Evie Byrne - Called By Blood

He was not sucking. Her blood leapt down his throat of its own accord. All she was, rushing to join him. Images of her life, vivid, flashing memories passed into him. Usually he blocked that information off when he was feeding, but he couldn't with her. The storm passing through him left him wide open. This was the first, irrevocable step of bonding.

But the flow only went one direction: toward him. He clouded her mind so that she didn't participate in the exchange, she didn't even know he was biting her. If he couldn't protect himself from his own recklessness, at least he could protect her.

In the aftermath, he licked and kissed the bite wound closed, overcome with tenderness for this near stranger in his arms. Helena stirred out of her torpor. He kissed her, savoring her sleepy flavor, and she returned the kiss, her lips soft and yielding, so different from moments before. Helena sated. Happy. His.

She smiled at him, heavy eyed and trusting. His heart split into pieces and refashioned itself around her.

"I hurt you." Her voice was low and hoarse. With tentative fingers she touched a set of bite marks on his shoulder.

"It doesn't matter." He left her throat to kiss down the centerline of her stomach. Golden peach fuzz covered her belly. He loved that.

"And look at your back! I'm so sorry."

He put his finger on her lips. "You won't feel sorry for me tomorrow when you're so sore you can barely walk."

She smiled in her impish way. "True enough." Then she frowned a little and touched her neck. "Did you bite me there at the end?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to."

Her nose wrinkled if she smiled wide enough. And it had freckles on it. How had he not seen those before?

"Bad boy. Is there a mark?"

"No." He tucked her hair behind her ear for her. "Your neck is perfect. Like a swan's."

She rolled her eyes.

"It is!"

Leaving the argument be, she raised herself up on her elbow, blinking a little. He bet she was dizzy. She glanced down his body and giggled.

"What?"

"Your jeans were around your ankles the whole time?"

He looked down. He'd hardly noticed, but it was true. His jeans were bunched up at the top of his boots. Not the most dignified look. Especially when other parts of him weren't so dignified at the moment either. Where in the hell were the sheets when you needed them?

"When, may I ask, during that sexual tsunami did I have time to unlace my boots?"

Laughing some more, she crawled to the end of the bed and began to pluck at his boot laces. What a spectacular ass she had. Her high black boots were on still, too—they were all she was wearing—and he sure wasn't going to complain about that.

Looking over her shoulder she said, "Alex, if you want to do me in a Bozo outfit, I'd be just fine with it."

A couple of hours later he carried her into the living room slung over his shoulder. Helena was laughing so hard it hurt. He dumped her on the couch and started to build a fire in the fireplace.

They'd left the door to the balcony wide open and the house was freezing.

"Do you want some clothes? I have a spa robe that might fit you."

The look he sent over his shoulder was smoldering. His poor, gnawed shoulder. "You saying I should cover my body?"

"Oh, no, heavens no." It took a lot of log splitting to carve a body like his. All he needed was some sun. The man was Minnesota pale. "I just thought you might be cold."

He shook his head.

"Or in danger of burning…something. Flying embers, you know."

That made him smile. "I'm flammable, it's true. But I still like playing with fire."

What did that mean? But she forgot to ask when he said, imperiously, "You're not wearing anything for the rest of the night, either."

"Oh really ?" She teased him, but she felt no urge to get dressed. Ordinarily she was a little shy about her body—it was not perfect. Unlike Mr. Abs by the fireplace, she made a habit of shirking the gym. And over Christmas she'd had a torrid affair with a tray of fudge and a wastebasket-sized canister of those little Dutch cookies. Now her jeans barely buttoned. But she could not fault her body when he looked at it like that .

Wearing boots helped too. He wouldn't let her take them off. They were knee length, black and shiny. Though not stilettos by any means, walking around in them naked was an unexpected turn-on. "I'll get us some wine." She clip clopped into the kitchen. Scully was in there, in her basket, giving out attitude. "Get used to it, dog. I've got a sex life and you don't."

"Are you hungry?" she shouted, peering into her fridge. Peering into her fridge like a happy sex slave fucked within an inch of her life. Not her usual state when hanging on the fridge door.

She heard him cough, and then he shouted back, "No, thanks, I just ate…before I came. Before I came here. But don't let that stop you."

Oh, it wouldn't. She was ravenous. Down went a slice of cold pizza while she considered her options. If he wasn't eating, she couldn't get too elaborate. In the end she decided to take in some pretzel sticks, a bowl of olives and a bowl of cashews, just in case he changed his mind. Imagining she was wearing an abbreviated apron and a lace cap, Helena piled all the dishes and the wine on a tray and sashayed her naughty maid self back to the living room.

The fire burned high, higher than she would ever build it, and he was lying on his back in front of it, content as a lizard on a hot rock. He looked asleep. The fire turned him from pale to gold and set off every ridge and muscle in his lean body. What was he doing in her life? He couldn't be real.

But maybe she'd just enjoy him until he turned into a pumpkin.

She took a wine stem in each hand and straddled his belly. That woke him and he brought himself up on one elbow. He took the wine glass and gave it a sniff and a thoughtful first sip, which the wine deserved. She'd opened a good bottle for him. Thankfully he didn't make any pretentious remarks about it, but she knew he liked wine by the way he handled it. He watched her over the rim, his almost black eyes showing amber depths by firelight. Alexander Faustin of Brooklyn. Huh.

"Kiss me," he whispered.

She leaned forward and gave him a glancing kiss, then another deeper and another. Their tongues circled around each other and the kiss tasted of wine. Alex had a kiss she could drown in. Her nipples brushed over his chest, sending sparks through her.

"Scoot up," he said, putting his glass down. He brought her hips level with his face. His tongue insinuated itself deep into her folds, and she nearly snapped the wine glass in two. Just where'd he get that tongue?

He paused to take a mouthful of wine, a mischievous look in his eye. Leaning forward, he pursed his lips and jetted a spray of wine into her navel. The carpet! she thought, while the wine coursed down her belly and gathered in her cleft. Soda water might get it out.

Alex made a humming noise of approval, licked the wine off her thighs and then cupped her bottom in his hands, guiding her and restraining her while he lapped her in long, soothing strokes. Oh, screw the carpet.

"It's a big Zinfandel," he mumbled, pausing between words to work his magic, "with notes of blackberry…and chocolate…and a surprising hint of pussy."

The phone rang.

They ignored it. Lacey's voice came on the machine. "Lena? Are you there? Hello? Pick up. Pick up! Helena MacAllister, if you don't pick up, I'm going to freak out. I'm going to think stalker creep has you tied up."

Alex chuckled, sending a delicious vibration through her. "The tying up comes later."

"I'm coming over there. Swear to God."

That got Helena's attention. She crawled to the phone. "Lace? Sorry, I was sleeping."

Her friend began to chatter about something that she could not understand, a TV show, something. Alex had crawled up behind her and was nibbling the backs of her thighs. The man bit her as much as he kissed her, and definitely didn't mind if she went feral on him. It was such a relief to just let go, to not think about every move she made in bed. She stifled a hiss at a particularly sharp bite and then melted under the soothing lick that followed. Another bite followed, higher on her thigh, white hot pain—but good somehow. Real good. Was she a masochist? But no, she liked to bite. Was she a sadist?