Unknown - Scorched

Chuckling, Mac pulled her close. He was warm, his laugh a pleasant rumble. “Say yes, Connie. Come out with me. I’ll show you how a girl is meant to be treated.”

She let him wrap her in his strong, strong arms, imagining herself walking in the open air, the city folding around her like a sequined cloak. How could she deny him, after all he’d done for her? “Where will we go? What will we do? Tell me what it will be like.”

He chuckled again, obviously enjoying himself, and it warmed her through to her spine. “What do you want to do?”

She knew the answer to that. It was in the magazines. “What every other man and woman does. Dinner and a movie.”

“Dinner?”

“I’ll watch you eat.”

He frowned. “Are you sure? That won’t be very exciting.”

“I want to do what everyone else does. I want a proper date.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Really?”

“This will be your night.”

Can I take this risk? She thought of the brave woman she had met, a mere human ready to take on the whole Castle. “You’ll make sure I don’t do anything I shouldn’t? You promise?”

Mac’s eyes were serious. “I promise, sweetheart.”

Mac kept his promises. “Then, yes.”

He grinned, that quick flash of mischief, and the last of her resistance melted. She wanted whatever he could show her. She leaned into him, turning on his knee so that she almost faced him.

He reached down, his fingers brushing against her ankle as they crept up her stocking, following the curve of her calf. The fabric of her petticoats rustled, the old, soft cloth falling in languid folds over his arm. New garments would have been stiffer, but these lent themselves to furtive play.

Constance twitched when his fingers reached her knee. The undercover touch seemed somehow more illicit than flagrant display. Mac’s hand crossed the barrier of her ribbon garter and found bare flesh to stroke. He ran his hand under her chemise, cupping her rump in a gentle squeeze.

“You’re not wearing anything under here,” he said in a very male tone.

“Only men wear drawers. No proper girl wears men’s underthings.”

He chuckled. “I need to introduce you to Victoria’s Secret.”

“Why would I need her secrets? Haven’t I got plenty?”

“Oh, yeah.”

His caress made her restless. She braced against his shoulders and hitched herself up until she could turn completely, straddling his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. Mac shifted, carrying her along as he found a comfortable position.

“Now what are you going to do?” he teased.

She noticed he’d kept a possessive grip on her hip. She wordlessly gathered her skirts up in front, working them until nothing was trapped beneath her legs. He slipped his other hand beneath the pool of cloth until both were holding her bare hips, steadying her as she hooked her fingers into his waistband and began working the buttons of his jeans.

He was wearing nothing beneath, either. Sliding away, she let him free himself of the thick denim, find a better angle on the heavy sofa. Settling again, she sketched the hard, sharp tip of her nail—one of the more dangerous attributes of the female vampire—around the base of him, then gently dragged it up the shaft, watching it quiver and blossom under her touch. Another stroke, and another, and she had him, plump and full, between her hands.

Constance felt wanton, an explorer in an exotic land. She was starting to ache in all the right places, her breasts feeling tight in the confines of her stays. She rose Up, balancing like an equestrian for the best angle to kiss. Their lips met, her hands gripping his shoulders, tongues teasing each other. He was demon-hot, his skin warm as that of someone who had been standing before a fire. She luxuriated in it, pressing herself against him, drinking in that heat with every pore.

And then she let her tongue slide down his strong, long neck, torturing herself with the spicy taste of him. Her jaws throbbed with the urge to bite, but she held back. If she was going to walk in the outside world, she had to prove she had self-control. Tears started to course down her cheeks, the effort almost too much to bear.

And then she moaned as his clever fingers found the private territory between her thighs. He stroked her in small, tight circles, filling her and then making her cry out as he withdrew, exploring until he found the perfect nub that made her gasp her surprise. She rocked against him, quivering as he wound her tighter and tighter. She dug her nails into his shirt, crushing the cloth in her grip as he finally brought her with a last skillful touch. She bucked against him in frantic, pulsing waves, her mind white as a snowstorm, free of anything but blind sensation.

She was there, floating free, when she felt the press of him. She opened, her body generous now, taking him in a bit at a time, stroke after stroke, mourning a little every time she had to let that fullness go. Mac had her by the hips again, guiding them both, his teeth gritted. His hardness stretched her—uncomfortable, exquisite pleasure. Her immortal body could take it, glorying in his size and strength, gorging on him. Every angle, every glide unfolded new sensations. New pleasures. New gratification.

Blood hunger raged through her, growing ever sharper as she denied it, becoming part of the exquisite torture. The pain of it was almost erotic in its own right.

Mac’s eyes glittered red, his skin gone from warm to burning with demon heat. Their surging rhythm quickened. Tension was building, layering, growing like something crystalline and bright. Then it shattered, a thousand shards of pleasure slicing at her flesh, drawing a piercing cry from her lips. She heard Mac roar and felt his rush of heat inside her. Oh yes, wherever he led, she would follow.

Ashe woke. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been out, but it was light now, sun peeping through the hospital room’s curtains. She looked around, moving only her eyes because her head felt like a balloon. Drugs.

A page turned to the right of her. She jerked toward the sound, feeling her medicated senses swirl with the sudden motion. Holly was slumped in a chair, her stockinged feet propped on the edge of the metal bed frame. She was reading a textbook—the same one Ashe had shoved at Caravelli, tricking him into revealing his vampire speed.

Now Ashe regretted the act, sort of. It had been a cheap shot. “Hey.”

Holly looked up. “You’re awake.”

“Yup.” Ashe took in the monitors, the ugly fluorescent lights, the other two patients in the room. Both looked asleep or unconscious, but it was hard to tell. All she could see from this angle was lumps under thin hospital blankets.

The place smelled of disinfectant and death.

Holly closed the text, setting it on the floor beside her. “How are you feeling?”

They put me in a pink hospital gown! Pink? Do they think I’m twelve? “Like I’ve been in a garbage compactor.”

“You need more painkillers?”

Ashe tried to sit up but abandoned the plan. “Nah, I’m woozy enough as it is.”

Holly fussed with the covers, doing the pillow-plumping thing. Ashe swatted her away.

Holly sat down again, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry Alessandro put you in the Castle. He’s sorry, too.”

Yeah, right. Ashe rubbed her eyes. They felt gummy. A wave of fatigue swamped her, followed by a mood the same color as the sickly green bed curtains. “I didn’t give him much choice.”

Holly looked puzzled. “Are you saying you’re going to back off about him?”

Ashe heard the hope in her voice. It cut her quick-deep. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. I don’t.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I’m an incredibly powerful witch?”