Unknown - Scorched

Finally, he reached down, scooping her up in his arms.

“I noticed something about being dead,” he announced, striding across the room.

“What?”

“It made me want to make sure I’m alive. Good thing the bed’s still in one piece.”

She grabbed his arm as he set her on the bed. “How can you? There’s a dragon. There are still hounds trying to find the door, and guardsmen and ... nobody knows you’re here!”

He shed his jacket, crawling onto the soft bed at the same time. “Y’know, with the new job and all, I think this might be the last peace and quiet I get for a while.”

“Hmm.” Constance reached up, linking her arms around his neck. “And so I get a part of you before the rest of the Castle gets their chance?”

“Sweetheart, all my parts are yours.” He gave her a long, lingering kiss that left her aching in all the right places.

“I love you, Mac.”

“Good.” He slid his hand under her sweater, finding the soft mound of her breast. He squeezed it gently, bringing a groan to her throat. “Because I’m going to need you with me for a long, long time.”

She reached up, running her fingers down his strong neck, down to the hollow of his throat. “I’m here. Always.”

“Good.” With a single, liquid movement, he pulled off his sweater, the muscles of his stomach and chest bunching as he moved.

“Saints above,” Constance breathed.

Mac stopped, letting the sweater fall. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Yes, it is.”

He looked down, frowning. “What the hell?”

Constance sat up, her fingers hesitating as she touched the sworls of blue that covered his skin. “The Castle has marked you.”

His only response was a hiss of breath. “Well, it said it would find a way to deal with the heat.”

The designs that marked his skin were different from the guardsmen’s tattoos. More elaborate, more striking. He was covered in flames, twined like the intricate designs of the Celtic heritage he shared with Constance. She touched her tongue to the knot work, tracing its line around his nipple, her fangs skimming over the tender nub. He shuddered, rising to his knees. She moved with him, undulating against his hard, broad body.

“Too many clothes,” he rasped.

She popped the catch of her bra, letting it slide from her shoulders with a shrug. The look on his face made her smile.

It might have been a slightly evil smile. He hurriedly began unbuttoning his jeans.

Mac was a masterwork. The tattoos flowed thickly over his skin, parting like waves around his manhood. Constance traced them down his arms and legs, making each one her own with tongue and teeth. She explored each complex line down to the arches of his feet, the broad bones of his wrists, where each flame finally wound back on itself, lost in its own maze.

There were surprises in the design, touches of red and green and yellow, little treasures to discover. The pattern roamed over his strong calves, up the backs of his thighs, and over the mounds of his hard, muscular buttocks. Then it spread out, fanning from his waist over the expanse of his shoulders.

They took their time, shedding what was left of their clothes slowly, enjoying the luxury of the soft bed admidst the chaos of the room. Constance thought of an island or a magic carpet or a ship, safe and warm and theirs.

She mapped him utterly, finding the secrets of each knot and circle, and then he rolled her over, impatient for conquest. He pinned her wrists.

“I want it all,” he murmured. “I want all of you.”

His mouth was on her breasts, demanding, pulling, laving her to swollen, aching peaks. She hooked her legs around him, feeling his heat against the tender skin of her thighs. She wanted that heat inside, driving her to a scorching, explosive release. Making her feel alive.

She needed it. Now.

But he claimed her a piece at a time, her lips, her eyes, her shoulders, her navel, ensuring each surrender before the final assault. She squirmed, breaking beneath her desire, her fangs aching for his flesh, but he wouldn’t let her bite.

When Mac finally did take her, he filled everything, demanded everything. She could keep nothing back against the urgent, pushing thrusts. Waves of contractions gripped her, drawing him deeper, breaking her apart until she spun away into nothing.

He finally let go with a roar.

And then she used her teeth, mounting him and lapping up the elixir of his spicy blood like an exotic treat. When the venom hit him, the cycle began—deliciously—again.

Mac made her vampire powers absolutely worth the price. “We aren’t ever going to grow old,” said Mac much later, “and neither is this.”

“Mmm,” Connie murmured, thinking he looked especially good in blue, and rolled over, indulging in a long, feline stretch.

She caught her breath and stared from one side of the room to the other. The Summer Room was now a suite. The bed had shared space with a sitting area when she and Mac had begun their reunion. Now it was in a separate room, with two mahogany chests of drawers and a large mirrored wardrobe. She could see the sofa and chairs beyond, now sword-thrust free.

He looked up. “Ah, I ordered a few things when I was chatting with the Avatar.”

Constance rolled off the bed, staggering a little as her legs remembered how to walk. “How did it do this?”

“Hey, if it can make whole caverns disappear, it can add a kitchen.”

“Kitchen?”

“I like to cook.” He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a fluffy white robe. “Put this on. You’ll find some other clothes, too. Just some basics, until you can go shopping.”

Constance took the robe, her mind spinning. “You thought to ask for all this?”

He shrugged. “I’m not a complete barbarian. I know how to pick out wall coverings.”

The statement went oddly with the tattoos.

Never mind. She pulled on the robe, luxuriating in its plush feel, and walked silently into the sitting room. Much was as she remembered from before. The door was fixed, of course. The books and the carpet were the same. Her piles of magazines, and the candles. Lamps now, as well.

Mac followed her. He’d pulled on his jeans, but left his chest bare. He folded his arms, his feet planted apart, watching her admire their home.

Constance looked again, and again, her curiosity carrying her from room to room and back again. There was too much new to see all at once. A kitchen with cupboards and dishes and knives and forks and ...

“That’s a fridge,” Mac said. “Apparently electricity is possible here, if you think to ask.”

... and a beautiful dining area with eight chairs around a huge table and something he called a buffet but looked like a Welsh dresser to her. More dishes.

A bathroom with a large, white tub.

“And a Jacuzzi. I always wanted one of those. I mean, why not?”

And more rooms running off a hallway to the left. She couldn’t even take those in yet.

A lot of it looked modern—Mac’s idea of what a home should look like. It looked like the houses in her magazines, which made it all right with her. She was the mistress of this wonderful home. Constance Moore. The milkmaid.

She had a sudden urge to start dancing.

She kissed Mac until her head spun.

“I suppose I should go talk to the others. Let them know I’m back,” he said, sounding a little regretful.

By then her attention was captivated by a curious, flat thing dominating the sitting room wall. Was it a dark mirror? A strange painting? She understood that art was very different now—not that she knew a thing about it in the first place, but still, this was odd—

She looked at Mac, puzzled by the amusement in his eyes.