"So you say."
Craeg stepped out into the corridor and looked all around. Everything was quiet, the proverbial coast clear, and still he stayed where he was. Down to the left, there were five single bedroom units. His was the first. Axe's was next. And Paradise's . . .
Well, three was a charm, wasn't it.
But he didn't go down to her right away. Even though he was about as romantic as a rock, he somehow ended up in his stall shower, cleaning his body as if he were about to meet the Scribe Virgin in person. And then he shaved. And even went over to the duffel bag he'd left where he'd dropped it the night before and unpacked his clothes all over the floor.
They were clean. That was about it.
Blue jeans. With holes. T-shirts. Without holes. His Syracuse Orange baseball cap.
With a curse, he settled for a pair of the uniform's loose pants and a fresh Hanes undershirt. He kept his feet bare, and he prayed, prayed, that he tiptoed over to her place without getting caught.
Out the door. Another left to right to check no one was around. And then he pulled a T2 Linda Hamilton as he bounced on the balls of his feet down the bare concrete floor, making no sound at all. When he got to Paradise's room, he knocked softly.
"Come in?" she said in a high, slightly stressed voice.
No poking his head in. Nope. His whole body shot inside and he forced the door closed behind himself.
"I'm so glad," she said with a laugh. "I was worried . . . anyway."
The only light on was the one in the loo, and she'd closed that little room off for the most part: She was sitting in the semi-dark on the bed, wearing a small white robe that was belted at her waist--and nothing else.
Whoa. Legs. Lots of . . . calves, thighs . . .
As he swayed from lust, she said, "You took a shower, too?"
He nodded. Because apparently he'd left his voice out in the hall.
"Do you want to come over here?"
He nodded again.
Next thing he knew, he was standing in front of her. And then he was kneeling. Putting his shaking hands on her legs, he dipped under the hem of the robe. Her skin was just as soft as he remembered.
Dropping his head down, he ran his lips back and forth over one of her knees.
Oh, fuck him. What he needed to do was jack back up, kiss her for a while, ease her flat . . . do her right with his hands--and then get the fucking hell out of Dodge.
That was so not what happened.
His palms drifted down to the sides of her thighs and then traveled up--taking the robe with them. As her flesh was exposed, he watched as she trembled and her hands tightened on the bedsheets.
"Are you scared?" he asked. Because he had to be sure.
"No," she breathed.
"Do you know what I'm going to do to you now?"
"No . . ."
He nodded, keeping his lips against her knee so that he stroked her with them. "Open your legs for me."
The shivering got worse as she obeyed, exposing a pair of perfectly modest white cotton panties that just about made him come in his pants.
And her scent drove him insane.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said in a guttural voice.
"I know. I trust you."
Craeg moved to the inside of her knee and took his sweet time, nuzzling, drawing his tongue over her thigh, running his fangs up and down.
"Put your hands in my hair," he told her. "Guide me in. You know where you want me to be. Show me."
Her touch was tentative at first, just ruffling through his short hair. "It's so soft," she whispered.
"So are you."
His hands were now up on her hips and he squeezed the bones, liking how they felt against his palms. And then for a moment, he lost his train of thought because he was struck by a powerful urge to mount her.
That would be a no, though.
Subtly, she began to pull him in and he went at her speed, working her with his lips, getting her ready for what was coming. And then he was at those panties. Looking up, he couldn't see her properly with the robe all bunched around her waist, so he freed the tie and spread the halves. She had on a little, tight muscle shirt that was white and no bra--so her hard nipples threw shadows even in the low lighting.
Groaning, he breathed in and put his lips on her core, sucking in the cotton, getting it wetter.
Her hands ripped at his hair--gone the timid touch, now a demand, and that meant it was time for a position change. Moving fast, exploding up from the floor, he made sure that the door was locked with his mind and then he swept her legs up on the bed, parted her thighs, and went back to what he was doing, kissing her, pushing her knees higher and wider so he could do her better.
Panting. She was panting and working herself against his face, her hands pulling him in tight, her body giving itself to him with an abandon that was a shock and a serious fucking turn-on. With a growl, he shoved the muscle shirt up and thumbed her spectacular breasts--and as she arched on the mattress, he was so ready to get those panties out of the fucking way.
But first, a little more teasing.
Staring up at her, he could feel the memories being etched in his head, the sounds and smells, the gasps and moans, the sheer beauty of her.
Paradise.
*
It was so much more than she expected.
As Paradise's hands dug even harder into Craeg's hair, she was riding a wave of high-octane pleasure that took her out of her body and grounded her in her flesh at the same time. The sensation of the rubbing, the friction, the heat at her core was unlike anything she'd ever known--and she still technically had her--
Nope.
With a vicious jerking motion, he ripped one side and then the other--and her panties were no more.
And then the sensations were slick and hot, nothing separating his lips and his tongue and her sex.
Thanks to what they had done the night before, she knew what was coming, so when the orgasm hit she gave herself up to it, welcoming the pumping pleasure, jerking up against the mattress, knocking the pillows off to the floor.
When she finally came back from the soaring, shimmering heights of the release, she saw him rising up between her legs.
"Take me," she ordered him. "Do it."
Grabbing hold of her muscle shirt, she ripped it off over her head so that she lay naked and stretched out in front of his enormous body, his incredible erection, his barely leashed power. And yet he hesitated, even though the hunger on his face made him look like a demon.
"Craeg . . ." Reaching up to her breasts, she caressed herself and arched up again, the burn already back in her sex, the desperation, the sweet suffocation returning tenfold.
All he did was sit back on his heels, put his hands on his thighs, and bow his head.
"Craeg?"
"No . . ." he groaned. "I can't."
"What . . . ?"
"I'm not going to have sex with you."
Wait, huh? she thought.
When he didn't say anything else, she propped herself up on her elbows and pulled her shirt over to cover her breasts. "Why not?"
"It's . . . not going to happen."
"What's wrong? What did I do?"
"Oh, fuck, it's . . . no, you're too good, you're . . ."
"Craeg, you gotta stop that."
Enough, she thought, reaching out to him. As she ran her hands up his arms, she felt his corded muscles, knew the struggle he was forcing himself into.
"Take this off," she said, tugging at the bottom of his shirt.
She expected him to fight with her. He didn't. His arms went lax and he let her remove the undershirt, and then . . . God, he was beautiful, his smooth, hairless skin stretched over such power--and when she went to run her hands over his flesh, he let her, his head falling back, his neck and shoulder muscles straining.
And then he shocked her.
"Take my vein," he said in a rough voice. "If I can't have you . . . take from me. . . ."
Jus
t like with the oral sex, it happened oh, so fast, her fangs descending, her eyes locking on his jugular with a dead-serious that she'd never felt before.
With a hiss, she lunged up and struck, sinking deep, nailing him with a greed that he submitted to completely. Hauling him to the side, she laid him out beneath her and straddled his abdomen as if he were her prey, sucking at him, his taste roaring its way down to her gut, filling her up from the inside out in a way that food and rest could not do.
She was dimly aware of him stretching his arms out and gripping the headboard, bending his torso toward her, moaning as his hips pumped and thighs jerked. He was orgasming and then so was she and everything got super-crazy, super-quick, as she moved her pelvis and felt that hard ridge right where she wanted it.
But when she tried to get to his erection, when she attempted to take his pants off, he held her hands away and kept them in an iron grip. And when she protested, when she fought him, the world spun and she was on her back again.
Blood ran down his neck and his chest from where she'd penetrated him, but he didn't care.
His hands went to the front of his hips and he sprang his arousal by ripping the fly of the loose pants in half.
Paradise's eyes rolled in her head, but she forced them to focus because she wanted to see him.
Wrapping his big hand around his thick shaft, he began to stroke himself. He didn't watch what he was doing; his eyes were on hers. And in spite of the heat between them, there was something intrinsically remote about his expression.
He wasn't going to take her, she thought.
Except her confusion and disappointment got shelved as he arched up and started to orgasm all over her sex.
He might not be willing to take her body fully.
But he was marking her for all he was worth.
Spreading her legs wide, she exposed herself completely and let him torture himself on a rack of his own doing, his releases covering her core, hitting her in hot bursts that stroked her.
She might have been a virgin . . . but she knew down to her soul that this was a battle he was going to lose.
Maybe not tonight, but soon, he was going to crack and make love to her.
And she couldn't wait.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Two nights later, Butch finally got free to take his shellan to a sex club.
Yeah, like he'd ever thought of a date night like this one?
As he waited for her in the mansion's foyer, he paced around and felt like he was pulling a Halloween in the dumb-ass getup he had on. The black leathers were fine; the black muscle shirt was also okay. The rest of the shit was . . .
What the fuck was he wearing?
Pulling the long black coat out in a fan, he got a whole lot of black leather, fur, and silk. The thing was huge, and yet it barely brushed the ground because he was wearing a pair of lifts that made him taller than Wrath.
New Rocks?
He'd borrowed them from Axe, and they buckled up from the toes to just under his knees. Also weighed fifty pounds, but were surprisingly stable and comfortable.
And then there was the mask. The thing was a front plate made of thin metal and plastic, and when he strapped it on and applied proper adhesive, it covered his entire face with a gray-white-and-black skeletal horror that moved when he spoke.
Yup, it was mask night down at the Poke 'n' Play, and far be it from him not to fit in with the crowd.
He took out his phone and checked the time. Marissa had come over from the Pit to hang out with the girls to get ready--and the two of them were going to head to the club together while Axe was driven out separately from the training center.
Clomping around the mosaic apple tree, he was amazed at how okay he'd become with taking Marissa with him on this sojourn into the dark and the seedy. After that talk he and his shellan had had, though, it was like something had unlocked in him, some twisted, painful muscle spasm of his internal wiring had loosened and uncoiled, allowing him to breathe more easily.
He'd hated the rough spot they'd found themselves in. He fucking loved the new vista, though.
As if on cue, he sensed his mate at the top of the grand staircase. Turning, Butch looked up and--
Enagbu jioa kdf ahtaj; fjjkd powkl.
Or something to that effect.
Gone was his beautiful princess in the designer clothes. In her place was . . . a freaky-deaky erotic sexpot wearing shrink-wrapped black latex from her mile-high stilettos all the way up and over her head. The only thing that marked her identity? The long blond ponytail that came out of a hole in the top of the full-body/facial suit, those golden waves swinging free.
And then there was her mask.
It was like an industrial gas mask, with round black disks for eyes and a nose and mouthpiece that showed no part of her skin because there was a seal around the latex that covered her face. Made of black glass and burnished gray metal, it was an ugly piece of absolute art.
As she came down at him, his cock punched out an erection so quickly, he actually had to look to make sure the fly of his leathers was still intact.
Her body was . . . absolutely, fucking insane, the light stroking down the banging curves of her breasts, throwing shadows around her tight waist, highlighting her hips and thighs.
When she was finally standing in front of him, she did a slow little turn, and holy fucking shit, the mechanized sound of her breathing made his balls tighten. Well, that and her ass. Dear God in heaven above, her--
"Well, what do you think?"
The voice that came out was not hers; it was distilled through some kind of sound box, emerging tinny and distorted and alien.
"Ojkdla hgdio lweno io."
"What?" came that electronic voice.
"He said you are fuuuuucking ammmmmmaaaazing," came a male voice from across the way.
Butch's head whipped to the side and he glared at Lassiter, who'd come out from the billiards room and was lounging against the archway. Pegging the moron with his forefinger like the thing was a gun, he snapped, "Get your miserable ass back into that fucking room before I cut your eyes out and strangle you with your own tongue."
The fallen angel put his palms up and wheeled away. "Right. Leaving. Here I am, walking back and saying absolutely nothing about her."
The retreat would have been more convincing if the bastard didn't let a huge wolf whistle rip as soon as he was out of range.
"I'm going to fucking kill him, I swear it."
"Please don't."
Refocusing, Butch just shook his head. "Oh, my God, you look . . . hey, I'm back to speaking English. Bonus."
Bringing her in close, he pressed his body against hers and felt up and down the smooth, slightly sticky suit. With a groan, he bent to the side and moved his hands down to those latexed hips and onto that ass, grabbing her cheeks, squeezing, going farther in between from behind.
"I'm not gonna make it through tonight," he groaned. "Fuck, I can barely walk."
Her sexy little laugh, distorted through that speaker, made him sway in his New Rocks.
Holy. Shit.
*
"Have you made friends in your class?"
As her father put out the inquiry, Paradise sat back in the club chair in his study. Tucking her socked feet under her, she wondered exactly how to answer him--and prayed as he rifled through the papers on his desk that he didn't look up and see her blush.
Yup, how to answer that one, she thought.
She and Craeg had spent the last two mornings talking on the phone, speaking for hours as well as . . . doing other things. So yes, they were friends of a sort--and she had plans to see him in person again, both tonight and tomorrow during the day.
This was what her little impromptu meeting with her father was about.
If she didn't get some skin-to-skin contact again soon, she was going to lose her mind. Phone sex was great unless you'd had the real thing.
Or almost had it.
"Paradise? Are you all right
?"
She shook herself and made a show of getting out of the chair and going to the cheerful, crackling fire. The cold front that had come in the day before had gotten into the walls of the Tudor, and there were chills lurking everywhere in the house--something that would be a constant until spring's warm weather came in May.
So she had the perfect excuse to turn away from him as she picked up the poker and rearranged the logs.
"Oh, yes, I've met some lovely people and I'm enjoying the classes very much." As well as the sneak peeks of Craeg. "It's amazing the things I didn't know."
"For example?"
Well, if she purred into the phone and told Craeg everything she wasn't wearing, it was a guarantee that he'd--
As orange sparks fell into the smoldering ashes, she stopped that line of thought right quick. "Hand-to-hand combat is a science, Father. I'd never watched MMA fighting before, or learned anything about the different styles of engagement. They're teaching us various disciplines, and each one has its own strengths and weaknesses. I spar with Peyton and this other male, Craeg, a lot."
Placing the poker back in the brass stand, she pivoted around and returned to the chair. "I am very, very good at it--"
She stopped talking as she realized her father had frozen in the process of moving one sheet of paper into a pile, the bill or account statement or whatever it was hanging in the air along with his arm.
The expression on his face was akin to someone having told him his house was about to be bulldozed by humans.
"Father . . ." she said. "I'm really happy. I'm really . . . I'm learning about myself, who I am, what I want, what I can do."
He glanced at the document as if wondering what it was doing in front of him, hovering in the air. Then he seemed to snap himself back to attention.
Clearing his throat, he asked, "And what conclusions are you coming to?"
Well, the big one was that she was probably falling in love with Craeg. But considering that was going to make her father go worse than dad-statue, she needed to keep that quiet--plus she hadn't told Craeg yet, and it seemed appropriate that he be the first to know.
Falling in love. Such a huge thing, and yet so simple, too.
And quick, yes. But she had heard when bonding happened, it could be like this.
"Well, I want to do some good for the species," she said.
"Exactly how?"
"Father, that doesn't mean fighting in the war."
"Considering you were just speaking about how good you were at . . ." He rubbed his temple. "I guess I should have expected this."