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So, yeah, the breh-hedden was alive and well among the Warriors of the Blood.
God, how he loved the smell of tangerines.
So it was that Medichi had pleasured himself. And for whatever reasons, at that same moment Parisa had found him with her voyeur’s window. But only when he’d released, his fist pumping hard, had he heard her beautiful voice in his head, a soft, melodic Antony. Several times before the abduction, he thought he’d heard her voice in his head, the emergence of her telepathic ability. So when he heard the sound again, he knew he had not been mistaken: He had heard her voice, and she was alive.
He’d rejoiced. He’d cried out. He’d wept because that’s when he’d felt her presence, very faint but very real and he knew she was still alive. He’d spoken to her for an hour afterward, even though she still couldn’t communicate mind-to-mind with him. He’d talked and talked about all that they were doing to try to find her, he encouraged her to stay alive, he promised her he’d never stop looking for her. He’d only stopped talking when he felt her drift away and finally end the communication.
From that moment until now, he’d repeated the ritual with her every morning after hunting down rogue death vampires. He would return to the villa, shower, and ready himself to meet his woman.
Right now, with the towel looped over his lap, only one question was in his mind: Would he hear her voice, feel her presence today? Was his woman still alive?
Jesus, his fingers trembled around the small silver bowl he held in his hands. In it, nine small Satsuma tangerines were piled one atop another, tempting him with the forbidden as though he stared at the apple from the Garden of Eden.
Time to get on with his morning ritual. He’d never been one to limit himself to the use of his fist. If he needed a f**k, he went out and got one. He’d worn out a lot of velvet in the booths at the Blood and Bite getting the release he needed. Mortal women flocked to the vampire club every night and kept the warriors of Second Earth satisfied—both the Militia Warriors and the Warriors of the Blood. The club had been designed just for that purpose and even sanctioned by Madame Endelle, the Supreme High Administrator of all Second Earth. But from the moment he’d met Parisa, the club had lost all appeal.
He set the bowl on his nightstand. Holding one tangerine in his hand, he plunged his thumb hard into the center, breaking the loose skin apart. He pulled the skin back. Juice flowed. He kept peeling until the wedges were exposed. He thrust his thumb into the middle once more, breaking up the wedges. More juice.
He shuddered. The smell penetrated his brain, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Yes, he was hard. What else would he be? From the moment he had first caught Parisa’s scent, the one thing he could count on was a fierce demanding erection when she was near.
The hairs on the nape of his neck rose and relief poured through him.
Now he felt her. Yes. He closed his eyes. He could tell she was near, just a strange rippling vibration along his back, now across his shoulders, now over his neck. She was here.
The terrible tension inside his chest, the frightful worry that she was dead, eased. For the first time in twenty-four hours he could breathe.
“I’m here,” he said aloud. “I’m ready for you.”
He put his mouth to the tangerine, suckled the juice, and groaned.
***
Parisa’s heart ached, a low throb deep in her chest, a pain that had become so familiar it was now a comfort.
She still lay on her side on her large four-poster bed, the window of her preternatural voyeurism open.
She could see Antony now. Like a good director, she could move her window to any position she desired. Tonight, thirteen-plus hours ahead of him, she panned her vision so that she could face him, as though she were standing right in front of him.
She drew a ragged breath as though her throat had shriveled. Yes, he was handsome—strong cheekbones and a sharp angled jaw—but to her he would always be beautiful. His hair was black, thick, straight, and long, almost to his waist now. He’d showered and his hair was damp, even dripping in spots. He took long, steaming showers after a night of battle. Many times she arrived early enough to watch him in the shower. He was lean and muscular, all warrior.
Yes, so beautiful.
She moved closer, until she was a few inches from his face. She watched his tongue nestle within the tangerine, making small sucking noises. She knew that he was imagining his tongue inside her body. He’d told her that as well. Desire was too small a word for what she felt for this man, this warrior. She would be the tangerine for him and he could devour her.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as her need for him grew, her thighs trembling. She had to keep her voice quiet or the servants would descend on her.
She leaned in and kissed the air an inch or two away from him. He groaned, as though feeling how close she was. She watched his hand glide lower, sliding down his chest. She pulled the window back to watch. His abs were rippling, taut, rolling hard mounds she wanted to touch, to lick, to savor. His forefinger touched the narrow erotic line of hair that led down. Lower. Lower.
In her mind she spoke to him. Yes, touch yourself for me. I’m here. I want you to know pleasure. Antony, hear me.
His groans thickened the air. With one hand he held the tangerine to his mouth, his tongue working feverishly. With his other hand he held himself in a firm grip, pumping now. His hips moved, jerking forward.
She panted and the core of her spasmed. She rolled onto her stomach and slid her hand between her legs. She pushed, pulled, pressed. Her hips bucked off the mattress as she watched him. His groans were loud in her ears. She could tell he was close. He opened his mouth, and the groan turned to a shout as he came.
She came with him, the core of her body rippling and tugging, streaking pleasure up through her tender flesh. She imagined him inside her and the sensation intensified. She withheld the gasps and moans that wanted to erupt for fear the servants would hear. Antony. Antony, sped along the telepathic highway.
All movement on his bed ceased, as it always did just at this moment. “I hear you,” he said aloud to the room. “You said, Antony, Antony. Twice tonight. I feel you near me, Parisa. I know you’re here and I know you’re alive. Thank God.”
Antony, she cried out with her mind. More tears slipped down her cheeks. She shifted back onto her side, still looking at him. I’m here, she sent. I’m here. If only her telepathy would improve. At least he’d heard his name twice. That was something. Not much, but something.
“Parisa, I have a piece of information about you, but getting some usable results from the grid might take a few days. I found a rogue death vampire in northern Arizona, Mortal Earth, this morning. He knew Rith. He was connected with the underbelly of Mortal Earth rogue life and he knew of you. I searched his memories and discovered that you’re in Burma on Second Earth. Carla’s already moved Central’s grid in place. We know your signature doesn’t show up, so we’re hunting for an anomaly, anything that seems out of the ordinary. I swear I’d dematerialize to Burma and start hunting for you myself, but the damn place is as big as Texas.”
