“Dorian! Ohfuck, yes!”
The orgasm hit her hard and fast, and Charley damn near exploded, gasping into the phone as waves of white-hot pleasure slammed through her body.
It took her a few minutes to come back down, and when she finally did, Dorian was still on the phone, waiting patiently for her return. In the neon blaze of the city lights, her skin glistened, her body warm and relaxed.
Charley let out a deep sigh, thinking again of the ocean. Dorian was the tide, pushing her past her limits, dragging her to the very edge, making her feel powerful and alive.
It was terrifying.
It was beautiful.
It wasaddicting, and now that she’d gotten another taste, Charley didn’t think she’d ever be able to stop.
“I wish you were here,” she whispered, an unplanned admission that felt a hell of a lot more needy than sexy, but Charley didn’t care. Shedidwish he was there, lying next to her in that great big bed, whispering about all the naughty things he wanted to do to her. Kissing her. Holding her close as she drifted into a dreamless, worry-less sleep, carried away by the surging sea.
“Me, too.” Dorian’s breath was slow and even, his voice gentle and a little sad when he finally spoke again, the last words she heard before she finally passed out. “Sweet dreams, love.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Thank you for accommodating me on such short notice, Marlys.” Dorian held open the door, ushering the Darkmoon witch into Luna del Mar, a witch-owned café in Staten Island that served as neutral territory for all supernaturals.
She flashed a radiant grin. “You know I’m always honored to serve House Redthorne, Dorian.”
Yes, and he’d just paid $150,000 and a good amount of his own blood for that honor. It was extortion, plain and simple, but Dorian couldn’t proceed without a high-level witch at his side.
Chernikov had finally requested an audience. Playing politics with the demon lord was theverylast place Dorian wanted to be, especially with all the preparations he still had to do for tomorrow’s ridiculous fundraiser, but refusing the demon’s invitation would’ve been taken as a slight.
For now, Dorian was eager to keep the peace.
He followed Marlys to the private room at the back of the café, where Chernikov sat alone, looking every bit the Russian mobster he fancied himself—dark, slicked-back hair, graying at the temples. Bespoke suit. No tie. The demon kept the top three buttons on his shirt open, making sure everyone could see the snake tattoo wrapped around his neck, eating its own tail.
“Ah, Mr. Redthorne. Is good to see you,” Chernikov said in his thick Russian accent. He rose from his chair, gesturing for Dorian to take the seat across from him. “Or do I call you highness now? So many titles, I lose track.”
“Call me Dorian. I insist.” Dorian took a seat, Marlys standing right by his side, ready to smoke the demon’s ass to oblivion if he made a wrong move.
“You are Dorian—fine. Then I am Nikolai. Yes?” He picked up a half-spent bottle of Russian vodka from a healthy stash beside him and gave it a swirl. “Let us drink to our newfound camaraderie.”
“I would be honored. But first, precautions.”
At this, Marlys stepped forward, placing her ritual case on the end of the table.
Nikolai grunted and waved a dismissive hand, but these were the rules of the Accords—rules their communities had adopted centuries ago and must continue to obey if they hoped to keep peace among the factions.
From her case, Marlys retrieved a silver athame, a small metal bowl, a bundle of dried herbs, and two large gold rings. She dropped the rings into the bowl and set it between the men, gesturing for them to hold out their hands.
Gripping the athame, she made a clean slice in Dorian’s palm, then turned the blade and sliced Chernikov, gesturing for them to squeeze their blood onto the rings. Then, satisfied they’d spilled enough, she lifted the bowl above her head and began the chant, swirling the bowl until the rings were completely coated. The scent of Chernikov’s blood reminded Dorian of his recent demonic run-ins, memories that made him both hungry and nauseated.
All he wanted to do was leap across the table, wrap his hands around that awful snake tattoo, and throttle the asshole.
But until he could find the loophole in the Accords that would allow him to eradicate the demonic race from the top down, he had to play nice with men like Chernikov and the other syndicate leaders. Politics was a delicate dance—one he’d never quite mastered before his father’s death dumped the responsibility upon him. And despite his family’s waning power and the dark shadows that hovered over them—shadows that undermined his ultimate authority over the supernatural territories in this city and beyond—he had to at leastattemptto fulfill his duties.
To live up to the crown his father had stolen all those centuries ago.
Chant complete, Marlys retrieved the rings from the bowl, passing one to each man, watching as they slid the bloody jewels over their fingers. The rings temporarily muted their natural powers, preventing Chernikov from setting Dorian’s balls on fire and Dorian from ripping off the demon’s head.
Win-win for all involved.
Rings in place, Marlys lit the herb bundle, sweeping it around the small room. Faint, purple smoke encased them in a shimmering screen—a magical soundproofing that would ensure only Dorian and Chernikov could hear their conversation, but Marlys could easily access them if the demon attempted to discard the muting ring and conjure hellfire.
