Bound Guardian Angel (15 page)

But now . . .

Cynthia’s tentative palm slid over his
chest. Then she slowly pulled away and turned to meet his gaze.
“You’re free now.” Her long lashes fluttered as she shyly cast her
eyes downward. “No one’s watching you, anymore. We’re finally
alone. Just the two of us.” She nibbled her plump bottom lip, and
her gaze darted to his again, searching his eyes. “We can be
together now.” Her hand trailed boldly down his stomach, but her
expression remained reserved. “If you want to.”

Her fingers grazed the head of his swollen
penis through his linen pants.

He sucked in his breath, and every muscle in
his body gently contracted as a sensation akin to pain but more
like pleasure lit inside his blood. Even as his body reacted, he
couldn’t speak. All he could do was stare at her, awed by how she’d
changed so rapidly. Ten minutes ago, they’d been only friends. Now,
his body seemed to be calling him to be more. To kiss her as the
men in the movies kissed their women. To touch her and look upon
her naked flesh as she looked upon his.

He’d never lain with a woman, and the
realization began to dawn on him that Cynthia was seducing him to
do just that.

She leaned in again, bringing her face to
the crook of his neck as her palm caressed his hard penis more
firmly. She sighed, and her breath warmed his skin. He closed his
eyes, relishing the heated wash of air followed by the soft, supple
touch of her lips under his ear.

“Do you want us to be together?” she said,
her voice hushed and breathy. Her body slid against the side of his
as she bent one leg over his thighs and kissed his neck again.

Tiny eruptions quaked under his skin, in his
blood, over his nerve endings, sending fiery warmth down his spine
to settle between his legs as he grew even harder. He became
faintly aware that he was nodding.

He’d never known he wanted this, but now
that he was faced with the possibility of discovering all that went
on between a male and a female, there was nothing he wanted
more.

“Yes.” His voice, normally so tranquil and
benign, sounded foreign to his own ears. Even though he spoke
softly, his voice was deep, gruff, full of a kind of desire he’d
never experienced.

A moment later, her entire body seemed to
melt against his as a gentle, satisfied moan stirred in her throat.
Her arm encircled his torso, and she pulled herself onto his lap as
he sank more deeply into the cushions and gazed up at her.

She pulled her fuzzy, baby-blue sweater over
her head, revealing an expanse of pristine skin. A light-blue,
satin bra covered her breasts, but only briefly, because she
reached around, unfastened it, then tossed it onto the couch beside
her sweater.

Brak had never seen bared breasts before. At
least not in person. Only in movies. But as with everything else
he’d seen in pictures—the city, cars, thunderstorms—no image seen
on a TV screen or online compared to the three-dimensional reality
poised in front of him.

Cynthia’s breasts were small but perky,
tipped with light-brown nipples that tightened into pert nubs as he
stared at them. But his amazement and utter awe were about so much
more than what he could see with his eyes. He could feel her. Feel
her warmth. And when he tentatively raised his hands to her breasts
and let his fingertips slowly sweep around the supple swells of
flesh, he absorbed her frenetic energy. It poured out of her,
engulfing his senses, making him breathless and needy for more.

Reaching down, she gripped the hem of his
shirt and pulled it up. He lifted his arms, and the fabric swished
over his head.

Then her mouth was on his chest, his neck,
and her hands worked the fastenings of her jeans before untying the
drawstring of his pants. A vortex of energy threatened to consume
him as it wound more tightly, bunching, pulling them closer to one
another. With feverish adeptness, she freed them both of their
remaining clothes. And then there was nothing between them. No
barrier to impede desire’s demands. Her thighs straddled his. Her
lips sought his. Her heat engulfed him as she took him inside
her.

He’d never felt anything like this. The ache
that demanded release. The painfully pleasurable way his body
lifted, sang, searching. But searching for what?

He knew the way of male vampires. How their
bodies sought to link with a mate.

Was Cynthia his mate? Had she been under his
nose the whole time, and he hadn’t known? He’d been too young when
Mother died and Father fell into a healing sleep to learn much
beyond the basics of how things worked among his kind, but he knew
of mated males and of male callings. And he knew enough to
understand the rite of passage having sex with Cynthia granted
him.

But was having sex enough? Did this mean
they were mated?

Barely a minute into the act, his body
seized. A moment later, he fell into convulsions. And then all he
could do was hold on tight as pure, white-hot pleasure lanced his
soul. His fangs punched out, and his gaze sharpened on the vein in
her neck even as his body fell into uncontrollable shudders.

“Feed from me,” she said on a gasp, fisting
the hair on the back of his head and yanking him forward so that
his mouth pressed against her skin.

He could smell her blood. He could
practically taste it, having fed from her before. But this was
different. Hormones poured through her veins alongside her blood.
Pure, unadulterated adrenaline. If desire had a scent, this would
be it.

Without hesitation, he sank his fangs into
her flesh and drank in long, drunken pulls as his body fell into
bliss again. Above him, Cynthia gasped then trembled, and he felt
her inner muscles quiver against him as she found the same pleasure
he’d found only moments before. The air was thick with it.

An hour later, the scent of lust permeated
every molecule inside the house as Cynthia rolled to her back on
the bed and took Brak with her.

Brak’s thirst for this newfound worldly
pleasure was insatiable. He’d had a taste, and now he wanted more.
But as his body released yet again, he wondered once more if
Cynthia was his mate. This time, a voice in the back of his mind
responded.

No.

There was no denying the truth. Cynthia was
not his mate. He knew with the certainty of the rising sun that
there was another meant for him. That another female existed
somewhere, out there, in a place he’d yet to discover. And once he
found her, what he was feeling now would pale in comparison to the
craving, devotion, and pleasure his true mate would awaken in his
heart.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the
gift Cynthia was willing to give him now. That he didn’t appreciate
her physical generosity. Knowing another awaited him elsewhere
didn’t mean that what he felt with Cynthia wasn’t real. And it
didn’t mean he didn’t love her. He did. He loved her very much. But
loving wasn’t the same as mating, and he knew enough to know the
difference.

He only hoped Cynthia did, too.

Chapter 9

When Trace awoke nine hours later, he felt as loose
as a slack rubber band.

Last night had been unreal. He had never
sunk so deeply into subspace. Micah truly was all he’d hoped for
and more.

Until now, submitting himself hadn’t been
about pleasure so much as it had been about battling his crippling
power. But under Micah’s firm hand, and steeped within his
domination, Trace had found pleasure. Pure, genuine pleasure.

He had come during scenes before. In fact,
he couldn’t remember a time when a session hadn’t led him to
orgasm, but always because the pain had allowed him to feel
something other than the presence that otherwise invaded his mind
and body twenty-four seven. Last night, there had been very little
pain. Just the slow burn of hot wax on his skin. In combination
with Micah’s presence, that had been enough to send him to a whole
new place both mentally and physically.

Micah was at once demanding and loving,
stern yet compassionate. Everything he did and said held a duality.
He was the kind of Dom you wanted to obey and please, not because
he demanded it, but because he earned it. Trace had never felt such
love and devotion from another master, and he grinned as he
stretched and remembered the way Micah had tended to him after
their session.

Breathing hadn’t come so easily in a long
time, and Trace just wanted to lie there and feel the oxygen fill
his lungs with every breath. For ten minutes, that’s all he did as
he luxuriated in Micah’s and Sam’s bed. Then his full bladder got
the better of him, so he sat up, swung his feet around, and made
his way to the bathroom.

After tending to business, he stood over the
sink and stared at himself in the mirror. He was where he needed to
be. Where he wanted to be. He belonged here.

But something was still missing.
No . . . some
one
. Even though his
relationship with Micah and Sam was damn near perfect, neither
belonged to him. Neither was his mate. With them, he would always
be the fifth wheel. The guy who tagged along but never had anyone
of his own.

Part of him wanted to believe that Micah and
Sam were enough, but he knew deep down they weren’t. Until he found
the one female put on this earth expressly for him, the void in his
heart would remain. The void only his mate could fill.

At least he no longer had to worry about the
holes left by the deaths of his father and brother. They hadn’t
died, after all. He’d found his father, and he’d felt Brak’s
presence during his incarceration, which was proof enough that his
twin lived. Shocking, yes, but true.

A myriad of emotions stirred inside him.
Excitement, happiness, relief, but also fear. Also regret, worry,
and doubt. While he was happy to know they hadn’t died, an
unsettled anxiety had latched onto him, and its grip tightened
every day. Old memories had awakened. Old pain. Things he hadn’t
thought about in a long time and didn’t want to, but which he could
no longer avoid now that his dad and brother were back.

He splashed water on his face to clear his
mind then took a quick shower to wash away the cobwebs still
lingering from last night’s trip down the rabbit hole.

With a towel wrapped around his waist, he
returned to the bedroom. A pair of black sweats and a light-grey
T-shirt were folded on the dresser as if they had been set there
for him, so he put them on and headed upstairs. He was famished and
needed to raid the kitchen ASAFP.

As he opened the door at the top of the
stairs, he heard kitchen cabinets open and close. Good. Sam was
already up. He couldn’t wait to see her, hug her, smell the lilac
scent of her hair.

“Hey, beautiful, what’s for breakfa—” He
came to a dead stop as Cordray spun around, blue eyes wide, her
black and bright-blue hair flowing in long, lustrous waves over her
shoulders and down her back, all the way to her ass.

As if frozen in a pose from a Halloween snow
globe—because, really, could Cordray be associated with any other
holiday than Halloween?—the two stared at each other. Then she
sniffed dismissively and shoved her hair behind her ears as she
turned away and bent to look inside another cabinet.

Wow, um . . . okay, he’d
never really noticed her ass before, but those pink sweats hugged
her in all the right—wait a second. Pink? On Cordray? He had never
seen her wear anything but witch black.

“Don’t just stand there waiting for an
invitation,” she said, rifling through the cabinet.

His eyebrows shot up. An invitation? To
what? Smack her ass? Because he was having a hard time keeping
himself from reaching out to see if that thing was as firm as it
looked. Amazing what her usual leather attire hid that a layer of
pink cotton put a spotlight on.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at
him. “Are you going to help me find the coffee or what?”

Oh. Oops. His mind had gone in a totally
different direction than she’d intended.

But at least she’d confirmed he wasn’t in
another dimension where a nice Cordray who wore pastels and said
please and thank you existed. She barked out her commands the way
she always did. No please. No thank you. No good morning. No
nicey-niceness. This was the real Cordray, not a figment of his
imagination. If he painted her red and gave her a pitchfork, she
would be the devil.

Trace stayed rooted in place and crossed his
arms. “What are you doing here?”

Devil horns and bad manners aside, Cordray
looked different. All girly and shit. He’d never seen her with her
hair down, without her black leather, and without all that
Gothic-style makeup she usually wore. But those wicked tattoos on
her arms weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and for once he was
able to admire them without all the peripheral bullshit to distract
him. That was some crazy-cool ink right there.

She sighed heavily, stood back up, and
settled her fists on her hips. “I’m looking for coffee, jackass. I
thought I’d just made that clear. Did you suddenly forget how to
speak English since I last saw you? Now, are you going to help me
or stand there like a paperweight for floors?”

Maybe she looked different, but she still
had the same smart-assed mouth. Score one for continuity and lack
of progress.

He refused to let her spoil his good mood.
Micah had left him flying, and he would enjoy the sensation for as
long as he could.

Nudging her aside, he opened the cabinet in
front of her and reached over her shoulder for the can of Folgers
as she pointedly leaned away from him as if he were covered in
porcupine spines. She nearly tripped over her own feet as she took
an abrupt step to the side.

“Here.” He handed her the canister, reached
back in for the filters, tossed them on the counter by the coffee
maker, and then turned for the fridge. “And I meant, what are you
doing
here
 . . . as in, in general? In this
house? Or is English your second language, too?” He pulled out the
milk then retrieved the Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch from the
pantry.