Lassiter, p.29
Lassiter, page 29
He felt like the Audience House was now a mess, everything ransacked like a robbery had taken place.
Entering, he swept his gun left to right, even as he realized that was stupid. For bullets to work, even the ones he had in his magazine, ones that carried not just lead but water from the fountain in what had been his mahmen’s private quarters, you had to have a physical target to shoot at.
There was none that he could see.
At the pantry, he back-flatted himself and reached out to push open the door. Willing the lights on inside, he popped his head around the jamb.
Nothing but commercially canned goods, homemade jars of preserved peaches, boxes of pasta, and bags of flour, sugar, and coffee.
As he continued on through the meal staging area and into the dining room, all of the other brothers went out the far side of the kitchen, proceeding down the hall that led to the front entrance, foyer, and staircase. He tracked their progress through the creaking of old floors, just as he knew they were doing the same for his footfalls.
The dining room was empty.
Everything where it should be.
He strode across the great Persian rug to the partially open double doors. Peering through them, he saw Rhage working the waiting area like it was a crime scene, those baby blues assessing everything.
When he and Hollywood reconvened at the front door, John Matthew and Qhuinn came out of the back parlor and held up a closed fist for “clear.” V did the same.
Tohr was the one who went upstairs, but he wasn’t alone. Sahvage dematerialized up ahead of him, re-forming on the top landing.
As Rhage looked over, the question in that brilliant aqua stare wasn’t something V could answer.
He had no fucking clue what that had been out there.
Or whether, when it had seemed to disappear, it had gone into this house or not.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Rahvyn surprised herself as she spoke the three most powerful words in any language.
And yet saying “I love you” to Lassiter had seemed inevitable, in a way.
In fact, all of this suddenly felt inevitable, from her having been honest with him to them being alone together in this cave, the world so far away. His acceptance of her had offered her an unexpected healing, and she was going to embrace the relief from pain she had not been aware of harboring.
There were other things she wanted to embrace, too.
As if he read her mind, he came around to her, his big body shifting with power, his eyes hooded and hungry. She knew what was going to happen next—and not because she was looking into the future in some prescient way. Lifting her chin, meeting his beautiful, unusual eyes, she knew what else was inevitable.
Their kiss was chaste yet firm, a sealing of the commitment they’d entered into when she had given back to him the words he had first expressed to her, her syllables the turn of the lock that she knew, deep down inside of her, would bind them for their immortal lives.
Lassiter eased away a little. Then he stroked her hair, his eyes roaming around her face.
“Please,” she said, before he asked the question.
“We don’t have to do this.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “we do.”
There was no going back now, and even if she had a chance to reverse this fall, she did not want to—and certainly her consent was the center of gravity for them, the thing that presently pulled them down onto the soft bed, his body moving on top of hers, his hair falling around her in a shimmering wave with shadowed undertones.
Now, as he kissed her, there was true passion. His lips caressed hers with heat and intent, his tongue licking into her mouth, as she arched into his chest and spread her legs—
She cried out as he came to rest right where she needed him to be, his hard length once again pressing into her warm, wet core. Rolling her hips, she stroked herself against the arousal that told her exactly how much he, too, wanted this—and then her hands were finding a way under the loose blue top he’d put on what felt like a lifetime ago. And although he could easily have disappeared what covered him, like her, he seemed to want to enjoy the gradual unveiling at her own doing, his torso pulling back as he lifted his arms to help her get it off the old-fashioned way.
His upper body was extraordinary in the firelight, his muscles flexing and releasing as he tossed the cotton away, a cloud the color of a bright daytime sky from her pretrans youth. Turning back to her, his face became fierce as he balanced himself on his forearms.
“What is it?” she said as she stroked her way up his ribs.
When he shook his head, she was having none of that. “You will tell me. Now.”
Closing his eyes, he seemed to grit his teeth. “I want to kill that male who hurt you. Even though you already did. And that is the last thing either of us needs to be talking or even thinking about at this moment.”
“Lassiter. Lassiter, look at me.” As those lids opened, she touched his face. “Just because I can take care of myself doesn’t mean that I do not appreciate you wanting to be there for me. It is a lovely gesture.”
“I don’t want to think about the past.”
“So kiss me some more and let’s put it far away from our present, where it belongs.”
There was a moment of hesitation on his part, and then he seemed to gather himself. His lips were very light on hers when they returned—but they didn’t stay that way. Soon enough, he was kissing her with heady desperation, and as she dug her grip into his hard shoulders, she did not think they could get closer.
Yet she needed that—
The world spun without warning, and suddenly their places were reversed, she above him, his body the thing on which she lay.
“Take your clothes off,” he said in a guttural way. “I want to watch.”
Sitting upright on his hips gave her a shot of pure pleasure, his hardness digging into her sex to the point where both of them moaned. And then she was grabbing the hem of her sweater—oh, how efficient: The shirt she was wearing underneath rode up with the knitted cables, going along for the ride. There was a slow-up when she got to her head, her hair getting tangled, her arms twisted, the cowl neck becoming caught on her chin.
As she wriggled to get free, his hands gripped her hip bones and he started to move rhythmically against her, that rigid shaft of his pushing into her so that she lost track of what she was doing and why.
“Rahvyn…”
Whilst she tugged at the hold of her clothing, broad hands circled her waist and went farther, until the twin weights of her bare breasts were cupped. That was the clarifier she needed. Finishing what she had started, she yanked the layers off and let them drop to the carpet that covered the cave’s dirt floor.
Lassiter’s eyes were on her, and then his hands were all over her, caressing, exploring.
And finally, he pulled her nipples down to his mouth.
Now his lips… were on her.
As the pleasure ran through her, Rahvyn gave herself up to the waves of heat. In the back of her mind, she realized that this space they were creating, not merely by their isolation in the cave, but by what they were doing with their bodies, was like the netherworld where she had sequestered the Book. This was an alternate reality, one that was impenetrable for its duration, the sensations a boundary that none and no one could break through, the powerful heat burning through her, through him… and yet causing no pain.
Magic, she thought.
This was magic and why it was true:
I love you were indeed the most powerful three words in any language.
* * *
Lassiter wanted to slow it all down. But with half of Rahvyn’s clothes off, and the tip of her breast in his mouth, and his hands on her body, and her thighs once again parting for him…
He was a fucking freight train.
She was right with him, though, clutching his shoulders, arching into his lips, her scent blooming in the cave until all he could smell was her. And God, even though this had been the position Devina had favored most, there was no confusion.
He knew exactly who was riding him—and that was why he’d put Rahvyn on top. Though the demon would never know it, he felt a surge of triumph that the abuser was not the master of him or his body any longer.
“Please,” Rahvyn groaned. “I want you…”
As he let himself fall back, her nipple popped out of his mouth, and holy fuck, she was on the verge of unhinged, her hair a tangle from her writhing on the pillow, her breath coming in a pant, her fangs descended from a hunger that had nothing to do with blood.
And everything about him coming inside of her.
As he was well aware of exactly what she wanted, he might have been tempted to tease them both some more. But not this time. No, the teasing and the begging would come later.
Rolling them once again, he kept his weight only partially on her, and had to grit his teeth in frustration as his erection went in the wrong direction, away from her core—and his hand trembled as he went for the button on her jeans. When her head jerked up, he froze in case he’d alarmed her.
“Yes…” she said. “Please… take them off.”
Yes, ma’am, he thought to himself as he went back to work.
To get at the zipper properly, he had to sit up, which was good because he could take her jeans down her—
Fuck.
She wasn’t wearing underwear.
As he froze, she flushed. “I am sorry, but I do not have proper undergarments upon myself. I had no clean—”
“Are you kidding me? This is the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her abrupt laugh made her breasts bounce, and talk about spoiled for choice. There was so much he wanted to explore on her body, so many things he wanted to do, but at least they had time—
Or do we, he thought with a shot of dread.
Eddie and Adrian had better keep that promise.
As he started to tug at her jeans, the going was tough, those creamy thighs of hers getting better and better looking the farther down he drew the denim—and in the end, he decided that, however efficient disappearing clothes was? This was better.
The torture just made the sex more intense.
And then she was naked, the soft comforter puffing up around her body, the firelight over her skin and her platinum hair, her innocent sensuality making him feel more male than anything else ever had.
“What about you,” she whispered as she looked at the bulge in the front of his scrubs.
“Are you sure?” he said harshly. “I can stop now… but there’s a point of no return.”
Of course he would never do anything to her that she didn’t want, but an orgasm was already right at the tip of his cock—and that was something he would not be able to control for much longer.
“Very, very sure,” she said as she nodded. Then she licked her lips, like she wanted to—
Nope, he couldn’t think like that. Not while he got up onto his knees in front of her. He was liable to come all over himself—and he wanted to save it for filling her up. On that note, he looked down his bare chest to the tie that was earning every bit of its keep trying to prevent a structural breach that would get him arrested for public obscenity if he were anywhere else.
More with the hand shaking now as he futzed around with the bow and the knot under it—and then the tie was loose and the waistband was going lower—
Well. There you have it.
His erection broke out of confinement with a bobbing thrust that absolutely, positively, did not look like it was raising its hand to get called on in a master’s class on erotica.
“I want to touch you again,” she murmured. “Let me… touch you.”
Before he could respond properly—on account of all the OMG, she’s going to touch me!! going around in his brain—Rahvyn’s hand circled his shaft—
Lassiter jerked his hips back and nearly cracked all of his molars. “I’m going to come.”
“I know. I want you to.”
He had to stay perfectly still on his knees after that, for a good minute—and yes, he looked like he was directing traffic, his arms out in front of himself like there was about to be a car crash. Meanwhile, his chest was pumping up and down, and didn’t that not help anything at all: It created a sway at his hips.
“Come into me,” Rahvyn said. “My love… come inside me.”
Lassiter looked up at the arching ceiling of the cave, as if he could see the heavens. He’d never been one to worship the Creator—or even give Him much credence. But it was with utter reverence that he thanked the entity.
For this female.
When Lassiter once again mounted his female, he kept his hips off to the side and found her mouth. Even though he was, quite literally, panting for it, he forced himself to—
Without warning, she repositioned her pelvis, shifting over so that his sex was on hers, and the slick feel of her made something in his brain snap.
It was all instinct after that… reaching between their bodies, grabbing himself, putting his head on her. As she cried out his name, he nudged forward ever so slightly.
Rahvyn took it the rest of the way, a roll of her hips and a push of her lower spine making the penetration real. Looking into her face, he wanted to make sure there was no pain for her—and her tight expression was hard to read.
“Rahvyn?”
Her hands traveled down his body to his ass, and when she gripped him there and pulled forward, he followed her cue, sliding himself all the way home.
Her tight, slick, hot hold was a constriction he felt all the way through him, and he couldn’t help it. He retreated in an achingly slow glide… and slid back in, all the way… inside of her…
The scent of tears panicked him, horror turning the tables on his passion, taking his hot need for her to an icy cold regret—
“I am sorry,” she mumbled as she started to shake.
“Oh, God, Rahvyn, I’m withdrawing—”
“No.”
At her sharp command, he stilled. Not knowing what to do for the best, he watched helplessly as she brushed under her eyes.
“I’m not crying because it hurts,” she said hoarsely. “I’m crying… because this is how it should have been for my first time. With you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ideally, they would be doing this one-on-one.
Back in the Brotherhood’s mansion, up in the pale blue study that had been decorated for dandies, as opposed to a bunch of males of war, Wrath was sitting on his sire’s throne and praying like hell that the collection of hotheaded fighters, who were testing the structural integrity of all that antique French furniture, would for once—just once, in their ever-loving lives of aggression and territoriality—shut the fuck up.
“No, Fritz,” he said in a voice that was, for him, pretty fucking calm, “you’re not in trouble. I just want to know what happened, that’s all.”
The silence that followed was not good news—and neither was the scent floating over. The doggen was careening into an ocean of self-admonishment and guilt, and if he drowned in it, there was no amount of self-esteem-boosting CPR that was going to bring him back.
“Fritz.” He sat forward on the throne. “Listen to me. Like I said, you didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s a real problem if you don’t talk to me. Don’t think about all of them. Just talk to me.”
To emphasize the point—like he really needed a “Hello, my name is…” badge?—he put his dagger hand over his heart.
In the quiet that persisted, he pictured Fritz in the study. Though he couldn’t see anything anymore, he remembered the layout of the room from when Darius had once guilted him into coming for a tour shortly after the building had finally come to a conclusion and all the furniture and stuff had been moved in. The mansion had been constructed to house the Brotherhood and their mates, a goal that no one, except for Darius, had ever thought would be realized—so Wrath, for a whole host of reasons, hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the decor, all of which was top-notch old crap, and lots of damask this and satin that, and oh, hey, yeah, let’s hang some more crystals from everything because, by all means, the three hundred thousand pounds ya currently got ain’t enough.
Of all the spaces, he did remember this particular one clearly, however—not just from that specific night, but from when he’d moved in and had a little sight left—the Versailles furniture and pale blue walls something Darius had taken pride in for some unknown reason. He’d chided the brother that it was better suited for a knitting circle than anything involving real business.
Because he’d been a prick.
God, if he’d only known then that not only was that fighter right—life was better and safer with them all under one roof—but that he himself, as a properly serving King, would be regularly convening meetings of the Brotherhood in the aforementioned powder blue, knit-one-purl-two four walls and a ceiling… maybe he wouldn’t have been such a jackass.
In any event, he could picture exactly where all the furniture was orientated, where the brothers and fighters were sitting or standing or pacing—even knew the position of the two angels who, given what they’d likewise sensed at the Audience House, had seemed like a value add and worthy of trust.
Fuck, even Boo approved of the pair, and that cat—who wasn’t really a cat—was pickier than Butch choosing a new suit of clothes.
And with all of that in his mind, Wrath also knew where his doggen head of household was standing on the other side of the great carved desk. He could scent the elderly male’s nearly paralytic worry, the disappointment, the crushing concern that he had not protected the sanctity of his master’s property.
This was the thing about doggen. They had to be handled carefully.
And when kid gloves didn’t work, you had to fall back on the one constant that always would: “Fritz, it is your duty to speak to me. I therefore command you to do so right now.”
