Narcise realized that in the throes of passion and release, she hadn't finished tending to the bite. Her mouth dried in anticipation as she thought of touching his smooth, dark skin again, tasting the last bit of salt and musk mingling with the warm blood.
She lifted herself up onto an elbow, closer to him, and leaned over the rich, shining ooze. He stiffened, sensing her nearness, and she lightly closed her fingers over the squared-off angle of his shoulder as she bent to cover the bitemarks with her mouth. She'd barely begun to lick up the remains when suddenly he moved. His arm shifted, and at first she thought he was going to grab her closer to him again, but then she saw his face. Taut and dark and damp.
And then all at once, he erupted from the bed and lunged toward the table. Snatching up the basin, he vomited into it with great violence as he bent over the table. As she watched, curious and concerned, he lifted his face, swiping his mouth with a bare arm, then-all dark and naked and muscled-stalked over to the window and flung the contents out.
She winced, hoping there was no one below, and remained silent as he rinsed out the dish with water from its pitcher and dumped that below as well.
When he finished his own ablutions in the clean basin, Chas turned back to her. The expression on his face was carefully blank, but Narcise was distracted by the shiny spot on his throat she'd been tasting a moment earlier.
"Apparently I imbibed too heavily last night," he said coolly.
"You need give me no explanation for your illness," she replied, wondering why he'd felt the need to do so. And then she offered a defense of her own. "I hope you aren't under the impression that I enthralled you."
His mouth twisted as if he were either in pain or about to laugh, and he turned away, giving her another excellent view of his long, lean back and tight, square bu**ocks. His tousled hair nearly covered his nape, winging up every which way around his head and ears. She also noted what was, of course, absent from his muscular shoulders: the Mark of Lucifer.
"No, I am not under that impression," he replied. His attention slipped down and Narcise realized she was still completely naked, her chemise having gone the way of the bedcoverings during their lovemaking. She also realized, with a start, that for the first time in as long as she could remember, her body remained unmarked and smooth after coitus. No bites or cuts.
Chas was moving toward her, his eyes hot and dark. And determined. "But perhaps we should try it again," he said, "to be certain."
Narcise's heart thumped and she felt her body begin to tighten in anticipation. "Perhaps we should," she replied, wondering if this time she might banish the hollowness.
She saw that he was ready for her, his c**k lifting and filling, his eyes burning in their own mortal fashion. But she wasn't prepared for him to turn her around, facing away from him. He eased her toward the bed, gently but firmly, until the fronts of her thighs bumped it.
"My God," he said as he pulled the hair away from her shoulders and neck. His fingers moved lightly over the faint rise of Luce's Mark.
It grew from beneath her hair on the right side and spread down over the back of her shoulder to just past her scapula: curling, rootlike tendrils. Hers was softer in shape and lighter in color than others he'd seen, most of which looked like cracks in shattered glass.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, still gently tracing over the Mark. His voice in her ear brought deeper, gentler shivers down along the side of her neck.
"Not now," she told him, curving her hands up and around to touch the back of his head. His hair filtered around her fingers, warm and heavy, and as she combed through, a renewed wave of his scent released into the chamber.
"I've seen Dimitri's Mark," Chas commented, sliding his hands along the curves of her torso as he lined himself up behind her. "It's thick and black and raging, as if it were filled with evil."
Narcise might have responded if he hadn't slipped his hands around to cup her br**sts, if he hadn't begun to distract her thoughts by sliding his thumbs over her ni**les.
He nuzzled the side of her neck, his lips full and the tip of his tongue a gentle, moist tease that sent gentle, insistent shivers through her. Narcise realized vaguely that there would be no sharp pain, no quick slide of fangs, no release from her pounding veins, and it was odd...but pleasant.
But as he eased her onto the bed, reaching around to the front of her, fingers exploring the depths of her quim to make certain she was as ready for him as he seemed to be for her, she realized what he was keeping her-and her gaze-facing away from.
Narcise could have been offended, or annoyed, but when he slid deep into place, her body welcomed him and she gave no more thought to anything except that delicious rhythm of pleasure.
And when she arched and shuddered, slamming back against his hips, her hands braced on the bed, he gave a low groan in her ear and surged one last time. She felt him find release, and allowed her arms to give way so she tumbled face-first onto the mattress.
Chas followed her, disengaging, and sliding his hand along her spine and over her bottom as he sank down next to her.
Narcise lay there for a moment, and as the last vestiges of bliss eased, she thought about what had happened...on all fronts.
He'd kissed her. He'd started this whole incident by kissing her...so intimate, so long and thorough and absent of the need for control...and she'd let him. She'd let him do something only Giordan had done. Was it to banish her memories and grief over him?
But she didn't want to think about Giordan now. He had no place in her thoughts, in her life, in this place with Chas Woodmore.
Yet... "Are we going to London?" she asked. Hadn't Cezar mentioned that Giordan was in London? Her heart seized up and she blanked out her mind.
"As soon as I can arrange it," Chas replied.
She glanced at him and noted that his face seemed only a bit less tense than it had earlier-despite two bouts of coitus. "Is something wrong? Weren't you satisfied that I didn't enthrall you this last time?"
The chagrin-and perhaps shame-showed on his face. "I don't f**k vampires," he told her flatly. "Because I don't want to be controlled."
Narcise pulled away, fury bubbling inside her. It was a welcome emotion, replacing her other softer, confused one. "But apparently you do f**k vampires, Chas, because you just did. Twice."
"I know," he said, misery flashing in his face for a moment. Then his expression was cold and flat again. "It was...incredible. You're incredible, Narcise, and, damn me to hell, I can't stay away from you." He rose from the bed with sharp, short movements. "I can't keep my hands or thoughts off you."