Maia would be proud. Or…perhaps not, if she knew it was Dewhurst and not Harrington with whom she was being coy.
“What is it that you thought might happen, walking in the moonlight with me?” he asked. His voice was very near her ear, smooth and low, its very timbre somehow discernable despite the dull roar of music, rushing water, and revelry around them. “Perhaps the experience of your first kiss?”
“Oh,” she said, her breath gone again at the dark light in his eyes. Yet, she managed to say, “I’ve already experienced my first kiss.”
Those glittering eyes narrowed with pleasure and he whispered, “I’m rather pleased to hear you say that. Now, let us see about making you forget it.”
He moved, his mouth covering hers as the wall reared up behind her. He eased—pushed—her back against it, his somehow gloveless hands settling: one, warm, to cup the back of her head, and the other sliding around her waist.
Angelica couldn’t have been prepared for the rush of heat and pleasure from the touch of his lips. Neither tentative nor rapacious, they fit to hers deliberately, without apology— molding and tasting, coaxing…demanding hers to respond. And she did, following his lead, aware of the bare touch of his fingers on the underside of her jaw, of the warm mouth delicious over hers and the heat of his body pressing her into the wall.
An explosion of pleasure rushed through her—warm and bold, tingling low in her belly and down…farther. Angelica needed to breathe but she forgot how, sinking into the sleek, sensual rhythm of mouth sliding against mouth.
His tongue surprised her, slipping briefly along the half-part of her lips in a heated little tease, and then his mouth crushed over hers again as his arm tightened around her waist. Voss’s breath buffeted warm against her skin as he shifted away, coming low and unsteady. Along her cheek he smoothed his lips, nibbling, pressing gentle kisses that left tingles in their wake.
She’d tilted her head back, unable to hold it up any longer, and the fountain of hair at the back of her head was smashed against the wall, the pins driving into her scalp. His hands drew her closer, his face buried near her ear, his lips moving along her hairline and down to the curve of her neck.
Angelica gasped and trembled; she was sensitive and a bit ticklish there, and the light movements of his nose and mouth buried in her neck’s crook made her want to squirm away at the same time as press him closer. She wanted him to kiss and nibble, to taste as he’d done her mouth—not to featherlightly touch, and she grabbed onto his cloak, pulling him closer, only half aware of what she was doing. She wanted more, something more.
“Voss,” she whispered to the ceiling, planting her hands on his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric, not sure what she was asking for. But she needed something to release the tightening inside her.
She became vaguely aware of the activity beyond the curtain of vines behind him, and that the music seemed to have started again. Or perhaps it was that the fountain had been turned off or had run out of water, and now the sounds of the jaunty three-step dance tune more easily reached her ears.
The dull roar of people laughing and talking filled the air, filtering through the music as the two of them stood in the dark corner. Her hands settled on his chest, his covering her upper arms, something stretching and shimmering between them.
Voss drew in a rough breath and pulled away. “Thank the fates,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Releasing Angelica, he fought to steady his voice, to keep himself from sounding breathless. And to keep his damned fangs from showing. God and Luce.
He wasn’t certain whom to call on for assistance, and in response, the Mark on his shoulder twinged with pain.
Good. Pain. Distraction.
His incisors retracted and he drew in a breath that sounded embarrassingly ragged.
“For what?” Angelica’s eyes were glazed and her swollen, crinkled lips parted. She’d sagged against him and he was certain she had no idea how lazy and beckoning she sounded.
With one side of the gown pushed half off her shoulder and her head collapsed back against the wall, she looked as if she’d been ravaged. He wondered what had kept him from doing just that.
One moment, he was ready to drag the glove from her arm and sink his teeth in—or, hell, right into her bared shoulder, in that soft hollow above her collarbone. Her sweet, ivory skin had been there, beneath his mouth, smooth and warm, sweet and salty against his tongue, her pulse racing madly against his lips…and the next moment, he was pulling away, setting her back from him.
Just as well he hadn’t. This wasn’t the place. She’d scream, there’d be a mess, he’d be found out.
The fact that Corvindale would not be amused was the least of the considerations. Dimitri could sleep on a wooden stake for all Voss cared.
It took Voss a moment to realize that Angelica was waiting for him to explain, looking up at him with shadowed, bedroom eyes. A delicious expanse of creamy bosom and throat was exposed by the off-kilter V of her Greek gown. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on everything else around them: the scent of gardenias attached to the hanging vines, the nearby roar of laughter and the spritely tune from the string quintet. The painful ache at the back of his shoulder and the dull throb of his cock. The pressure of his insistent fangs.
Everything but her.
He tried not to breathe too deeply, not to look at the smooth white skin in front of him. He fought to block out the lingering scent of blood—not hers, but it didn’t matter—and to keep his eyes from glowing. Too much.
“That bloody squeaking chair,” he said, having collected himself. And he stepped back.
She opened her eyes fully and looked at him. “Pardon me?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
He resisted the urge to reach over and adjust the shoulder of her gown. “One of the musicians is sitting in a chair that squeaks. I think it’s the violist, for his movement seems to match the squeak.” That, in part, had been what had dragged him from the depths of red heat and need. That incessant squeaking.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she told him, and cocked her head as if to listen.
He managed a bemused smile. “Most people don’t. It’s an affliction of mine. One of many, in fact.” He couldn’t wait to introduce her to some of the others. Voss held his smile in check.
“Indeed?” she replied, and the look she gave him—an unlikely combination of innocence and sass—made him want to grab her again.
But before he could respond, she said something that turned his body to ice. “Your eyes,” she said, looking at him closely.
“They were almost glowing, a moment ago. It must be a trick of the light, because his were, too.”
He forgot to be reticent and polite. “What? His?”
She shrank back a bit, but not as much as she could have. “The man from outside. His eyes looked like they were glowing or burning. It must have been the moon—”
A rush of comprehension blasted through him and he grabbed her by the arms. Satan’s black soul. “What did he say to you? You said he asked about your brother.”
Instinctively Voss turned, reversing their positions so he could see beyond the hanging vines. People were dancing, talking, laughing. The damned chair was still squeaking, the pianist fumbled a note.… “What exactly did he do to you?” he demanded as he scanned the room, looking for anything or anyone that upset his instincts.
A vampire had no way to sense or otherwise identify the presence of another vampire unless one came face-to-face with him, and even then, it was more of a feeling. Even among the Dracule, they couldn’t always identify each other merely by sight.
There were ways, of course…subtle comments that might be made, or a certain way of looking at one to test the waters, so to speak. It was almost like being able to tell when a man preferred another man in his bed, instead of the sweet bundle of female curves.