Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

“Then you will take the word of a bloodsucker that vitessence runs through your veins, Princess. I will taste it on my tongue.”

Her smile was a flirt and a snarl. “Not before I taste your come on mine.”

He returned her smile and pressed on her head, watching her steadily as she spread her lips and vacuumed him into her humid heat. He managed—with effort—to keep his eyes glued to Shirian’s increasingly enthusiastic maneuverings instead of the hypnotic vision of Isabel Lanscourt. It was arousing to watch an unparalleled beauty suck his cock like a waif tasting strawberry soda through a straw for the first time. But Morshiel could have almost any sexual pleasure he desired. He had experienced almost every sexual pleasure imaginable. He’d grown as weary of his gluttony on sex as an obese man grows tired of the chains that tie him to food.

But this experience…this was singular.

His body shimmered with energy, the last stopping place of a conduit running from the earth’s mighty soul to the strange crystal obelisk that had erupted from nowhere after a minor earthquake several weeks ago. It traveled like a current from the crystal to Isabel’s body, to Shirian’s foot which touched Isabel. It ran like electricity from Shirian’s sucking, pistoning mouth, to his straining cock, up his spine and straight into Morshiel’s pulsing brain.

He would crush his clone, Blaise, with this newfound power.

Shirian strove to push her lips farther down the column of his cock, but her throat had taken on all the sensitivities of human flesh and refused him entry. She gagged and bobbed her head rapidly over the first half of his length, as though in apology for her shortcoming.

Morshiel tightened his hold on the thick, lustrous hair at her nape.

“Come now. My most hideous Scourge revenant, Roberto, gives head better than that. Egyptian princess,” he hissed scathingly. “Show me the filthy little whore who resides in your royal flesh.”

Her eyes flashed up at him defiantly. He chuckled when he saw her fury, knowing she would accept the dare because it was in her nature. He knew she was aroused, as well. He was typically so contained, so noble in his manner when he interacted with his servants. Each and every one of them loved it when they were chosen to give him pleasure, but few ever witnessed him acting without perfect manners.

If they did, it was the last thing they saw before Morshiel took off their head.

Shirian stilled her gag reflex this time and slid him into her throat, her nostrils flaring as she gasped for air. He moaned in pleasure as her throat tightened around his co

ckhead and energy poured up his spine and quickened his flesh.

“Yes. That’s how you please your master,” he muttered between clenched teeth before he began to erupt into her throat. He held her down on him, even when she balked and tried to eject his convulsing cock so that she could breathe. After an ecstatic moment, he released his grip, allowing her to jerk off him while she caught her breath.

Her head fell to his belly as she gasped wildly for air.

“You bloody bastard,” Shirian rasped after a moment. “I thought you prided yourself on being such a gentleman.”

He laughed, feeling wonderful. Better than he’d ever felt in his life. In fact, it was quite possible he’d never felt anything in his life until he’d experienced the soul-energy of the woman. “You don’t want a gentleman, ghost. If you do, better haunt my clone, not me.”

“Blaise is a beast,” Shirian replied. “Everyone says so. Lord Delraven is a glorious beast.”

Morshiel’s smile faded when Shirian mentioned his clone’s name in a tone of longing. He—Morshiel—who was so deserving of a title, had never been conferred that honor despite throwing away vast amounts of money on philanthropic efforts that might gain royal notice. Instead, it was his insufferable clone who had won the title centuries ago for saving that royal Italian bitch. Why did Blaise always garner all the attention?

“I am his twin in looks,” he told Shirian, made jealous by the gleam of longing in the beauty’s eyes. She studied him with a sharp gaze.

“Technically, yes. Your appearance is much more…urbane, shall we say? Why do you shave your head, when you could have Delraven’s equal in hair?”

He caressed his smooth skull and shrugged with forced casualness. “If your twin was also your enemy, would you not want to differentiate your appearance?”

It was his secret that his hair—when long—seemed to possess nerve-endings. Stroking it could send him to shivering in mindless pleasure. He did not relish the idea of another being potentially holding such control over him. He had grabbed his clone’s hair in battle many times, and was dismayed to realize Blaise didn’t seem to have the particular sensitivity.

In what other ways had Usan created Blaise and him differently? It made him uneasy to consider that question.

“What do you mean when you say Lord Delraven is a gentleman when it comes to this,” she dropped her gaze to his satiated cock significantly.

“Blaise is nauseatingly careful when he takes a lover. I hear from his one-time meals that he even refuses to fuck them, although he assures their pleasure, many times over. It’s ludicrous. He allows his lovers to live. You have never haunted Blaise while he feeds, apparently,” Morshiel said with a sneer.

“Not for lack of trying,” Shirian whispered.

Morshiel grunted in irritation, knowing what she meant. “Yes, Usan guards Sanctuary with powerful wards,” he said, referring to the Magian overlord who cared for Blaise like a favorite pet while he largely left Morshiel to suffer his fate. Sanctuary was Blaise’s protected territory, an inverted skyscraper that burrowed sixty stories beneath London’s busy streets.

How he despised his bloody clone for all the favoritism Usan showed him.

Hatred rose like a hissing snake rearing in his chest. To calm himself, Morshiel transferred his gaze to the miraculous sight of Isabel touching the magical crystal. It hadn’t taken him long to understand that he couldn’t touch the strange crystal himself. It hadn’t killed him to touch it, as it had the Scourge revenants—the creatures he’d made near-immortal over the centuries. He’d forced two revenants to touch it, and then watched dispassionately as they writhed in horror and putrid blisters rose and popped, tearing their skin to shreds. It had wounded his flesh for Morshiel to come into direct contact with the crystal, but he was more powerful than the Scourge, and he had survived.