Blood Red. Sharon Page
He had never felt so damned vulnerable.
If he were to die, he wished he could have buried himself in her. Wished to heaven he could have fucked her. In his dreams, she’d given him the promise of dark erotic depths in her soul. He wanted the chance to unlock them.
Numbness spread over Bastien but fire flamed where her fingers touched him. Her gaze locked with his as she brushed back his hair and exposed his neck.
Althea’s fingers shook as she flicked Bastien’s long hair back from his muscled neck. In the lamplight, the thick, silky strands glowed as golden as the collar she’d laid at the base of his throat.
A blush beat in her cheeks, in rhythm with her heartbeat. A heartbeat that hammered as loud as a war drum. That thundered like bolting horses.
Shivers of desire raced down her spine at the touch of her gloved fingers to his cool, perfect skin.
Only an innocent woman must place the collar around a male vampire’s neck. Which made capturing a female vampire even more difficult, as finding a virgin male—
“Hurry up, lass.”
“Jesus, he’s as hard as a bloody iron bar.” Mick O’Leary’s coarse comment rang in her ears. In front of Father, O’Leary, and the workmen, she struggled not to look down at Bastien’s erection. But the image remained from moments ago, seared in her mind.
Of course it looked just as it did in her dreams. Not an exact match for Yannick’s, just as in her dream. Erect, it curved like a bow, the heavy head hanging against his rippled abdomen. It looked almost weaponlike—dangerous and rampant and lusty. His skin was pale, his cock paler still, but blushing pink at the straining head.
She mustn’t look.
Wetness gathered between her thighs. Her drawers soaked through, and the lace-trimmed slit became sticky.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father drape a cloth over Bastien’s prominent erection. Sparing her the shocking sight.
Yet last night she had run her clasped hand along the length of that cock and squeezed the head until Bastien had begged beside her ear. Until he’d cried out her name and—
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Yes, she’d dreamed of Bastien, but she’d been intimate for real with Yannick. Closing her eyes, Althea quivered, remembering Yannick’s tongue circling her…her most sensitive place. His tongue filling her bottom. Plunging. His mouth on hers, on her breasts. The way he’d looked when he smiled up from between her thighs.
Stop!
Throat tight, she leaned right down and pushed the collar into place, beneath Bastien’s Adam’s apple. It fit so tightly she couldn’t make the clasp meet. She must bring the two ends together but they fell short.
She pulled tighter.
Had his eyes moved?
Her breasts brushed his chest as she bent as close as she could. As she balanced on tiptoes to lean over more, her tingling nipples pushed against her snug bodice as though straining to reach him. She bit back a moan just in time.
“What’s wrong, lass?” asked Father.
The ancient collar, the only one—or rather one of the only two—in the world, was too small. But she would be damned if she would admit in front of Mick O’Leary that she couldn’t even do such a simple task.
Or would the collar not close because she was no longer innocent? Her maidenhead was still intact, but she hardly felt innocent now.
It unnerved to have his eyes open and watching, sightless though they might be. Lifting one hand from the collar, Althea stroked her fingertips over his eyelids and closed them. The way one did with the dead.
But he wasn’t dead and her body knew it. She throbbed now, between her legs. She ached to bend down and take his mouth with hers in one of the delicious, wide-open, hungry, devouring kisses from her dreams.
Shame burned through her.
How could she want such a thing with him after what she’d done with Yannick? Yannick might come to her tonight—
But, heaven help her, she flamed with need and desire now.
Trembling, she tugged hard on the collar’s ends. Warm now in her hands, the metal stretched as if by magic. The collar snapped into place. The jagged ends joined with a click and a surge of power that jarred her wrists and racked her shoulders.
She had to close her eyes again because looking at Bastien’s beautiful face made her fear she might kiss him. He was a handsome prince captured by a magic spell and she was about to awaken him.
He truly was handsome, she mused. Long golden hair swirled to his shoulders. His brows matched, golden too, straight but slanted upward at their ends. Unlike Yannick, his lashes were fair. Thick with a distinct curl, they lay along sculpted cheeks. A full mouth, softly curved. Would it taste of warmth and man and sin as it did in her dreams?
What was she becoming?
A moral woman couldn’t want two men. A good woman mustn’t love more than one. She couldn’t—couldn’t—let herself feel this desire for Sebastien de Wynter.
“Good job, lass,” came Father’s cheerful voice by her ear. Althea’s heart jolted at his praising tone. At the word good. Guiltily, she stepped back without a word and wrapped her arms around her chest as Father and the two workmen drew a shroud over Bastien’s naked body.
“Now, we’d best take this one back,” Father instructed, “and find the other.”
“You can’t capture the earl, Father.” Althea glared as Father knelt before Yannick’s door and slid a thin metal pick into the keyhole.
“Course I can, pet. And I need both twins to slay Zayan.”
“He saved your life.” She tried to speak calmly, emotionlessly. She tried to hide the thunder of her heart.
“He’s a vampire.” Father wiggled the pick. “Blast this thing. Never works.”
Was that a creak? Althea spun on her heel. Expecting a maid on the stairs, or another guest, she hissed, “Stop. Stand up.”
He did and linked his arm in hers to make it appear they were merely strolling down the hall to their rooms. Several anguished heartbeats passed.
“No one there, love. You’re jumping at shadows.”
She held out her hand. “Let me try the pick, then. Your fingers—”
“Nothing wrong with my fingers.”
“I can see how swollen they are, Father. Please let me try.”
Father refused to admit that he suffered with rheumatic hands and legs, but he surrendered the tool. Althea rolled the knurled handle between her fingers. She slid her spectacles back up her nose as she shifted her skirts and knelt at the door. Another skill she must perfect. “All in the feel,” Father had said. She wriggled the tip forward and back, up and down, testing resistance.
At the satisfying click, she grinned. Success. Followed by a jolt of conscience. Was she truly going to snap the second ancient controlling collar on Yannick?
He knew what she was. He’d come to her bed knowing what she was. I am a vampire and you are a hunter of vampires.
She pushed open the door, slowly and quietly. “I believe we can trust the earl, Father.”
“I’ve never trusted a vampire, Althea.” Censure snapped in his tone. “And you’ve no cause to start.”
But she did.
Just as she stepped toward the threshold, Father grabbed her arm. “I’ll go first, love.”
Which gave her another moment to struggle with guilt and confusion. Yannick was a vampire. No doubt lying