The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(19)
Author: Colleen Gleason

The hard rise of his c**k nudged her hip, so close to that suddenly throbbing, hot and damp center between her legs. She held on to his forearm with one hand, and the other planted flat on the rough hair covering his chest. Texture, taste, scent…and his lean, muscular body sandwiched between her and the wall.

She pulled away after two long drags on his veins, swiping her tongue over the wound in a delicate little farewell, and looked up at him.

His eyes burned bright red-gold, and yet the centers were dark and intense. He had a sort of pained half smile fixed on his full lips, a bit of fang showing. For a moment, she almost shifted to cover them with hers, to taste him in yet another, more intimate way.

But she didn’t. Instead, testing herself and testing him, she stepped back, realizing that her breathing had become unsteady and shallow. Her ni**les swelled behind the bindings she wore beneath the suddenly too-tight tunic.

"More," he said, his eyes compelling her. "More, Narcise. I want to feel you against me."

She saw no reason to hesitate, and peeled off the close-fitting tunic. The freedom to do what she wished, to be in control and to enjoy the pleasure of the moment, emboldened her. Flinging the shirt aside, she untucked the binding around her br**sts and began to unroll it, conscious of his intense regard.

Her relief at the release of her bosom was echoed softly by his rough intake of air when she pulled the last strip away and at last jounced free. She raised her arms, feeling the pleasant sensation of her br**sts lift prettily.

"More lovely than I’d imagined," he said, the timbre of his voice skimming over her like a low and deep caress. "Will you take your hair down?"

"For one who has given over control," she said wryly, "you certainly have many requests, Cale." But nevertheless, sparked even further by her power and the pleasure simmering beneath the surface, she began to pull the pins from the huge knot of her hair.

"My given name is Giordan," he said. "Use it."

Narcise paused in the process, one heavy hank of hair tumbling down her back while the rest remained anchored in a sagging bundle. It was the first time she’d heard that tone of command from him. She found it curious…and unsettling.

As if reading her thoughts, he spoke again. "Very well, then, cher. No real intimacy yet. No kissing, no familiar names. When you’ve come to trust me, then I would that you’d call me Giordan. But to me, already you are Narcise." His eyes blazed fiercely, not with lust or desire, as before, but now with annoyance.

"I think you’re mad, Cale," she said. "We’ve hardly met, and barely spoken. How can you say such absurd things when you don’t even know me?" Of course, she was thinking of Rivrik, back when life was life and not infinite rote…and much easier than this. Back when she knew she would die someday, and when she was naive and young and in love with someone who truly knew her.

Cale gave what passed for a shrug, and despite the awkward angle of his arms, it was smooth and laced with conceit. "Sometimes, a man just knows." His eyes fastened on her, the glow receding into an intense brown-blue gaze.

Unbalanced and unsettled by the certainty in his voice, she yanked a few more pins from her hair. Narcise was mollified when she saw the way his eyes narrowed in appreciation as she combed her fingers through the thick tresses.

Her hair was one of the reasons for her great vanity, for it hung to her hips. All one length, it was a pure blue-black, thick and smooth as a waterfall even after being bound up in braids or twists. Next to her pearly skin and brilliant blue-violet eyes, the color was intense and striking.

Now she stood there, bare from her ankle-length breeches up, her hair swinging around her shoulders and waist. His eyes never moved from her as Narcise came closer, feeling the gentle sway of her bare br**sts, ni**les tight and high and throbbing to be touched. Her fangs were still extended and she allowed their tips to show just below her upper lip.

As she drew near, she scented his arousal, smelled it rolling off him in waves, and her stomach tightened and pitched in response. Lush and heady, it filled her nose and swelled her veins, settling into her so that she swelled and dampened and throbbed. She pulled out of the pleasure for a moment to remind herself: this was so different from the other times, when the overwhelming scent of lust was pungent and stinging, and as repugnant as the bitter smell of death.

Now, The Chamber was filled with the scents of desire, male and female alike, mixing and stewing together to create an even headier perfume. The last bit of his lifeblood lingered in the air and she sniffed, drawing it in, tasting it once again.

"Narcise," he whispered, his voice taut and low.

She came to him, her hands settling on his hips, then sliding up over the ridges of his belly and the rise of the planes of his chest…and brought herself closer. She arched a bit, lifting her br**sts so that her hard, sensitive ni**les brushed against the wiry hair there, rubbing lightly back and forth against him as their bellies and thighs pressed together. The light prickling sensation against her br**sts and ni**les was pleasant and tingly, offset by the hard, hot length of his c**k against the rise of her pubis.

His chest moved against her, expanding as he drew in deep, ragged breaths, and when she became bold enough to look up into his eyes, the stark desire there shot a spike of lust in her own belly. His lips were parted, showing the sharp, strong gleam of his fangs. She felt a little shiver of want, imagining those sharp points sliding into her skin, and the glorious release of her surging blood over his warm lips.

The soft clink of chains, every nuance familiar to her, told Narcise precisely what he was doing-shifting, clenching his fingers and tensing his muscles. But he wasn’t struggling to free himself. He didn’t pull or twist as she’d done, trying to loosen them.

Now, she slid her hands back down along his torso, pausing to unlace his breeches and drawers, and then tugged them down over his lean hips. His c**k surged free as soon as it was able, thick and tumescent, and Cale gave a soft sigh of relief at its release.

Narcise eyed him appreciatively, her mouth watering a bit and her quim full and tingling with interest and curiosity. Her cheek brushed deliberately against the hot, velvet skin of his erection as she worked his breeches down from knee to ankle, and she inhaled the very male, very aroused scent emanating from that center of heat.

When she got to the floor, he obliged by silently lifting his long, elegantly arched feet, and she slipped the tight breeches away. And then she settled back, her palms flat on the cool stone floor, and looked up at him.

Magnificent. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a more perfect specimen of maleness-and, unfortunately, she’d seen far too many. He was as sleek and muscled as Michelangelo’s statue of David, and even had the same head of thick, curling hair.