with him.

Seriffe stuck his head in the door. “I thought we’d wait in the grid room. You okay with that?”

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. She knew what he was really asking. The grid room had the best speakers for listening to the inevitable battle. Was she up to listening to it? Of course she was. But as she headed to the door, she halted.

This time, her man was in the battle.

Sometimes the attack comes from the shadows,

But a clear eye, unfettered by fears, will always recognize the enemy.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 10

Jean-Pierre folded to Copán Two, Honduras. Humidity hung in the air, so different from the desert. He extended his preternatural vision. So much green everywhere.

He folded his sword into his hand. He heard laughing in the distance, deep male laughter.

Gideon was beside him, chin down, eyes scanning.

Thirty-two Militia Warriors ranged behind them both.

Gideon looked at him. “Let my men see to this first. We need the practice in order to get stronger, to battle better. Do you understand, Warrior?”