In a rush of tenderness, he realized quite unexpectedly that his wife was beautiful in a way no other woman was. He couldn't describe it, but knew it to be true. Never had he seen such delicious surrender, or passion; and she was his. She was beyond ordinary—perhaps even far beyond ordinary.
"How I crave you," he gasped. The thought disturbed him at the same time it pleased him. She was his, this venal Van Helsing whom he had found in this brothel. He should be yelling at her right now.
Yelling, he took her, breaking through her virginity in one hard thrust.
"You're mine, Jane. Mine!"
Jane screamed too, causing him to halt. Using all his self-discipline, Asher forced himself to hold still inside her. He wasn't certain he could do it, since his tiny wife was so tight and hot; he felt like he was going up in flames. Staring down at her upturned face, Asher tried not to move, but his every instinct cried out for continued plundering. Jane was so tight, so wet, and for the first time in an age, everything felt… right. To be inside her now was like coming home to a sunlit meadow after a winter of icy despair.
"Shh. It will be fine in a few moments," he consoled, kissing her tenderly. She kissed him back, her tongue dancing with his in the most carnal experience he'd ever encountered.
The kiss grew, became hungrier as he caught the scent of her virgin's blood. His fangs extended, Asher began kissing her magnificent neck, admiring its slender beauty, its sweet, spicy taste. The pulse beating rapidly there almost drove him mad.
Jane felt a small prick, and she pushed her husband away from her neck. In spite of the torrid heat inside her, and despite the voice crying in her head for total surrender, her breeding had come to the fore.
"No biting," she managed to say, her voice coming out in a soft pant.
Asher grinned wickedly. "Come now, Jane, my bark is much worse than my bite."
Again, she shook her head. "No biting allowed." Then she moaned as Asher thrust inside her. Slowly at first—then his long, hard strokes robbed her of breath.
Suddenly he stopped. In a lightning-quick move, he went from lying atop Jane to kneeling between her legs. There he lowered his head and partook, laving and tonguing Jane until she screamed for mercy. Tiny pinpricks of white light flashed through her head, erupting into a starburst of purple. She was flying high and free like a winged bird, higher and higher than was even possible. She was soaring amongst the stars, floating there, going where eagles dared. She suddenly felt a great wetness between her legs, and a lethargy that felt quite wonderful.
Before his wife could catch her breath, Asher rose and pushed himself inside her, her muscles still clenching from her climax. How he wanted to crow to all the world! He growled instead, overtaken by lust.
Thrusting harder and harder, he made her body come alive. Straining and kissing her, he pushed deep, loving the way she fit around him. He heard her scream, and he smiled. She had screamed loud enough to wake the dead this time, and her third earthshaking climax had her bucking and pitching beneath him.
Thrusting violently, he felt the headboard move as he came. His back arched, his head thrown back, his eyelids closed tight in the throes of ecstasy, and he cried out her name. Then he collapsed at Jane's side, one arm thrown over his head, his entire body sluggish.
Glancing over at him, Jane decided her husband looked like the cat who ate the canary. He was quite beautiful, this husband of hers. "I'm so glad you don't want me," she teased impishly.
Feeling her eyes upon him, Asher opened his own. He knew he should say something. They had just made glorious bed-burning love. And her blood tasted of… je ne sais quoi—an undefinable something that he had never tasted before. It was almost frightening to think that his wife tasted so good. To think that a Van Helsing could make his body sing was insane.
Asher grimaced. The Fates had dealt him a cruel, cruel blow. His sparrow of a wife was really an exotic bird in disguise.
Narrowing his eyes again, he rose from the bed, turning his back on her. She deserved a scolding, not praise. "I want you to tell me the truth this time. What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"
With the aftereffects of the drugs and the lovemaking, Jane had been feeling happy, sated, befuddled and bemused. She wanted poetic words and sweet kisses; yet her bad luck of the night had resumed. Her husband was scolding her. The cheek of the man! Yet, what nice cheeks they were, she thought as she stared at the firm contours of his buttocks outlined by his skintight black breeches. "Wh-what?" she finally managed to stammer.
Throwing her his cloak, he stated coldly, "Put that on. Now, what are you doing here?"
Ignoring the cloak and her nudity, Jane stood and shoved her finger into his chest. Asher's words were stripping away her love-induced, drug-induced haze, and sobriety came hard upon her. A kaleidoscope of images flowed through her mind: Asher and feathers and cockatoos and cocks.
"You question me? After…" Jane fell short, her quiet well of content poisoned by anger. She tried again: "You come here to this den of sin after ignoring me on our wedding night and all the nights after. You question me, when I find that you frequent this…" She hesitated, enraged, glancing around at the hideous decor of the bedchamber. "This place! Really, Asher, Madame Saunders has such abysmal taste. How can you even come here when the colors are so garish? You, who are such a stickler for refinement!" Jane finished hotly, staring at him scornfully.
"It is quite beneath your dignity to flee to this perverse place. Even if the women do dress up as your bird of choice to feast upon. It is so… weak."
"Don't call me chicken for coming to Madame Saunders's. And don't try and turn this around on me," Asher warned, his eyes an icy blue. He shoved her finger away.
"You naughty old Nosferatu, you fornicating fiend, you rutting old roue!" Jane accused.
Asher glared at her. "I am not an old roue!" He hated the image that came to mind: an older man of the ton, gouty knees, a corseted waist, thinning hair, trying desperately to seduce the young and beautiful. Why, he wasn't even four hundred years old yet.
"Ha! You are older than the oldest old roue in London," she snapped.
Asher opened his mouth to argue, but she spoke the truth.
"You are a libertine. A whoremonger who has a fetish for birds!" Jane yelled. Then she added curtly, "Particularly soiled doves."
"I am a vampire with needs," he shouted back.
"Which I would be more than happy to attend," Jane responded. Then she wished she had bitten her tongue before revealing how much she longed to be his wife in every sense of the word.
Asher's eyes took on a gleam as he recalled her enthusiastic response, screaming his name as she climaxed, and the sweet-tart taste of her blood. His plan had been to ignore his unwanted wife. But plans could change. A master vampire was nothing if not mutable. "Fine," he said.
"Fine what?" Jane asked warily.
"You can attend my needs," he stated offhandedly, not wanting her to see that the fires of desire were stirring once more to life in him. He glanced at the heinous decor of the bedchamber. Jane was right; the room was garish beyond belief. Odd, that he had never noticed before. He would need to speak to Madame Saunders about redecorating. That is, if he ever decided to return. He also would give notice to his mistresses.
"No more highfliers?" Jane asked hopefully.
Asher cocked a brow. "Not as long as you attend my needs as well as you have tonight." Yes, he would definitely give notice to his mistresses tomorrow. He would see to it that his man of affairs got them nice sets of diamonds as a parting gift. Perhaps Jane would like a set of emeralds. They would go beautifully with her eyes. "I must admit you are quite spectacular. Beyond spectacular I guess."