Home > The Bitten (Vampire Huntress Legend #4)(20)

The Bitten (Vampire Huntress Legend #4)(20)
Author: L.A. Banks

He could already taste the salt of her tears in his mouth, smell every bead of sweat that had exited her pores as her dampened body tossed on her sheets. And she was so wet, and so ready... his hands began to tremble, he needed to touch her so badly.

The moment he'd fully entered the turn, the full impact of what it meant to be a vampire became an unforgettable, defining moment that dragged every vice, secretly harbored desire, and lust to the surface, along with the insatiable need to feed. The vibration within Damali rippled through him like an electric current, bonding them regardless of the barriers. He now understood, even if it was for a moment - she was his turn, and would home to him, also sadly understanding the rush that turning a human produced in his kind. What had he done?

Carlos pulled in a steady breath, willing his pulse to slow to a near halt. He had to. Going into her mind now to talk her down was definitely impossible. She was too strong, wasn't a second-level, nor a mere human. That would have been easy. But this was master to council, and there was nothing in his line's knowledge base to deal with that. There had never been, to his knowledge, a topside female master to connect with a male of the species at council level. Thus, two senior levels had never been forced to separate like this - ever. Who would be a worthy enough adversary to make them do such a thing, if one had been made? And if Damali seized upon his mind and locked it, come nightfall, he'd be over there taking a bullet. He was nearly ready to chance the sun, as it was. Not to mention, that was the last thing she needed. This was best. If they locked, he told himself firmly, he'd telepathically siphon her for sure. Her system couldn't take another nick. But when her palm slid down her stomach, he shivered.

For a long while he just sat there with his head leaned against the marble post, a thousand thoughts feeding his despair, her insistent but confused calls making him want to jump out of his skin. Oh, baby... just stop struggling with this thing. No, I can't come to you. It's almost daybreak.

Seconds elongated to minutes. Whatever Neteru was still left within her sliced through the approaching dawn and held him hostage. "Damali, cut it out..." Carlos murmured, as her thoughts gripped his in a mental vise, nearly strangling him with desire.

She'd broadcasted her intense call on an open channel that static-charged the air around him. He tried his best to put a privacy seal around it - all they needed was for council or the remaining topside masters to hear her... and Marlene and Father Pat!

Carlos locked in on the register of her voice and put a black box around it, but even holding it at mental length from him was nearly impossible. The transmission was so hot, coming to him as though broadband video images, he could only hope that the fact that she was still the Neteru would mute some of it to anyone but him. Then her complete thoughts broke through the compound barrier, adding the element of touch to the sound of her voice. The Guardians had left a hole in their seal!

Carlos groaned. "No, no, no - how could y'all forget to mentally block her, too?" They had sealed in her physical presence, not her telepathy... had sealed out both of his methods of coming to her, but had left the door wide open for her to mentally escape! He had told them, shown them, that she was as much a vampire as he was, in this fluctuation state. But they were still treating her like a human, only physically barring the windows and doors! That would never be enough to contain her.

The moment he felt her hands slide down his chest, he opened his eyes, trying to break the mental connection. There was no way this could end well, and she had no concept of the torture she was about to trap them within if she started something that couldn't be finished. "Stop," he said in a forceful whisper. "I'm not playing, D. I can't bite you to take you over the edge."

In his mind he saw her tremble, then felt a hot rake score his shoulder and collarbone as her cheek grazed his skin hard and her lush mouth pulled the lobe of his ear between her lips. "For real... stop," he murmured, his voice catching in his throat as his eyes slowly closed. The nip at the vein in his wrist did it, and when her tongue trailed up his forearm to the inside of his elbow, completing the sensual sweep with her deep, wet kiss at that sensitive pulse point, his shudder connected to the contraction she'd sent through his groin. He soon felt himself sliding down the marble post to lie on his back, his chin tipped toward the ceiling as her suckles intensified. "I mean it, baby. Stop."

Oh... no... she was rewiring him, placing a physical mark... just like a master, doing to him what he'd done to her. Everywhere she kissed up his forearm he'd felt down the length of his shaft. His hand balled into a fist as she nursed and licked the skin inside the bend of his arm, and against his will, he felt his h*ps begin to move to her rhythm, the agony concentrating as though she had the head of him in her mouth. He was connecting with air, nothingness, yet needing to be inside her. He could mentally see her pelvis working against the tangled knot of sheets on her bed, could feel the tension in her building and demanding an answer. But there was no way to reach her. A groan traveled through him... she had no idea what she was doing to him.

Suddenly her slick, scorching heat sheathed him and the sensation was totally unexpected. Intense pleasure made him cry out and hold himself. The pressure that lodged in his shaft throbbed so badly tears came to his eyes. Pain collided with fleeting gratification, making him sweat. Her voice escalated an octave, driving him to the brink of his sanity.

Knowing that the rough sensation his palm offered compared to her was futile, only made matters worse, but didn't stop his frenzied strokes that now matched her movements. Why did she start what couldn't be finished? His touch soon became her wetness, and then evaporated to once again only be his dry palm. The barrier was maddening. He dropped his hand away, hoping that might ease the torture. But the instant vacancy of warmth, the lack of sensation, was so visceral that it almost made him sit up. He covered the central ache like a wound, applied pressure to staunch the throb, and just held it, trying to will away the pulse that was wed to her insistent thrusts.

Trapped without an option, he was breathing through his mouth, hyperventilating like her with ragged inhales and exhales, and he gripped the mattress, his nails ripping through satin sheets and ticking, exposing stuffing as he arched hard. He needed her skin against his, instant friction to meet the burn. He needed her in his arms beneath him. Every pulse point he owned was lit on fire for her.

Sweat soaked him as his stomach, his thighs, his bu**ocks, and back muscles clenched and released to the pace she set. "Baby, stop... please," he said out loud in a pained rush through his fangs. When she arched again the back of his head dug into the pillows. But as long as she moved, he couldn't stop lifting his h*ps for her, couldn't stop the hard stroke of his hand that again felt just like her, couldn't catch his breath, much less form the words to break the connection that would haunt them both for hours.

   
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