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What's more, if he gave her the gift of his submission, it was her responsibility
to care for him. For the most part, she'd always just taken care of herself. Caring for a man during sex the way a Mistress should was the beginning and end of it. Now she was on the run from Laurent, a vital time for her to keep her human interactions limited to just that. Yet here she was, wanting to tie Quinn to her in a way that might endanger him. She stared at that vein in his throat, forced her fangs to sheathe. Yes, she was hungry, but she didn't trust herself not to give him the second mark if she did feed.
Instead, she forced herself to get out of bed, locate the pocket knife she knew he'd have on his dresser. It lay there among the other items he'd tossed down when he stripped. A used bit he'd changed out and forgotten to leave in the tack room. The sweaty bandanna he wiped his face and neck with. The thick leather gloves that protected his hands when he fixed pieces of fencing. She touched those things, enjoying that simple intimacy, then she recalled herself, picking up the knife. He kept it razor sharp, which pleased her.
Coming back to the bed, she sat on the edge next to him and curled her fingers around his forearm. She cut the wrist vein she wanted so smooth and quick he only murmured in his sleep. Bringing it to her lips, she inhaled the rich aroma of his blood, but then she closed her eyes, forced all the churning emotions to shut down and took a quick draught. At least that was her intent. But once she had the taste of his blood in her mouth, she wanted more. She wanted all of him.
She broke the contact with an oath, realizing she'd taken too much. He wouldn't be worth much energy-wise in the coming day, especially as tired as he already was. Nice going, Selene. Cursing her lack of control, she clotted the wound, fighting the urge to sink her teeth right back into him. He was like an elixir she couldn't get enough of. Forcing herself to stand, she tucked his arm under the covers, slid them more securely up over him, then left him sleeping.
It was time to return to her cellar, a reminder of all the things she couldn't be to him. She should just take her leave tonight, keep running. Yet she couldn't leave him, not yet. She was too selfish to give him or After Hours up. It was so good to be running a bar again. Almost as good as having her own place.
Wandering through his house, she absorbed every detail, seeing the stamp of the man who lived here. The house was a mixture of old and new, like Quinn himself. He had told her the house had been in the previous owner's family for generations. The wood floor was scarred by years of boots marking it, but it shone with a polished gleam.
Two other bedrooms were furnished simply with a large bed, a dresser, nightstand and chair. They had the look of guestrooms that seldom saw guests. Quinn didn't impress her as a man who entertained much. Comfortable furniture filled the living room, leather and wood and heavy woven fabric in all the colors of sunset. It looked new enough that she was sure he'd bought it himself. He'd done a good job.
She could imagine him in the big armchair wrapped in a burnt orange color, his feet resting on the matching ottoman. On the lamp table next to it she spotted a stack of ranch and cattle magazines. The couch was extra long to accommodate his height when he chose to stretch out on it. A big-screen television hung on the lime rock over the fireplace.
Men and their toys.
A partially open door off the living room tempted her and she poked her head inside. At once she realized that here was the heart of the man. The massive desk covered with stacks of folders and papers and the computer to one side let her know this was his office, where he managed the business of the ranch. It also held his memorabilia. Two gold buckles proclaiming him rodeo champion hung side by side in shadow box frames. Next to them were framed articles about his rodeo exploits. The paper was worn and creased, an indication he'd carried them around for quite a while before taking steps to preserve them. A bookcase against one wall held a combination of books on ranching and cattle mixed with classics by Zane Grey and Bret Harte. On the top were other rodeo awards he'd won, most of them statues of a rider on a bucking bronc with an inscribed plate on the base.
Finally there were the pictures, Quinn as a young greenhorn competitor, all the way to the mature man she knew now. She saw him on a bucking horse, his one hand in the air, the horse's head dipped low. She suspected that one-handed grip was part of the rules, because she couldn't imagine doing something as crazy as holding on to a gyrating horse one-handed. Reaching out, she touched the image of her cowboy, sure she could smell the sweat on his body, the aroma of horseflesh, feel the grit of the dust on the ground. Other photos showed him accepting various awards and trophies.
Most of those pictures had a note in feminine script in the matting. "So proud of you"... "All our love". Her lips curved. Of course. He wasn't the type of man to put pictures of himself on the wall, but if his mother had given them to him, she'd expect to have them displayed. It reminded him who he was, how far he'd come...the things that mattered.
Proving it, on a low table she spotted the framed photo of an older couple she assumed to be Quinn's parents. She studied the stern mouth and lines of hard work around his father's eyes. Not a giving man, but his arm was around his wife, and her serene face, as well as the lines on it, told of a continuing battle between sorrows and joys. It suggested what Quinn had already implied, that his mother's strength and enduring love had kept their dysfunctional family together.
Sitting in the big chair at his desk, Selene smoothed her hands over the butter-soft leather and inhaled Quinn's scent. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine him at every stage of his life. Learn all the things that had gone into making him the complex man he was now.
When she was satisfied she'd absorbed enough of him--or all that she could take the time to do tonight--she pushed out of the chair and passed through the rest of the house. The dining room was furnished in the same oak as the living room. As Selene ran her hand over the surface of the table that carried the trace aroma of lemon oil, she could easily see Quinn sitting at its head, coffee mug in his hand as he chewed over the day with his ranch hands. She could practically smell delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen. Chili and hearty stew and soup and other stick-to-your-ribs food that would fill up his men, things Manuel had discussed with her when she asked about favorite local fare.
Since she scented a woman, and Quinn, while not a slob, wasn't likely to keep a house this clean, Selene guessed he had a female cook and housekeeper. Fortunately for Quinn's survival, the scent was that of a much older woman.
The possessive thought gave Selene a tight smile. Ambling onward, she found the large window in the kitchen gave a view of the yard and the barn and the corral beyond, where during the day horses probably gamboled and played. The peace of it, the serenity, made her wish for things she was sure she could never have. Laurent would find her and see to that.
But meanwhile...
She'd circled back to the living area, to the chimney. Dipping her knees, she measured the small crack in the flue. Considering her exit strategy turned her mind from her unwise thoughts about Quinn back to the reasons she really should give him up. This was one of the major ones. With all the complications being a vampire brought to their relationship, she had even more dangers associated with her than most of her kind.
She was a turned vampire, which already carried its share of prejudices in her world, but the real taboo in the vampire world, the most closely guarded secret she carried, was that she hadn't been wholly human.
Her form shimmered, and the woman disappeared, replaced by the butterfly. It paused, hovering, the wings fluttering, then it slipped through the crack of the flue and headed out the way it had come.
Chapter Seven
The wet, tight skin of Selene's pussy clamped around his cock, squeezing it, milking it, making his balls draw up as his body prepared to explode. Her hot liquid bathed him and just like that he erupted like a geyser. God, she was tighter than a fist, gripping him so hard--
Quinn's eyes flew open, sunshine slanting in from the window and temporarily blinding him.
Shit. Another dream.
His hand was w
rapped tightly around his penis and his fingers were covered with thick drops of cum. While it had been worth it, even in a dream, to bury himself in Selene's cunt, he was exhausted, as if he hadn't had a minute of sleep. He was stunned he'd had the energy for such an intense wet dream. Even more so that he still wanted Selene with a fierceness that threatened to consume him. His hunger for her went beyond any sexual need in his memory. Was that a vampire thing?
Squinting against the bright sunlight, he looked around the bedroom. She was gone, no sign of her anywhere, just the faint lingering trace of her scent on the sheets. He had an insane desire to wrap himself in the bedclothes as if he could rub her essence all over his body.
He glanced at the dresser, hoping she'd left a note for him, but there was nothing on the surface except the lamp and his usual junk. Though his pocket knife had been moved to the nightstand. Frowning, he picked it up.
Her words from the previous night sat in his brain with the weight of a boulder. All that talk about marking, about possessing. About eternal connections. He recalled his unexpected roar of jealousy that she'd consider engaging in such an intimate act with someone other than himself. He didn't want another man's hands on her. Or her mouth on anyone else. She was his, and he had to make damn sure she knew that. But even more than that he was hers, in a way he'd never belonged to anyone else in his life. Rationally he wanted to discard all that shit about vampires, but emotionally? He wanted to be her servant. Real or conjured up, he wanted her to do whatever was necessary to make him a permanent part of her.
The last thing he remembered was placing a kiss on her delicate breastbone as he wrapped his arms around her and lay back with her warm against his body. His cock, semi-hard by then, had still been nestled in the wet heat of her pussy. He could still feel her hands on his cheeks and forehead, the whisper of her voice urging him to sleep.
He wondered if she was angry that he'd fallen asleep during sex.
Of course she is, asshole.
Well, he'd done that all right. No wonder she'd left him without a word. In his entire life he'd never fallen asleep during sex, but he'd felt as if she drained every bit of energy from him. He'd have to find a way to apologize to her. Hell, he'd strip down and let her tie him up like a calf during team roping if that would make her happy. Anything she wanted.
