Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11)(128)
Author: J.R. Ward

For godsakes, he was not even sure what color to call the scheme in here.

Raspberry?

Shuddering, he wanted to keep the lights over the sink off, but with the rosebud curtains drawn, the illumination from the streetlamps below was drowned out completely, and he needed to see what he was doing –

Oh, dearest Fates.

He’d forgotten about the lace shades on the sconces.

Indeed, in any other environment, the twin red glows might have suggested something of a sexual nature. But not in this land of nicey-nicey. Here, they were a set of gumdrops glowing on the wall.

He nearly choked from the estrogen.

In a fit of self-preservation, he popped both of the offenders free of their lightbulbs and put them under the sink. The glare was offensive to his retinas, but it was the difference between cursing and hand-wringing: Always, he would choose the former.

Removing his scythe first, he placed her on the counter between the twin sinks. Next, he took off her halter, then stripped his coat, his daggers and his guns from his body. The undershirt he wore was stained from long nights of fighting, but it was cleaned regularly – and would be used again. Clothes, after all, were naught but the hides vampires had not been given at birth.

They were not for personal decoration – at least, not for him.

Turning to the mirror, he muttered at the sight of himself.

The slayer that he’d been fighting hand-to-hand had been viciously good with a knife, likely the result of its former life on the streets, and what a rush to combat with one of fine skills. He had won, of course, but it had been a bracing battle.

Unfortunately, however, he’d taken home a lovely souvenir of the conflict: The gash ran up the front of his biceps and around to the side, terminating at the top of his shoulder. Quite nasty. But he’d had worse.

And accordingly, he knew how to treat himself. Lined up upon the counter were the various and sundry items that he and his fighters required from time to time: a bottle of CVS rubbing alcohol, a BIC lighter, several sewing needles, a spool of black nylon fishing line.

Xcor grimaced as he took off his shirt and the short sleeve that had been sliced through raked over the wound and split it wide. Gritting his teeth, he went still, the pain sharpening to the point that his stomach clenched up like a fist.

Breathing deep, he waited until the sensations passed, and then went for the alcohol. Twisting off the white cap, he leaned over the sink, braced himself and –

The sound that came out from his locked teeth was part growl, part groan. And as his vision checkerboarded, he closed his eyes and leaned his hip into the lip of the sink.

Inhaling hard, his sinuses stung from the smell, but there was no putting the cap back on yet: his fine motor skills were no doubt shot.

Taking a walk to clear his head, he went back into the bedroom and gave his body a chance to recalibrate. As the pain stayed with him, like he had a dog attached to his arm that was trying to eat him alive, he cursed many times.

And ended up downstairs. Where the liquor was.

Never one for imbibing, he investigated the canvas bag of bottles that Zypher had brought with them from the warehouse. The soldier enjoyed a drink from time to time, and although Xcor did not approve, he had long ago learned that one had to make certain allowances when it came to aggressive, restless fighters.

And on a night like tonight, he found himself grateful.

Whiskey? Gin? Vodka?

What did it matter.

He picked one randomly, split the seal on the cap, and tilted his head back. Opening his throat, he poured whatever it was down, swallowing in spite of the fact that his esophagus burned like it was afire.

Xcor continued to drink as he went back upstairs. Further drinking as he paced around some more and waited for the effects to kick in.

Even more drinking.

He wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually he was back in the bright light of the bathroom, drawing a two-foot length of black line through the head of a thin needle. Facing the broad, rectangular mirror over the sinks, he was grateful that the lesser’s blade had found his left arm. It meant that, as a right-handed male, he could handle this on his own. Had it been the other side? He would have had to get help.

The booze helped greatly. He barely flinched as he pierced his own skin and made a neat knot with the help of his teeth.

Indeed, alcohol was a curious substance, he thought as he began to make a row of stitches. The numbness that had come upon him made him feel as though he had been submerged in warm water, his body loosening, the pain still making an appearance, but the volume on the agony turned way down.

Slow. Precise. Even.

When he got to the top of his shoulder, he made another knot; then he snipped the needle free, put everything back where he’d found it, and started the shower.

Stripping his leathers down his legs, he kicked off his combat boots and stepped beneath the spray.

This time, the groan was from relief: As the warm water blanketed his sore shoulders, stiff back, and tight thigh muscles, the sense of comfort was nearly as overwhelming as the agony had been.

And for once, he allowed himself to give in to it. Probably because he was drunk.

Easing against the tile wall, the water hit him right in the face, but in a gentle way, like rain, before it traveled down the front of his body, going over his chest and his hard belly, past his hips and his sex –

From out of nowhere, he saw his Chosen leaning over him, her eyes glowing green in the moonlight, the tree overhead seeming to shelter them both.

She was feeding him, her slender, pale wrist at his mouth, his throat swallowing rhythmically.

In the midst of his alcohol-induced haze, the sexual need came upon him, seeming to unfold in his pelvis like an open hand.

He became hard.

Opening his eyes – not that he’d been aware of shutting them – he stared down at himself. The brilliant light over the sinks had been dimmed by the opaque curtain that kept the water from getting loose in the bathroom, but there was more than enough illumination to go by.

He wished it had been completely dark…for it brought him no joy to see the arousal, that length standing out so stupid and proud from his body.

He could not fathom what it was thinking: If the likes of whores had to be paid extra to accommodate his impulses, he was hard-pressed to imagine that lovely Chosen doing aught but run screaming in the opposite direction –

Abruptly, that struck him as depressing, especially as the throbbing between his legs grew stronger. In truth, his body was such a sad instrument, so pathetic in this desire – remaining unaware that it was unwanted by all.

In particular, by the one it desired.

Turning around, he tilted his head back and pushed his hands through his hair. Time to stop thinking and get clean. The soap in the dish that was mounted on the tile did its duty with alacrity upon his skin and his hair –