I arched my back further, begging wordlessly for more. My reward was the tip of his tongue flicking, wetting my skin—just enough that the cool air of the room made me even more aware of how I yearned for his touch.
Johnny unbuttoned the top of my jeans.
He released the zipper with maddening slowness. I couldn’t wait for him to be inside of me. “Please.”
Deftly removing my shoes, he freed me of my jeans and panties at once, then glanced disapprovingly at my socks. I bit my lip, then shifted my legs until I could hook toes in the top of one sock and push it off, then repeated for the other.
Lowering my feet to the footrest on my barstool, I leaned forward, reaching for him. In a heartbeat, his shirt had joined my clothes on the floor. My eyes took in the tattoos, the lean hard chest, the contoured abs. I reached for his belt buckle.
“No,” he whispered, and shoved the plates and glasses away. He scooped me up and set me on the black granite countertop. It was cold and I couldn’t suppress a shiver.
With a masculine look of approval for my little shiver-shimmy, he stood there between my knees and unfastened his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and opened the zipper with excruciating slowness. I watched, waiting and ready. So ready. He pushed his jeans down and exposed his smooth, hard cock.
I whispered, “Give it to me.”
He didn’t. He pressed closer and kissed me, his usually soft lips now firm and urgent. His tongue searched for mine. He tasted like sunshine, like sweet heat, like sugar boiling into rich caramel.
My legs wrapped around him again, scooting me to the edge of the counter. “Just a taste,” he whispered, and dropped to his knees. He ran his tongue over me until my legs were quivering. I gasped as my every nerve jolted in response. It was so good, I was so close, but this wasn’t enough.
“Please, Johnny, I want you inside me.”
He stood, adjusting himself.
I couldn’t wait another second. Not even to be teased. I squeezed with my legs, trying to thrust him into me. But he stood firm, not letting me. He gave a very male little laugh. He was in control this time.
He rolled his hips, his cock rubbing up and down my wet labia.
Putting my hands far back, I stretched over the counter, arching up so his movements hit at the right angle, rubbing my clitoris in a way that felt so damned good. I sighed.
Then he pressed inside of me.
The breath I’d just squandered rushed back as I gasped. He grasped the counter on either side of my buttocks, and I squeezed my legs around him. He had an instant rhythm, thrusting hard and deep, retreating more slowly. I relished the retreat, but it was the harsh thrusts as his body pounded against me that rushed me to the edge.
I rose up and held his face in my hands, staring into his Wedjat-tattooed eyes. His gaze fell, and I followed it down, watching as our bodies joined, seeing how he filled me up.
That did it for me.
I fell back across the counter, arms spread wide, knocking the wine over. Cool liquid poured under me, spilled into my hair. One glass shattered on the floor but I didn’t care. Ecstasy roiled me. The wine made the granite slick, and Johnny used that to his advantage. Instead of holding the counter, he held my hips, pulled and pushed me, fucking me fast.
I couldn’t cry out, my voice was lost in the electric tremors shaking me. It was glorious. The theater could have fallen down around us and I wouldn’t have cared as long as he didn’t stop. I didn’t even care when Menessos flashed through my mind, when I felt him tap the hex and taste my pleasure with me. He savored my wanton disregard like a piece of candy on his tongue. He laughed and I felt the heat of his breath in my ear, felt the sting of his fangs in my neck, felt his fingers on my flesh.
Words whispered through my mind. Menessos’s voice. Latin, a chant ending with: in signum amoris. Those words left my own lips, in whispered sighs. “In signum amoris. In signum amoris. In signum amoris.”
Johnny growled as pleasure claimed him.
Together we rode the bliss to its end, panting, entwined, and gratefully ensnared in each other’s arms. It was beautiful.
Until I realized Johnny was kissing my sternum and whispering, “In signum amoris . . .”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Johnny carried me to the bed and we spooned until he was snoring deeply. Then I slipped away, hoping to sneak out. Yeah, finally a chance for cuddling after sex and I’m leaving.
He roused and sleepily asked, “Where you going?”
“To shower.” To keep it from being a lie, I went and showered. The wine had matted my hair anyway. By the time I’d finished, he was sleeping soundly, so I found the soft, white couture robe that Risqué had mentioned. I donned the robe and its matching slippers, intending to creep quietly from the room.
The industrial door and the noise beyond it was going to be a problem, but I had to find Menessos and confront him about this. Bastard. I put him in his place, and at his first chance, he’s harassing me in a new way.
Releasing all the bolts and then twisting the handle, I opened the door. I slithered out fast and shut it as quietly as possible.
I hurried down the stairs and to Menessos’s door where I knocked loudly. I was going to get an answer about what had just happened. Plus Xerxadrea’s warning about being Bindspoken gave me a second line of questioning to pursue.
No one answered the door. I tried the knob. Locked.
Stalking through the green room and into the backstage area, I found a Beholder washing out paintbrushes in a deep sink. His jeans, T-shirt, and work boots were spattered with dark paint. He was wiry, but his upper body bulged with lean muscles.
“You there.”
“Yeah?” He glanced up. His eyes were an unusual green-gray-brown, and conveyed a brokenness that made me uncomfortable, like the eyes of a pit fighting dog. When he recognized me he stood straighter and said, “Yes, my lady?”
“Do you know where Menessos is?”
He bowed his head. “Follow me.”
Tromping around the theater wet-headed and wearing nothing but a robe wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, but I couldn’t back out now. We passed into the theater. I saw Mountain carrying thick bolts of fabric on either shoulder, but the bulk of the crew was vampire. My guide gave a shrill whistle. Everyone stopped and came to a respectful attention.
Seeing that the nearest half-dozen of them were scenting me, I called out, “You may continue.” The painter led me through the house, past Seven at the podium—she gave me a distracted nod—and into the lobby. We went up one flight of now-cleaned and restored stairs to the hall. At the end of the hall to my right, two pale and lean vampires stood on either side of a cherry door with an elegant polished brass knob.
“The future Erus Veneficus would see the Master,” the Beholder said, and bowed, leaving me with the vampires. Both seemed formidable and fierce. One could have been a skinny Viking; the other could have been a Zulu warrior. If an expression other than “badass” happened to take either face, neither of them would have survived.
They waited expectantly, radiating the threat of being hungry and on edge. I had an urge to throw my arms up and shout “Boo!” but that probably would have gotten me killed.
“May I go in?”
“Always,” the Zulu said.
The Viking opened the door for me. He breathed in as I passed, scenting me like a ravenous waerewolf standing outside a steakhouse on Friday night.
Inside, the room was like a gentleman’s library, cherry paneling, dark leather-upholstered furniture. A full suit of armor stood in one corner, relics and weaponry of ages past in glass museum cases. A newer, gleaming dagger with wicked curves rested in a case upon the desk Menessos sat behind. He smiled up at me as smug as a Cheshire cat.
Stopping between the two guest chairs before his desk, I demanded, “What the hell did you do?”