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The enthrallment surprised her, that she could feel so much, almost acutely, and yet her mind could be so relaxed.
She felt her vein rise to meet him and before she could prepare, he struck deep and began to suckle.
The sharp sting passed so fast and the suckling, as he took her blood down his throat, was an erotic ballad. She savored the sound and loved that what she gave him would nourish him in a way that was a mystery on Second Earth. She knew that her blood contained her power and that in some way, his power would be affected by hers.
His hips moved, his thrust grew quicker. Her heart sped up and he groaned, drawing harder at her neck.
You taste exquisite, chérie.
Her hands drifted over his long hair then found his back. Wing-locks were so sensitive, and she found that his wept with pleasure. She drifted her hands down them so that he writhed beneath her touch, moved faster into her, sucked harder.
His movements grew quick.
Jean-Pierre. So close.
He left her neck and drew back. His lips tinged red.
Kiss me, she sent.
He crashed down on her. The moment that she tasted her blood coupled with the flavor of him, pleasure began to flow, to pull hard within her body, in spasms that sent ecstasy shooting over the folds low on her body, traveling up her well to rise, higher and higher, grasping her abdomen, her stomach, flowing, another kind of geyser.
I am giving you what I have to give, his mind cried within hers. She felt the power leave her body and he cried out sharp and loud, driving into her in hard punches that once more brought her.
Your power is a wave over me, plucking at my skin, my ni**les, stroking my neck, now low, so low … oh, God. He shouted now, words in French she didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. The orgasm flew then retreated to build and fly again until she was screaming at the wooden beams of the ceiling, her back arching, his back arching, his body slamming against hers.
Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre.
Fiona. Mon Dieu!
The orgasm drifted away, like the last note of a beautiful song, something French, “La Vie en Rose,” perhaps.
His hips slowed and finally stopped. Her body grew slack.
A moment later, he lifted the veil of thrall. Fiona blinked several times. He was poised above her, holding himself away from her but still connected.
She brought her hand to her chest and looked into his eyes, ocean eyes.
She put her hand on his cheek. “Oh, Jean-Pierre, that was so beautiful.”
“Only one thing would have made it more perfect,” he said.
She nodded. “I know. Perhaps soon I can do this without the thrall—but for this moment, perfection.”
He kissed her and she tasted her blood once more and that which was from the depths of her body.
But even as he remained within her and held himself just inches away from her chest, the fierce wild thing in the pit of her stomach began to wriggle around. She fought for her next breath and the next.
“Please,” she whispered.
He seemed to collapse within himself, though he did not fall on her. His head dipped forward and in a smooth movement he pulled out of her. But at the last second her body seemed to cling to him, very low and tight. She met his gaze. She was startled that she clung.
His brows rose. “Fiona?”
She shook her head, trying to ignore the swirling in the pit of her stomach. “I … I.” She covered her face with her hands.
He completed his withdrawal and folded a washcloth into his hands, pressing it gently between her legs.
This gesture, so normal, so absurdly normal had a strange calming effect on her, and she chuckled softly. “Thank you,” she murmured. She had forgotten how messy and how embarrassing sex could be and yet as she met his gaze, she saw only tenderness.
With the thrall gone, she looked at him, his flushed complexion, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, his throat, his chest, his eyes very bright and his glorious warrior hair hanging about his shoulders.
“You look like … a god, something out of mythology. I swear it.”
He chuckled and in the playful manner she’d come to know as uniquely his, he lifted his right arm and flexed his bicep.
The vampire had muscles and she cooed. She lifted up, put her hand on his bicep, and squeezed. A wave of coffee scent flowed over her. She breathed in and her eyes closed. Desire once more swirled over her as though she hadn’t just had the best sex of her life.
But this was ridiculous. She sat up the rest of the way. She was suddenly aware how few clothes she wore and that the room was cool. She covered her chest with her arms.
He held out his arm and a moment later another blanket appeared. He wrapped her up so that she felt warm and safe. He held the front together with his hands.
He was a very attentive man, in every respect, and her heart reached for him, an almost physical leap in his direction. Would it be so very bad to make a life with this man?
Could she? Could she give herself again?
She didn’t know. The truth was, she hadn’t expected to go even this far. But Endelle had helped her to release a new power and in that release, some of her resistance to the demands of the breh-hedden had fallen.
This she could do, making love to Jean-Pierre.
“Now,” she said, scooting to the edge of the table and sliding to her feet. “I want to see you in bed. No, stop that. Asleep. I want you to sleep.”
A sigh flowed out of his chest. “I think I could, if you were with me.”
She nodded. She knew what the last five months had cost him. This she could give him: just a little peace of mind so that he could sleep.
The enemy wears a variety of masks,
But the ascender lacking wisdom cannot discern the difference.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 7
“I didn’t expect her to be so goddam short,” Endelle cried.
An hour after she left Thorne, Endelle stood in the cell that belonged to the now infamous Marguerite. How could Thorne’s woman be so short? “She can’t be more than five-five or five-six. What the hell?”
Sister Quena’s nostrils flared. She held her hands pressed together in front of her. The woman was tall and too lean. She looked scarecrow-like with a weathered face, something that should have been impossible on Second Earth. Maybe she took some really nasty Chinese herbs.
Endelle liked her own height a lot. Though to be fair, she hadn’t always been six-five. She’d gained a few inches as the millennia moved along. But at least she’d started out at five-eleven. Hello.
Sister Quena, the High Administrator of the Creator’s Convent, looked as prim as hell, her thin lips pinched together like she was trying to erase her mouth.
