The Vampire Dimitri (23 page)

When she came back, her hands were empty and by then, Dimitri was actually breathing. His fingers had moved and the pain had centered back on his Mark, where he was used to it.

“Is that better?” she asked, coming closer to him. Too close.

His nose twitched as he inhaled her and a shudder rumbled through him. He wasn't strong enough to push himself out of the chair, to stand…he needed blood. He needed sustenance.

Dimitri managed to nod and tried to tell her to stay back, but she kept moving closer.

“Let me look at you,” she said, right in front of him. She was examining the cuts on his cheeks. Her skirt brushed against the arm of the chair, where his ineffectual hand rested. “And I see that you can't even stand.”

He tried to growl a warning and an argument, nothing but a dull groan escaped. She touched his face where the ruby had sliced his cheek. Dimitri closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him with such gentleness.

Never, never had a woman affected him so.

A little shudder raced through his limbs, turning into something hot and powerful and needy. When he opened his eyes, she was very close. Her cheek, smooth and white, a breath away. That intriguing scent filled his space and a lock of hair hung just in front of his gaze.

“Maia,” he whispered, turning his face away. “Get…away.”

M
aia heard the note in his voice when he said her name, and the tone made her insides plummet. It was a horrible combination of loathing and desperation. His eyes were hooded and shadowed, and she could see little but the dark shapes of them and the wounds on his face.

“Are you mad?” she said, trying to keep her own voice steady. “I'm not going to leave you here.”

She could hardly fathom that a man who was as large and dark and powerful as the earl had become little more than a rag doll, sagging in the chair. At the same time, she wanted to touch him again, but without the protection of the damp cloth. She knew he was injured, practically dead as much as a vampire could die, but she couldn't stop looking at him.

The curtains on one window were open enough that light from outside—moon, stars, streetlamps—gave the chamber layers of gray color, and she could see the details of the man in front of her.

The wide breadth of his shoulders, marred as they were by small dark circles from what were clearly vampire bites,
had felt so solid and warm beneath her hands. She'd seen his darkly haired chest from the door of his chamber, but now she'd touched the square curve of his shoulders and the sleek bulge of biceps, the skin smooth and firm. He had a strong, corded neck, the ragged edges of his dark hair plastered there and to his temples and cheeks.

“Get away…from me,” he said again, this time more fiercely. His muscular hand moved as if to shove her away, but it flopped loosely onto his lap, barely brushing her arm. “Get Cale.”

“Don't be a fool. I'm not leaving you,” she said. “I went through a lot of trouble to find you and I'm not going without you. Aside of that, it could take me hours or days to find Mr. Cale. And I don't know when
she'll
be back.”

He closed his eyes again. “Just…go. Please. Maia.”

This was the second time he'd called her by her name, and the sound of it, so low and rough, made her knees weak. She couldn't leave him. She didn't know where she was or how long it would take to get a hack—and it was nighttime, as well. She didn't know when Mrs. Throckmullins was going to return—or whoever she was working with, and she certainly couldn't manage to drag the earl from the room. He'd crush her if he put even half his weight on her.

Maia's heart started pounding hard as she realized what she had to do. She licked her lips, trying to subdue a flash of nerves and titillation. It wasn't just the rubies. He had four or perhaps five wounds, bites, plus the cuts on his face. He'd lost blood. Lots of it.

“You need to…drink. You need blood,” she said.

He jolted in the chair and growled. “No.”

But she saw the sudden catch of his breath, then the rough rise and fall of his chest. The pulse pounded in his throat and his eyes fastened on her, dark in emotion, fiery in hue.

Her mouth dried and her stomach fluttered as she remembered her dreams. Even the room tipped a little at the flash of temptation that rushed through her.

“Corvindale, you must.” She settled herself on the arm of his chair.

He'd turned away again and his jaw, dark with shadow, shifted.
“Go.”

She drew in a deep breath and thrust her arm in front of his face. “Please.”

“I…can't.” He was so close to her, her arm brushing against his bare one, his male scent and the warmth radiating from his skin filling her being.

“My lord, please,” she begged, somehow generating a ripple of angst from him. “I can't get you away from here if you're so weak. And I'm absolutely not leaving without you. If she comes back…” She let the threat hang there, for, if she knew one thing about the earl, it was that he took his responsibilities gravely.

Surely he wouldn't want his ward to be here if Mrs. Throckmullins came back.

He remained mute and stoic, and Maia realized she was going to have to force the stubborn fool into it. She remembered the night in the carriage when he'd scratched her with his fang; the arrested look on his face when he'd noticed the blood.

She was just about to get up to search for something to cut herself with—for she simply couldn't stomach using her own fingernails—when he made a low sound. Deep, like a struggle, rumbling from his throat.

Maia turned toward him just as he moved, curling his fingers around her arm. She looked down and met his eyes.

“Get…rubies,” he said. “Quickly.”

“What? Have you gone mad? Isn't that how you got—”

“Get…rubies,” he said between tight jaws. “Argue. Always.”

“Corvindale…” But she saw the fury in his eyes and she decided that he was probably right—this wasn't the time to argue. She'd known the man was mad since the night he bundled her up in the curtains and tossed her on the patio.

But he'd saved her then, hadn't he?

She rushed out of the room to get one of the necklaces from where she'd tossed them in a pile far down the corridor. When she returned to the chamber, she saw that he'd shifted in the chair and was sitting more upright than he'd been.

His eyes fell on the dangling chain of red gems, then lifted to hers as she approached slowly. Whatever expression might have been there was unfathomable in the dim light.

“What do you want me to do with them?” she asked, already noticing the change in his breathing and the stiffening in his limbs. From the mere presence of the jewels. She found it fascinating and frightening at the same time.

He glanced to the side, made a very faint gesture to the table next to his chair. “There.”

Maia thought she was beginning to understand. He wanted them nearby so that…he'd remain weak? Her heart lunged into her throat and suddenly the prickle of anticipation turned into prickles in her belly. What was he afraid he'd
do?

She laid the necklace on the far edge of the small piecrust table and then faced him, looking down at his dark hair and stony face. His eyes were closed again, brows furrowed, his hands clenched into fists down at his sides. The rise and fall of his chest matched her own. The bright white of his tattered shirt shone next to his dark skin and trousers.

“Corvindale,” she said, and then, holding her breath, sat down on the arm of his chair again.

“Use them,” he said, and she knew he meant the rubies.

“If you…need.”

Heart in her throat, she swallowed hard and offered him her wrist.

At first, she thought he would refuse again, but then he grasped her with surprisingly strong fingers. A bolt of fear shot through her and then, as he lifted her wrist to his mouth, she saw his fangs clearly for the first time.

She closed her eyes as she felt his breath on her flesh, and then, to her shock and surprise…not the bite of pain, but the brush of lips. Soft, moist, followed by the gentle touch of his tongue.

Maia shuddered as warmth blossomed through her, her skin prickling at the sensation. Her heartbeat seemed to have changed, and it thrummed in her ears, reverberating through her entire being. She hardly realized what she was doing as her free hand moved around to the back of the chair, propping herself up just next to his hair. He slid his lips gently along the inside of her wrist and then paused, suddenly looking up at her.

His eyes were clearly illuminated and the expression there was so dark and hungry, yet filled with loathing, that she jolted.

“I don't…want to…do this,” he breathed over her dampskin, and then suddenly he went rigid and the points of his teeth were there.

The slide of his fangs into the tender part of her wrist brought a surge of pleasure and pain. He made a low keening sound like a wild animal being freed—or tortured—and Maia felt the burst of blood as it flooded from her veins. He
vibrated against her as if something suddenly released from deep inside him.

His mouth was warm, covering her, and his fingers tight on her wrist as if to keep it in place. The heat flowed out of her, leaving her light-headed and aware of every movement of his mouth and tongue as he sucked, licked, sucked…drawing from her in a base, undulating rhythm.

She looked down, watching in fascination as his dark head bent over her white arm. She smelled the blood, heard the soft whistling as he fed, the quiet gulps as he drank. And as life drained from her, it was replaced by rolling heat, building and surging as if her veins sang.

Maia's fingers filtered into his dark hair, finding it warm and soft, damp from the water, and she sagged against him. Her breasts felt tight and sensitive and she realized she was breathing in little gasps with her lips parted. There was something more…she needed something more.

He shifted on the chair, suddenly releasing his fangs from her arm and then slipping his warm tongue over the wounds in sensual little circles. She sighed and arched, a painful little tingle of pleasure starting deep inside her belly and moving down.

His hand slid up behind her neck and grasped her skull as he pulled her down onto his lap. She closed her eyes, her hands planted on the solid planes of his bare shoulders and then she jolted when he bit into the soft part of her shoulder.

Maia cried out in surprise and pain, then arched toward him as hot blood surged from that delicate skin into his mouth. His tongue slid, flat and sleek, over her shoulder, then retreated as he drew rhythmically from her. Strong hands held her immobile, close, and she felt his body tight and hard against hers, lurching a little with the effort.

His big hands cupped her, his mouth took, the heat from his body burned into her hands and through her clothing.

Maia's world spiraled into a red blaze that was nothing like her dreams, but just as sensual and compelling. Blood coursed through her veins and she felt it swelling and surging, pouring forth. She couldn't catch her breath. Everything became
him.

She wanted
him.

Then all at once, he froze. Some guttural curse erupted from his throat as he whipped his face from her shoulder, his fingers tight as he shoved her back, his movements violent and sharp, his breathing loud and labored in the room.

“You blasted fool,” he snapped, pushing her from his lap as if she were an unwanted cat. His eyes blazed like coals and his lips were full and slick, the very tip of a fang caught against one.

Maia, startled from the lull, stumbled as she tried to catch her balance. A hand whipped out and grabbed her arm just in time, but with the force of it, she knocked into the table and tipped it over. Her knees buckled and she sagged in his grip, weak and confused, her eyes rolling back into her head.

“Maia,” he said, urgent now, furious. “Look at me, blast it.”

She opened her eyes with great effort and tried to focus on the dark figure looming over her.

“Damned bones of Satan, I told you to use the damned rubies.” He was fairly shouting, yet his hands were gentle as he eased her into the chair he had just vacated. “Why didn't you use the rubies?”

She noted vaguely that he seemed to have fully recovered, although when he bumped gracelessly against her chair and nearly fell on top of her, she was forced to revise that conclusion.

Other than that, she could hardly capture her whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The fluttering heat still swirled in her belly and she felt the slow ooze of blood from her shoulder. Warm. The wound on her wrist seemed to have stopped; all that was left were four dainty red marks.

She forced herself to focus now, and she let her head tilt against the back of the chair, looking up at him. He leaned over her, bracing himself with a hand on each side, his muscular arms bracketing her in.

“Maia,” he said, a bit more gently now—which was to say, at a lower volume, though no less tense—and there was an odd note in his tone. “You…” His voice trailed off and their eyes locked.

Everything stopped. Maia could hardly draw a breath.

Inside, everything exploded into hot fluttering. “Are you going to kiss me now?” she whispered.

His lips formed a silent
“Can't. No.”

But then he did.

She met his mouth as it crashed down on hers, hungry and warm with the residual of her own rich blood. His lips were hard and demanding, forcing her mouth open as he thrust his tongue deep. A powerful thigh wedged into the seat next to her and Maia found that she couldn't move; she was pinned down into the chair by his hands and mouth, his dark, powerful body rising over her.

Grasping at the tails of his shirt, she pulled, tugging him closer, her hands sliding over the planes of his chest. His muscles shifted and trembled beneath her palms, the hair soft and prickly, skin hot and smooth.

At last, at last
…was all she could think.

He had her face cupped in his big hands, fingers curling behind, thumbs pressing into her jaw as he drank from her
mouth now, then pulled away with a soft, deep groan to cover the wound on her shoulder again.

This time, he didn't penetrate, but instead, slicked his tongue over the curve of her shoulder, down into the little soft hollow of skin. Maia shivered and tried to shrug him away, for the sensation was intense, but he delved deeper, his tongue dipping and sliding, sipping from the last bit of her blood, his lashes tickling her neck. She felt her pulse coursing against his mouth, pounding against his lips, her heartbeat matching his as her hands found it through his chest.

“Please,” she whispered, not quite certain what she needed, rolling her head against the back of the chair as she tried to find it, shifting her hips. She was hot and damp every where, tight and tingling and she wanted his hands and mouth in places they had no business going.

All at once, he went still and then pulled away. Before she could even gasp in surprise or disappointment, he clapped a hand over her mouth. His chest moved rapidly as he cocked his head and sniffed the air.

“Satan's bones,” he muttered and vaulted off the chair, half stumbling yet silent. He yanked her up with him, his hand still over her mouth, his eyes suddenly blazing darkly into hers. “Don't make a sound. Don't say a word. Don't argue,” he hissed into her face.