Christine Warren - Huntress

“Please, don’t stop,” I begged as he withdrew from me.

He ran his fingers gently over my womanhood, spreading the slick moisture across me.

“Such a greedy lass,” he whispered huskily. “Do you want more?”

I looked down at him, at the look of masculine triumph in his blue eyes. Michael was the sort of man who enjoyed foreplay. He often made a game of seeing how many times he could make me come before he joined me. I would have been happy to free the buttons on his trousers and take him right there, but I knew that watching me find my own release was almost as pleasurable to him as achieving his own.

“Yes,” I said on a ragged breath. “Give me more.”

He growled and plunged two fingers into me, stretching me. I quivered and threw back my head. His lips traced the tops of my breasts, his tongue running just under the edge of my bodice. My nipples tightened, wishing they were free to feel the heat of his mouth. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders, reveling in the feel of the deep, hard strokes of his fingers. I was almost there, so close … and then the carriage came to a halt in front of my townhouse.

With a sigh of regret, Michael stopped.

“No!” I cried, collapsing against him.

Stroking his fingers one last time across me, Michael modestly pulled down my skirts, put his hands around my waist, and gently set me on the seat next to him. When Devlin opened the carriage door, the muscles in my legs were shaking so violently, I wasn’t sure I could walk. I turned and looked at Michael.

“You’re such a tease,” I scolded.

“I never promise what I can’t deliver,” he assured me. “If you don’t spend all night talking to Ginny, we can go upstairs and finish this.”

I looked down the length of him, imagining that lithe but solidly muscled body naked beneath me.

“I’ll give her five minutes,” I said, “and then you’re mine.”

“Are you two coming?” Devlin asked impatiently from the sidewalk.

“Not at the moment,” I said with regret and great meaning. “But soon.”

Ginny McCready was the eldest daughter of the manager of my island plantation off the coast of Savannah. Shortly after I’d bought the London house eight years ago, I’d received a letter from Ginny, then an unmarried woman of twenty-seven, expressing an interest in leaving Georgia and seeing more of the world. I’d immediately hired her to come to London and run the house in Mayfair and any other estates I might eventually purchase in England. Standing in the open doorway with her round, pink cheeks and her golden hair piled up in braids, she was a welcome sight.

The tall, lanky young footman who had brought our carriage to the docks rushed past her to tend the horses. He nodded respectfully to me as we passed and I glanced back, watching him eagerly take instructions from Devlin regarding our plans for the conveyance this evening. I shook my head. Skinny young men with red hair and freckled faces weren’t what the upper class traditionally looked for in a footman, which is probably why Ginny had hired him. She’d always had a soft spot for strays.

Ginny glanced up at the thick, gray storm clouds that hung low in the dark sky and pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

“Y’all had better get inside,” she called out, and then laughed. “I almost said ‘before you catch your death’!”

I chuckled. Ginny had known about vampires since she was eight years old, when Michael and I had bought the plantation where her family lived, on what the locals called Devil’s Island. I gave her a quick hug as she shooed us all inside and closed the door against the chill night.

Justine was humming softly as she removed her hat and gloves. She was tall, long-legged and gorgeous, with her silvery blonde hair done up in the latest style. She was also the closest thing I’d ever had to a sister. We’d lived, played, and fought by each other’s sides since I’d become a vampire.

As Ginny gathered up our cloaks, chattering away in her delightful southern accent, Justine reached out and tugged at the crooked neckline of my gown.

“ Merde ,” she muttered in her native French. “You two find yourselves alone in a carriage and the clothes, they come off.”

I cocked a brow at her. “Need I remind you of the last time Michael and I drove? I opened the carriage door to find you with your skirts up over your head and Devlin crouched—”

She slapped her hand over my mouth. “Point taken,” she said hastily, glancing at Ginny.

“Right in front of the Paris Opera, no less,” I whispered defiantly.

Justine glanced at Devlin with her coquette’s smile, and I knew she and I had very similar plans for our first evening in London.

“The men from the ship came this morning to tell me of your imminent arrival,” Ginny was saying. “They delivered your trunks, and everything is all unpacked in your rooms.”

“I’m sorry for showing up on such short notice, Ginny,” I said. “I hope you haven’t gone to any trouble.”

We had come in on the morning tide but naturally had not been able to leave the ship until dark. One of the benefits of sailing on the vampire-owned Blood Cross line was that there was no need to explain such behavior to the crew. The human sailors who manned the ships had worked for the line for generations, and could be depended upon to be helpful and discreet.

“Why, Cin,” Ginny scoffed, “it’s no trouble at all. You pay me very well to be ready for just such an occasion, though I must say it would be nice to see y’all more often. I went to the market and stocked up on your favorite whiskey. Also, champagne for mademoiselle,” she said with a nod to Justine. “The piano has been tuned, there are fresh paints for Michael in the studio upstairs, and all the correspondence that I had yet to forward to you is on your desk in the study.”

I shook my head. “Ginny McCready, you are a wonder. I wish I had five more just like you.”

“Well, you might get your wish soon enough,” Ginny said, barely able to contain the enormous smile that bloomed on her face. “I have a beau.”

“You do not!” I gasped.

I couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d hit me in the head. From the time I’d met her when she was eight years old, Ginny McCready had consistently and vociferously vowed never to marry.

“I most certainly do,” she assured me. “And he’s simply lovely.”

“I’m so happy for you,” I said. “You’ll have to tell me all about him.”

Michael cleared his throat. The only problem with Ginny was that she was a true southern belle. She was as much a master of the art of conversation as Michael was at the art of swordsmanship. And that is saying quite a lot. Often a simple exchange with her turned into a chat that lasted for hours. Ginny had never met a stranger—she could draw anyone, be they countess or chimney sweep, into a conversation—and often people found themselves telling her things they normally wouldn’t share. Perhaps it was her innocent, farm girl appearance, or perhaps it was that delectable southern accent, but Ginny had an uncanny ability to know absolutely every bit of scandal there was to know in London society. I’d often wondered if there was a patron goddess of gossip, and if Ginny McCready had erected an altar to her in her bedroom.

“Perhaps in a few hours, after we’ve all rested a bit,” I said, glancing back at Michael with a wink.

“Yes,” Devlin agreed, slipping his arm around Justine’s waist and pulling her back against his massive chest. “I think we could all use a bit of relaxation. The crossing was so choppy. I didn’t sleep a bit.”

I was fairly certain that the Channel wasn’t what had kept Devlin awake, but I didn’t say so.