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"Quinn," she gasped, her hands gripping the sheets. He heard her tear the fabric as he moved back down and seized her clit gently in his teeth, rolling his tongue over it, worrying the tight bud. He outlined her labia, sipped, suckled, plunged and nipped endlessly, time having no meaning until the next climax hit her. She screamed out her pleasure, working herself against his face.
He had plans for that third climax, but his Mistress overrode them. Still shuddering, she flipped to her back, reached for him, and rolled them right to the floor. He hit on the bottom with a thud that sang through sore muscles, but she was straddling him already, her fangs unsheathing and eyes glittering with preternatural intent. Gripping his cock in her small, strong fingers, she guided it into the blessed heat of her cunt. She was tight, so fucking tight, still slick and spasming from her climax.
She clamped her knees against his sides, put both hands over those marks on his chest and came to a full stop, eyes locked on his face. She began to squeeze him with her muscles inside, not allowing either of them any other type of movement, not until he lifted his hands, cradled her breasts, began to stroke the nipples. Her chin rose, her lips parting, wet as she licked them. She rolled her head back onto her shoulders at the sensation, hummed a litany of pleasurable noises. He kept doing it as she kept milking him inside. It was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced, seeing her internalizing everything he was doing to her with a bare minimum of movement, as she revved herself up again using his body.
"I will never get enough of using your body, Quinn. I fucking love it." The feral gaze she swept over him told him she meant it. She looked like she wanted to devour him. Confirming it, she caught the wrist that held the third mark and brought it to her mouth, fingers overlapping that brand as she bit, tasting him. He groaned, aroused impossibly further at watching her sink her fangs into that mark of ownership. He was so fucking close, but he kept stroking her breasts with his free hand, loving the jut of her aroused nipples, the wet sucking noise her internal movements were causing between their bodies. He wanted to see her rise and fall, watch her breasts quiver with the movement, watch the flush of climax take her once more. Earn his reward and punishment both.
She could be merciful at times, his Mistress. She began to move like flowing water. Up and down, body undulating. When she released him, he moved his grip to her hips, brought her down harder, loving the expulsion of her sweet breath, the feminine grunt of pleasure.
"Quinn...now..."
She was coming, thrust over that edge once more, and she'd given him permission to fall right along with her. His cock needed no further encouragement. He fairly exploded, shoving up hard inside her, his body convulsing with the violence of it, bucking his ass up off the wooden floor, wanting to drive deeper, harder. He rolled them so he could do that, the male animal in him taking over in truth, wanting to show her he considered her his too, all his.
She allowed it and their cries tangled together, resounding off the walls as the orgasm captured both of them, taking them beyond pleasure into a realm of inexplicable bliss, a place where none of the rest mattered. Not the Laurents of the world or vampires, not domineering fathers or the endless white noise of the world. Nothing mattered but the love between them. Quinn saw heaven in a vampire's blue eyes, wide and glazed, full of him and what they created together.
*
"I think I have splinters in my ass."
Muffling a laugh against her shoulder, Quinn levered his weight up enough to look down at her. Her tousled blonde hair covered one eye, the other looking like a satisfied blue-eyed cat, amused with them both. Her expression was also soft with even more intent emotions, ones that made him bend, press a kiss to her shoulder. "Let me check."
He lifted her with effort up to the bed, eased her down to her stomach. Made a show of studying her heart-shaped bottom with great thoroughness, eliciting a chuckle from her. She tried to pinch his cock since he was standing by the bed, leaning over her. He evaded her, but bent to press other kisses on the white curves as she let out a little sigh.
"Come lie with me, Quinn."
He did, gathering her into his arms, holding her close, pressing more kisses on her temple, her closed eyes, and then finding her lips for a sweet, prolonged kiss that eased both of them, until he thought they'd melted into the bed. "I need to take us down to the cellar. It will be dawn soon."
"Soon," she murmured. Her arm tightened around him. "I trust you to care for me."
"And I trust you for the same." It was the first time he'd said such a thing to a woman in his life, he realized. Strangely, it didn't frighten him. Instead it felt absolutely right, as if he'd just been waiting for her all of his life.
Her lips curved.
"All right then. Take me downstairs so I can get some sleep. Caring for you is a lot of work, you know."
He snorted at that but complied. When he got them settled again, making sure the door was latched from inside so no one could inadvertently open it to let in daylight, she wanted him right back in the bed with her. He stretched out beside her, cradling her in his arms, marveling at the strength in her slim body. He was sure he'd never get enough of holding her. Of fucking her. Of lovingher. Of serving her. Despite the intensity of the past few days, he was infused with a contentment he'd never thought to find. They lay there for a while, saying nothing, his fingers gliding up and down her arm, hers playing over his chest and abdomen.
"I've been thinking," she said at length, sounding half asleep.
"Three words that strike fear in my heart."
"I have faith in your courage." She tugged on his chest hair. He caught her hand, but he loved that he could be so relaxed with her, so at ease. And that she was the same way with him.
"I talked to Alan Jackson's tour manager last week," she continued.
"Of course you did." He grinned in the dark. "Should I be jealous?"
"Only if you misbehave. I want to elevate After Hours to a higher level. Bring in some name acts. Advertise beyond the county."
"Exactly why would any acts of that stature want to come here?"
"Jackson's manager said Alan and others like him look for some down time between the big concert halls where they can play what they like and hang out with their fans in a nonthreatening environment."
"Nonthreatening. Has he ever met you?"
She pinched him, and he yelped, chuckling. "So what did he say?"
"He said Alan might be able to do a one-night appearance at After Hours next month."
"You really are a wonder. Should I ask how you have such a close relationship with the man?"
"I--was able to do him a favor once. In New York." Her voice had a sudden, faraway sound to it that made Quinn think the less he knew about that the better.
"And now he's returning it," he guessed.
"Yes. We'll need to hire some extra help for that one night. Pay for some advertising."
He ran his knuckles down her cheek. "You're the manager. Whatever you decide."
Now it was her turn to laugh. "But I have a very demanding boss."
For the next few moments, they were both silent, then she let out a sigh that had a grumbling note to it. "Oh, and don't worry. I told him there'd be a cap on drinks for the band. You have to watch musicians, or they'll cost you more than they're worth."
He started to laugh.
"God, Mistress, I love you."
Shut up and let me sleep.
About Joey W. Hill
I've always had an aversion to reading, watching or hearing interviews of favorite actors, authors, musicians, etc. because so often the real person doesn't measure up to the beauty of the art they produce. Their politics or religion are distasteful, or they're shallow and self-absorbed, a vacuous mophead without a lick of sense. From then on, though I may appreciate their craft or art, it has somehow been tarnished. Therefore, whenever I'm asked to provide personal information about myself for readers, a ball of anxiety forms in my stomach as I think: "Okay, the next couple
of paragraphs can change forever the way someone views my stories." Why on earth does a reader want to know about me? It's the story that's important.
So here it is. I've been given more blessings in my life than any one person has a right to have. Despite that, I'm a Type A, borderline obsessive-compulsive paranoiac who worries I will never live up to expectations. I've got more phobias than anyone (including myself) has patience to read about. I can't stand talking on the phone, I dread social commitments, and the idea of living in monastic solitude with my husband and animals, books and writing is as close an idea to paradise as I can imagine. I love chocolate, but with that deeply ingrained, irrational female belief that weight equals worth, I manage to keep it down to a minor addiction. I adore good movies. I'm told I work too much. Every day is spent trying to get through the never ending "to do" list to snatch a few minutes to write.
This is because, despite all these mediocre and typical qualities, for some miraculous reason, these wonderful characters well up out of my soul with stories to tell. When I manage to find enough time to write, sufficient enough that the precious "stillness" required rises up and calms all the competing voices in my head, I can step into their lives, hear what they are saying, what they're feeling, and put it down on paper. It's a magic beyond description, akin to truly believing my husband loves me, winning the trust of an animal who has known only fear or apathy, making a true connection with someone, or knowing for certain I've given a reader a moment of magic through those written words. It's a magic that reassures me there is Someone, far wiser than myself, who knows the permanent path to that garden of stillness, where there is only love, acceptance and a pen waiting for hours and hours of uninterrupted, blissful use.
If only I could finish that darned "to do" list.
I welcome feedback from readers - actually, I thrive on it like a vampire, whether it's good or bad.
About Desiree Holt
Desiree Holt's writing is flavored with the rich experiences of her life, including a long stretch in the music business representing every kind of artist, from country singer to heavy metal rock bands. For several years she also ran her own public relations agency, handling any client who interested her, many of whom might recognize themselves in the pages of her stories.
She is twice a finalist for an EPIC Award, a nominee for a Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award. Her Ellora's Cave release Rodeo Heat was the winner of the first 5 Heart Sweetheart of the Year Award at The Romance Studio, as well as a two-time CAPA Award-winner for best BDSM book of the year. She is a winner of the Virginia Romance Writers Holt Medallion. Romance Junkies said of her work: "Desiree Holt is the most amazing erotica author of our time and each story is more fulfilling than the last."
Joey and Desiree welcome comments from readers. You can find their websites and email addresses on their author bio pages at www.ellorascave.com.
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