Narcise’s heart thumped and she felt her body begin to tighten in anticipation. “Perhaps we should,” she replied, wondering if this time she might banish the hollowness.
She saw that he was ready for her, his cock lifting and filling, his eyes burning in their own mortal fashion. But she wasn’t prepared for him to turn her around, facing away from him. He eased her toward the bed, gently but firmly, until the fronts of her thighs bumped it.
“My God,” he said as he pulled the hair away from her shoulders and neck. His fingers moved lightly over the faint rise of Luce’s Mark.
It grew from beneath her hair on the right side and spread down over the back of her shoulder to just past her scapula: curling, rootlike tendrils. Hers was softer in shape and lighter in color than others he’d seen, most of which looked like cracks in shattered glass.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, still gently tracing over the Mark. His voice in her ear brought deeper, gentler shivers down along the side of her neck.
“Not now,” she told him, curving her hands up and around to touch the back of his head. His hair filtered around her fingers, warm and heavy, and as she combed through, a renewed wave of his scent released into the chamber.
“I’ve seen Dimitri’s Mark,” Chas commented, sliding his hands along the curves of her torso as he lined himself up behind her. “It’s thick and black and raging, as if it were filled with evil.”
Narcise might have responded if he hadn’t slipped his hands around to cup her breasts, if he hadn’t begun to distract her thoughts by sliding his thumbs over her nipples.
He nuzzled the side of her neck, his lips full and the tip of his tongue a gentle, moist tease that sent gentle, insistent shivers through her. Narcise realized vaguely that there would be no sharp pain, no quick slide of fangs, no release from her pounding veins, and it was odd…but pleasant.
But as he eased her onto the bed, reaching around to the front of her, fingers exploring the depths of her quim to make certain she was as ready for him as he seemed to be for her, she realized what he was keeping her—and her gaze—facing away from.
Narcise could have been offended, or annoyed, but when he slid deep into place, her body welcomed him and she gave no more thought to anything except that delicious rhythm of pleasure.
And when she arched and shuddered, slamming back against his hips, her hands braced on the bed, he gave a low groan in her ear and surged one last time. She felt him find release, and allowed her arms to give way so she tumbled face-first onto the mattress.
Chas followed her, disengaging, and sliding his hand along her spine and over her bottom as he sank down next to her.
Narcise lay there for a moment, and as the last vestiges of bliss eased, she thought about what had happened…on all fronts.
He’d kissed her. He’d started this whole incident by kissing her…so intimate, so long and thorough and absent of the need for control…and she’d let him. She’d let him do something only Giordan had done. Was it to banish her memories and grief over him?
But she didn’t want to think about Giordan now. He had no place in her thoughts, in her life, in this place with Chas Woodmore.
Yet… “Are we going to London?” she asked. Hadn’t Cezar mentioned that Giordan was in London? Her heart seized up and she blanked out her mind.
“As soon as I can arrange it,” Chas replied.
She glanced at him and noted that his face seemed only a bit less tense than it had earlier—despite two bouts of coitus. “Is something wrong? Weren’t you satisfied that I didn’t enthrall you this last time?”
The chagrin—and perhaps shame—showed on his face. “I don’t fuck vampires,” he told her flatly. “Because I don’t want to be controlled.”
Narcise pulled away, fury bubbling inside her. It was a welcome emotion, replacing her other softer, confused one. “But apparently you do fuck vampires, Chas, because you just did. Twice.”
“I know,” he said, misery flashing in his face for a moment. Then his expression was cold and flat again. “It was…incredible. You’re incredible, Narcise, and, damn me to hell, I can’t stay away from you.” He rose from the bed with sharp, short movements. “I can’t keep my hands or thoughts off you.”
As she watched, confused and angry, he yanked on his breeches with a snap of the fabric, dragged on his boots and picked up his discarded shirt. “No matter how hard I try,” he said, his jaws tight together, “I can’t make you into the evil, manipulative demon I want you to be.”
“Why do you want to do that?” she asked, affronted and yet fascinated in spite of herself. She was beginning to realize that his anger wasn’t directed at her, but at himself.
“So I can kill you, damn it.” With fury and rage surrounding him, Chas stalked from the room, still holding his wadded up shirt.
He didn’t return until well after the sun went down, and this time, he didn’t reek of drink. She’d spent the day drawing scenes from the window, using the pencils and paper she’d managed to charm from unsuspecting shopkeepers—and through Philippe—during Chas’s feverish illness.
When he came into the chamber, she looked up briefly, then returned to her sketch. Much of Notre Dame’s towers were visible from her window, and despite the irony of a soul-damaged vampire drawing a holy place, Narcise had spent much effort on the sketch. Now that it was getting darker, she was working from memory.
The emperor had ordered the area around the famous church to be cleared of old buildings, piles of garbage and debris left from the years of neglect during the Revolution. He insisted that the streets around the cathedral be emptied and widened for his upcoming coronation, which was to take place inside. Soldiers and city workers had been toiling over the project for the last month, and it would take well into the autumn before they were finished…or so Narcise had heard him complain to Cezar. Because of this, the coronation had been moved to early November.
“We’re leaving Paris tomorrow,” said Chas, sitting heavily on the bed. “I’ve made the arrangements.”
She nodded briefly but remained intent on her work, trying to ignore the spike of apprehension in her belly.
“Your brother has the entire city looking for us,” he continued. “But he isn’t certain we’re even together. That works to our advantage. We have to go during the day, so I’ve taken precautions for you. You’ll be driving a cart with a coffin in back…which will contain me—a corpse dead from the plague. I’ll stuff the box with old meat beneath me so as to attract flies, and to make a stink, and will fill your pockets with it as well. You’ll dress as an elderly woman with a large hat and gloves to protect you from the sun and will be taking your dead husband to the country.”
Silence reigned between them for a moment, broken only by the distant shouts from the street below, and a burst of raucous laughter from the pub beneath the floor underfoot. Her pencil scratched quietly as she shaded one of the windows in the square-shaped towers.
“Do you still wish to go to London?”
At that, she rested her pencil on the paper and turned to look at him. “Only if you can suffer my manipulative, evil presence,” she said stiffly.
His face tightened. “Narcise, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but understand, I spend my life hunting and killing the Dracule. It’s not often that I find one worth saving.”
She tossed her head and looked back down at her work, lit by a nearby lamp. To her horror, it began to blur and she furiously blinked back the tears. She hadn’t cried in decades, and now in the last week, she’d teared up three times. Was she growing soft?
“Narcise,” he said, his voice softer. He rose and came to stand behind her, his fingers sliding gently over her hair. “You saved my life. You stayed with me when you could have left. I was a fool for saying those things to you today. It’s just that…I’m beginning to have feelings for you, and it’s not what I expected.”