Blood Kiss

  And now to hedge his bets: He'd been debating for the last two nights whether or not to tell Axe the real reason they were all at the club. The bene was that they might get somewhere quicker; the ball slapper was that he'd potentially tip off the murderer, either directly or indirectly.

  Except he had watched that tape of them talking in the office a hundred times--and he just didn't think the male had murder in him. In a fight? Yes, absolutely. Axe was a tough son of a bitch in training, capable of crushing opponents in the hand-to-hand sparring even if they were taller than he was--and he was vicious at the gun range and with dagger training, never hesitating to pull the trigger or go for the kill.

  But that was a different scenario from brutalizing some female. And for all his hard-core Goth shit, he wasn't cruel and he wasn't insane.

  "So I lied," he said in Axe's ear over the din of moans and techno music.

  "Oh, really," the fighter countered.

  "I was just following your example."

  "So honored."

  "I didn't get the 'key' from a friend. It was taken off a female who was beaten to death. I'm here to find out who killed her, and I'm going to need your help."

  Axe recoiled. And then narrowed his eyes. Leaning back in again, he said, "How do you know I didn't do it?"

  "I don't." Butch met the guy straight in the eye. "I don't know that at all."

  Focusing on the stare behind that mask, he waited to see what those pupils did. With the extra stimulation around them, and the fact that his features were covered, the guy was even more likely to show a nervous reaction.

  Instead, they were rock-steady.

  Which yup, supported Butch's instinct that the guy hadn't been lying about having yet to see death up close and personal.

  "I didn't, by the way," the male said. "I didn't kill anyone."

  Butch nodded. "I figured. You've got a good conscience--you proved that with how you felt about your pops's death. Your fashion sense, on the other hand, is tragic."

  "It got your ass in here."

  "True, true." Butch glanced around. "So who's in charge?"

  "Wait, tell me more about the female? Maybe I've seen her? Was she one of us?"

  "Yup. And I don't know much more than that. There was no ID on her, just that key. She managed to dematerialize to a safe place--that's where my Marissa found her." As Axe glanced at his mate, the guy seemed mortified that anyone, especially a female, had been exposed to such a horror. "She was through her transition, with dark hair, and dark blue eyes. That's really all I got."

  "Shit."

  "That just about covers it."

  Not for the first time did Butch wish someone had taken a photograph of her, even if it had been after she had passed. God, he wished there had been shots of the wounds, scrapings under nails, a careful search for fibers on her and her clothes. But none of that had happened, of course. Again, the vampire race had no procedures in place to handle situations like this.

  And it was funny, he'd never thought about the societal weakness before. He'd been too busy fighting on the front lines to worry about intra-race problems.

  Man, some simple investigative processes would have helped them so much.

  Axe shook himself like he was refocusing. "About the staff--look for the red on the costumes. They tend to stay on the periphery unless there's a violation of the consent policy or if things get too out of line, in which case they'll put a stop to whatever it is. And by out of line, I mean anything more than casual bloodshed."

  "Are there any cameras?"

  "Probably, but I couldn't tell you where or how to get at them."

  Or how to sift through hundreds of hours of streaming images--which was what you'd end up with, given the size of this place and the number of nights that had passed.

  Shit.

  They had just entered needle-in-a-haystack territory. And considering what was on the line here, that was about as reassuring as a knife at his throat.

  Still, he'd beaten bad odds before.

  "Let's go deeper," he said as he put his arm around his shellan. "We need to see everything."

  Chapter Forty

  "They have places . . . places we can go."

  As Craeg spoke into Paradise's ear, he was very aware of how close to the edge he was. But the more she danced against his body, the more the sex took over his brain, kicking the shit out of common sense and rationality, getting him to go all caveman. No panties? Fuuuuuuuck. He really needed to get his hands on more of her, so yeah, it was time to disappear into the back where Novo had told him there were private bathrooms you could use. After all, it was the only way they'd find any privacy tonight. Paradise was going to have to go home at dawn, and it wasn't like she could take him back to her house--not without coming out of the closet about him, which would put her father and them in a very awkward, premature situation.

  Plus it was going to be a cold day in hell before he took her to the dump he lived in.

  Shit, if he didn't get a release soon, he was going to lose it.

  In his pants.

  "Show me the way," she moaned.

  Grabbing her hand, he led her through the crowd. And as he passed by the booth where Novo was giving Boone a lap dance--and quite possibly his very first hard-on--Craeg spared a wave at the female and got one in return.

  As well as a very knowing look.

  The private "bathrooms" were underneath the partial second floor to the north, and as they entered a dimly lit, black-walled hallway, he discovered countless closed doors. Discreet Occupied signs were flipped in the first seven they went by. Eighth was a charm.

  Holding the door open for her, he growled as she passed him by to enter the little tiled room. There was a toilet stall, a sink . . . and a bench--and the squat, tight space was surprisingly clean. Then again, there was a sunken drain in the middle of the floor and a sprinkler head in the ceiling.

  They probably bleached 'em after every night.

  Making sure the door was locked properly, he grabbed her and pulled her against him, his greedy palms getting into her clothes, feeling the fullness of her breasts, the smoothness of her ass, the heat, the wet fucking heat of her core. He was kissing her out of control already, and she was kissing him back, and God, you'd have sworn they hadn't spent three hours just that morning getting each other off on the phone.

  In person, though--in person was where it was at.

  And then she was backing up, drawing him with her, taking him to the sink.

  With the grace of a dancer, she put her ass on the counter . . . then she drew her knees up and propped her high heels against the narrow walls of the alcove.

  Giving him a stunning view of her black thigh-highs and her smooth, slick, bare sex.

  "You know what I want," she said. "And for once, it's not your mouth there."

  Swaying on his feet, he was really goddamn aware that the moment had arrived: His willpower was down to a stump, his sex drive was a roaring engine that wasn't letting him think properly, and fucking hell . . . what he was looking at.

  "Are you sure?" he mumbled. While he started undoing the front of his jeans.

  "Do you want me to beg?"

  "No, because I'd start coming right now."

  He glanced around and didn't see any cameras. But that didn't mean the fuckers weren't somewhere hidden. "I wish there was another place we could do this."

  "Like I care where we are."

  With that, she undid her blouse, pulled it open, and popped the cups of her bra down so they offered her breasts high and tight to him. Her blond hair was all around her shoulders, her blue eyes were at half mast, and as she ran her tongue over her lips, the tip of his cock tingled like it was going to explode.

  "Please," she moaned, arching like she was in agony.

  And that was all it took.

  As his erection punched out of the open fly of his jeans, he took the heavy weight in his hand and closed the distance between them. Shit, he couldn't believe this was actual
ly happening. Not the sex part; God knew he'd done that before.

  It was the sex-with-her part that was getting to him.

  Especially as he saw his head right next to everything he wanted. Shutting his eyes briefly, he wanted to say something to make it right for her, look at her in a way that showed he recognized this was a big deal for her, do anything that would turn this experience with a redneck in a club into the reverent, worshipful event it was going to be on his side.

  "Yes, I want this," she said softly. "I want this with you--only with you."

  Lifting his lids, he stared into her hypnotic eyes--and something strange happened. Against the backdrop of the muffled bass beats and the hundreds of humans and the burning desperation pumping in his blood, he felt an abrupt slowdown.

  Make this count, he told himself. Make this special for her.

  Bringing his head to her core, he brushed his flesh up and down her sex--and she jumped, then bit down on her lip with her fangs.

  Her thighs began to tremble. Her breathing quickened. Her scent got heavier, headier.

  With a groan of his own, he parted her sex--but he couldn't keep that up. He was about to orgasm all over her.

  Arching above her, he supported his weight on his free hand.

  "I'll go slow," was the last rational thing he said.

  *

  Paradise was so ready for this, her body both fluid and tense with anticipation. And then she felt him brush against her heat and she nearly orgasmed.

  There were so many reasons not to do this, so many reasonable arguments why she should wait for a better moment, a better time, a more stable place in her life and Craeg's. But if the raids had taught her one thing, it was that time was a luxury no mortal could afford to squander.

  And her father's words to her before she'd left had resonated not as the warning he had meant them to be, but as the statement of a goal she needed to embrace.

  She was in love with this male. Yes, she hadn't known him long, and yes, it was crazy, but no, she had never felt anything close to this connection and what else would you call the emotion? And no, she couldn't control whether Craeg would stay or if he would go tomorrow night, next week, next month, next year--but he was here with her now.

  And that was more than she'd ever expected.

  Abruptly, a slight pressure registered, the blunt head of him pressing in. And then he was stroking the top of her sex with his thumb, driving her insane, making her feel that fizzy, exciting, burning heat that she now knew was the precursor for the release her body was hungry for.

  Reaching for him, she brought his mouth to hers and kissed him, stroked into his mouth with her tongue. She was utterly unafraid. Maybe she should have been, but she almost wanted to get this behind them so that the erotic connection could be given free expression.

  Craeg's hips began to roll in and retreat, roll in and retreat, each time his erection going in a little farther.

  And then he shifted her around, repositioning her pelvis.

  His fingers returned to her, rubbing in a circle as his body went curiously still. She was about to protest, but then the sensations were too much and her brain took a backseat as she started to come--

  At that moment, in one strong, powerful thrust, he penetrated past a barrier that broke away with no pain at all.

  His whole body began to shake, and the trembling was transmitted into her from where they were joined. And then he began to move inside of her, deeper and deeper, with growing momentum. Thick, he was so thick, and the fullness was . . . incredible. And then there was the feel of his mouth stroking hers as he pumped into her.

  No matter what the future held for them, nothing was ever going to change the fact that he was her first.

  When she orgasmed, he did, too.

  And yes, it was every bit as perfect and beautiful as she could have hoped for it to be. Even in a human club, in a public place, with hundreds of strangers on the far side of a thin door . . . it was heaven.

  That was what being with the right person was like, though, wasn't it.

  Chapter Forty-one

  When Craeg finally stilled, Paradise slumped back against the sink, and though the faucet cut into her spine, and the mirror was hard against her head, she didn't care. She was floating, coasting . . . at least until she looked down her body and saw, at the apex of her spread thighs, that his hips were pressed in tight, a part of him buried deep inside of her.

  Heaven.

  Too bad he looked worried--as if he thought maybe she'd fainted because he'd hurt her or something.

  She wanted to reassure him, tell him that it was amazing--but her mind was too blown to let her speak coherently, so she put everything into the smile she gave him.

  "God . . ." he whispered. "You're so beautiful right now."

  Forcing herself to focus, she murmured, "I'm glad we did that. When can we do it again?"

  "Tomorrow night. But you're going to be stiff. It's only natural."

  "I'm staying the day at the training center."

  His brows popped. "You are?"

  "I had plans to seduce you."

  "Well, far be it from me to get in the way of a goal of yours."

  As he bent down and kissed her, she felt a momentary pang as she realized he'd done this with other females, maybe even taken them for the first time, too--which explained why he'd been so good at it. But no, those thoughts weren't welcome in this space.

  This was just them. Nothing else was allowed.

  "How about we do it again right now?" she said, moving her hips so that her sex stroked his.

  "Paradise . . . are you sure you're okay?"

  She moaned a yeeeeeeeeeeeees in response, and then propped her hands against the sink and used what little play she had in her body to get some momentum going between them again.

  What you know, it worked.

  In the blink of an eye, she was off the sink and up against Craeg's body, her legs around his hips, her arms linked over his heavy shoulders, her ankles twisted behind his ass.

  With a rough grip, his hands moved her up and down on his arousal, faster and harder than the first time. To help him out, not that he wasn't doing just fine, she worked with him, doubling up on the force.

  More orgasms, this time over and over again, her hair flopping in both their faces, a dark scent of spices roaring from his body, the pleasure mixing their souls in a way that felt permanent.

  When they finally stopped, she collapsed onto his torso, limp as a rag, hot as an oven, dizzy as if she had run for a million miles.

  And that was when her phone rang.

  As the electronic chiming emanated from out of the pocket of her jacket, she brought her head up. "You've got to be kidding me."

  Letting whoever it was go into voice mail, she refocused and smiled at Craeg. God, she loved it when their faces were this close, when she could see each individual lash and the bump in his nose, and the shadow of his beard that was already growing in.

  "Hi," she whispered.

  For once, his lips actually returned the favor--and there was an endearing shyness to him as he grinned.

  Reaching up to his face, she whispered, "This is how I will always remember you."

  In the back of her mind, she thought . . . holy weirdness. Why was she good-byeing him? This was just the beginning--

  Her phone started ringing again.

  "I'm sorry," she said, frowning. "I hope there's nothing wrong."

  Twisting around so she could get into her pocket, she was acutely aware that they were still joined. And when she saw the screen, she cursed.

  "Really, Peyton," she muttered as she shoved the phone back where it had been. "He must know we're back here. He loves harassing people."

  "Guess he's finally shown up, huh."

  "You know he's like a brother to me. You really, totally know that, right?"

  "Yeah. Actually, I do."

  As her cell started ringing for a third time, she gritted her teeth. "My really, totall
y annoying brother."

  "Answer it so he'll stop." Craeg rolled his hips and made her moan. "I'm going nowhere."

  Hitting the accept circle, she whipped the thing up to her ear. "Will you cut this out--"

  "Parry . . . ?"

  The instant she heard his voice, she frowned. In all the time she had known him, he'd never sounded like that. Lost . . . like a little boy.

  "Peyton? What's wrong?"

  "Something very bad has happened, Parry. There's blood . . . everywhere. . . ."

  "What?" She pushed back and Craeg put her down immediately. "Peyton! Where are you?"

  "I'm at my cousin's . . . my cousin . . . the one who was supposed to be gone. . . ."

  Paradise locked eyes with Craeg. "Peyton, Craeg and I are on the way--but where are you?"

  When he stammered out an address, she repeated it, and then thrust the phone at Craeg. "I have to clean up, you stay on the phone with him--do not let him hang up."

  *

  Ten minutes later, Craeg was walking into a fancy human apartment building with a dark green awning, a marble lobby, and a doorman wearing a uniform that was the same color as that overhang outside.

  While he hesitated and expected to get kicked out or be asked to submit to a cavity search before he stepped off the welcome mat, Paradise walked right over to the desk.

  "Hello," she said in a perfectly calm and reasonable tone. "My friend Peyton came to see Ashley Murray, and he's asked us to join them."

  "I'll just call up then," the man replied, reaching for the phone. "Hello? Yes, it's the front desk. Are you--great. I'll send them up." The guard nodded to the elevators. "Go ahead."

  "Thank you so much," she said smoothly, and held her hand out.

  At first, Craeg couldn't figure out what she was doing that for--and then he realized he hadn't moved from where he'd stopped just inside the revolving door.

  Hustling over, he ignored the guard and kept his head down--because a beautiful young female was one thing, but he was very aware that he was five times her size and more likely to be viewed with suspicion. They made it into the elevator, however, and then they were getting off on some high-up floor.