Eternal Hunger

22

Alexander stood outside Sara’s bedroom door—the bedroom she’d moved all of her things into sometime after leaving the living room an hour ago.

The bedroom that was an entire floor away from his.

Pressing his head against the wood, he flared his nostrils and inhaled, splitting her scent into physical and emotional fragments. His mouth pulled into a frown. She was still awake, yes, but she was pissed off, distracted, turned on, jealous, and . . . very worried.

He lifted his hand to the wood and knocked, the heady anticipation of seeing her running wild through his veins. Christ. Why was he so taken with this woman, so driven to protect her and see her happy? What did he even know about her besides the story of that horrific accident that would’ve broken anyone else but had only made her stronger, more determined, living to heal the brother she loved before she even thought about healing herself? What did he know about her besides the fact that she was the kind of human who had helped drag a vampire animal inside her home and out of the sun when she could’ve easily kicked him aside?

Perhaps that was knowing enough.

He heard her footfalls coming toward him, scented her unease, and when she finally opened the door, he was prepared to give her the food he’d brought, ask if she needed anything else, and leave her to sleep. But then he saw her: barefoot, her dark hair, thick and soft, falling around her beautiful face, and wearing a white silk bathrobe that caressed her luscious frame as his own hands would if given the chance. She looked like a goddamn angel, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his head between her breasts and feel her wings close around him.

“It’s late.” She stood in the doorway, her blueberry eyes weary as she barred him entrance.

He stared at her, his covetous gaze unwavering. “Why aren’t you in bed, then?”

“Who says I wasn’t?” she returned softly.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“A little.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s probably because you moved out of my room.”

Her eyes flashed with sudden heat. “I never moved into your room.”

He shrugged. “Technicality.”

She paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping over him, resting on the large brown bag in his hand. “What do you have there?”

“Dinner.” He raised his brows suggestively. “Best Chinese in the city.”

“How would you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard about your eating habits, the lack of solid food.”

“Dillon talks too damn much,” he grumbled.

“It wasn’t Dillon,” she told him, her eyes revealing the sadness and frustration she wouldn’t say aloud.

Alexander leaned against the doorjamb, hovering just inches from her, and inhaled deeply. “Let me in, Sara.”

Sara stared at him, her insides melting, not at the words he’d uttered, but at the reverent, vulnerable, teasingly pained way he’d uttered them. Perhaps both of them wished they could just walk away from the imaginary string that connected them, that demanded they remain close and pretend they were unaffected by each other, but that seemed an impossibility. Sara pushed away from the door and allowed him to enter. It seemed that no matter who was in the house, or what they claimed to be, she would still open her door and her heart to Alexander—just as she knew that he would not stop caring for her, protecting her or pursuing her.

She watched him as he crossed the room, carrying a small table under one arm as though it weighed less than a feather. He was so beautiful. The way he moved, those long, terrifying yet graceful strides, made the muscles around her heart contract.

“What’s all this?” she asked as he placed the table by the window, pulled two chairs to meet it, then began drawing out linens and silverware and a wineglass from the larger bag he had slung over his shoulder.

“You didn’t think I’d have you dining on the floor, did you?”

Her gaze moved with him, reveled in the peculiar sight of him—this branded, skull-shaved, six-foot-three linebacker of a vampire—fluffing out a snow-white tablecloth and waiting patiently for it to land on the glass tabletop. “Not the floor, but the bed would’ve been fine. I’m all good with the room service.”

He turned and flashed a predatory half smile. “Eating in bed shouldn’t involve food, woman.”

A searing wave of desire moved through Sara and her gaze ran the length of him, from black boots to black thermal, every inch of him blazing hard lines and thick muscle. It was juvenile, but she hated that another female had even gotten close to him tonight, much less healed him, and she knew that when this thing between them finally went south her feelings of possessiveness were going to cost her big-time. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine.” He continued to set the table.

“I’m kind of surprised Dillon didn’t rush in to help you—being your friend and all.”

“Dillon enjoys seeing me in pain.”

Sara had a feeling Dillon liked to see everyone in pain—physically and emotionally. “Well, it was a good thing Bronwyn was there.”

“Yes, she was very helpful.”

Sara frowned, and a muscle twitched near Alexander’s mouth as he placed a red cloth napkin across her stark white plate. “Your jealousy has a scent, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

He glanced up at her. “It’s exquisitely strong.”

“Is it now?” she tossed back. “Does it smell like kung pao chicken?”

He laughed—a deep, rich sound that played about Sara’s skin like a lover’s kiss.

“Listen,” she said with a frustrated sigh, walking over to the window. He was so near she could scent the warm blood spice of his skin. How, she wasn’t exactly sure, but her mouth ached, watered . . . “I’m not going to be that girl.”

“What girl is that?” he interrupted casually, following her every movement with his dark cherry gaze.

“Going after some other woman’s man. Acting like a jealous asshole. That’s not my style.”

Again, his mouth twitched with humor. “What is your style, Sara?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know; for starters, maybe going after someone who’s unattached ...”

He nodded. “Very wise.”

“. . . someone with a good soul, a good heart.”

“Well,” he said, reaching for her hand, drawing her to him. “That won’t do, as I believe I have neither.”

A flush of heat moved up Sara’s neck, sent her pulse racing as he pulled her closer, crushing her against his hard chest. His touch was electric; every time, a shock of sweet electricity went straight to her nerve endings and all she wanted to do was yank off her robe and feel his hands on her skin. But she attempted to remain sane. “My point is,” she uttered, gazing up at him, at his striking, fearsome face, “the whole true-mate thing—it seems inborn and unbreakable, and deeply a part of your culture. And, well”—she lifted one yielding brow—“she’s lovely.”

Alexander cupped her chin and forced her eyes to his. “Listen to me, Sara, for this is truth. Bronwyn is not for me.”

Between her legs, a muscle long forgotten began to tremble, to clench. “She thinks she—”

“No.” His eyes were like two garnets, blazing with heat.

She shook her head. “It’s really none of my business.”

“Sara.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip and she felt his cock stir hard and thick against her belly. “Please”—his voice was low and pained—“before I press you back against this window and take the meal that I desire . . . sit now. Eat.”

His words, a delicious threat, made Sara’s heart pound, and for a moment she didn’t move. She was starving, yes, but not for the food on the table. She wanted to remain where she was, protected and safe, the hard muscled planes of his chest pressed against her breasts and the strange and delicious, spicy blood scent of him filling her nostrils.

And she wanted him to take from her, whatever it was that would satiate his hunger . . .

“Come,” he uttered, husky and slow as he broke their connection and led her over to the table, releasing her into a chair. He took the one opposite and began opening containers of food and piling her plate three inches thick as though she were a lumberjack who hadn’t eaten in days.

Sara watched him, waiting for his eyes to meet hers and give her some clue as to how he was feeling. Was it the same as she was? Nervous and vulnerable, yet desperate to know how his naked skin would feel against hers.

But though his jaw pulsed and clenched, he remained focused on the task of getting her fed. He poured some wine, then grabbed a pair of chopsticks and ripped off the paper with a little too much force. His thick knuckles were white as his hands gripped the wooden chopsticks just as they’d gripped her waist only moments before, and with one crack, a lone chopstick jumped from his grasp and went flying across the room, hitting the wall with a dull click.

“Fucking human utensils ...” Alexander muttered before pitching the other wooden stick after it.

Sara bit her lip, trying to hold back laughter. “Uh, Alexander?”

He cursed again, his eyes narrowed on the wall. “What?”

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just use a fork.”

His gaze lifted then and she saw the beginnings of mirth in his eyes. She couldn’t help herself, she laughed, and in moments the ire in his expression died and he joined her, chuckling low and easy.

Fork in hand, Sara dug into the mound of food. After the first bite, she nodded enthusiastically. “This is good, very good. Spicy.”

“You like heat on your tongue, do you?”

“It can be intense sometimes,” she returned playfully, “but yes, I do. What about you? Like your blood spicy?”

His gaze moved over her face, then dropped to her neck. “I think I would enjoy it very much.”

Sara’s body responded instantly, heat and pressure building between her thighs. She crossed her legs, but that only made the sensation worse. She wondered what the night would bring if she could barely contain her desire through dinner. She forced a bit of chicken down her dry throat, then said, “Bronwyn said that your kind doesn’t crave human blood.”

Alexander sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his splendid chest. “Our kind craves every kind of blood.”

Sara frowned. “Then why would she say ...”

“In the credenti, the Eternal Breed is expected to resist what is not pure.”

“And human blood is—”

“Unclean, impure, powerless.”

“Wow. I suddenly feel the need to shower.”

Alexander laughed, an enchanting rumble of thunder that moved seductively down her neck and back. She shivered.

“What about you?” she asked, watching his expression carefully. “Do you think human blood is . . . dirty?”

“No, but then again, I like all things dirty.”

She laughed softly. “Have you ever had human blood?”

“I left the credenti a hundred years ago. To survive, I took food wherever and whenever I could get it.”

“What about now?”

“I believe I am more discriminating now.”

“So does that mean you haven’t drunk blood from a human lately?”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “What’s lately?”

She rolled her eyes, said impatiently, “Alexander.”

Grinning, he nodded toward her plate. “So that kung pao’s pretty good, eh?”

She cocked her head, playing along. “Best I’ve ever had. Sure you don’t want a bite?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What surface I get to eat it off of.”

Cheeky bastard. She eyed him. “Would you take blood from me? If I offered it?”

His eyes darkened, the brands on his cheeks too. “No.”

Her heart seized with his vehement tone. “Why not?”

He shook his head. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Because of my unclean blood?”

“No. Hell, no. I don’t believe in any of that horse-shit.”

“Then why? Are you afraid it would turn me?”

He gave no answer, but his gaze dropped to her neck.

Her meal completely forgotten, Sara pressed him for answers she wasn’t sure she desperately needed to have. “Would you be afraid to turn me into what you are?”

He shook his head. “Not possible.”

“But you said Tom was—”

He cut her off. “That’s different. He’s not a vampire. A human can never become a vampire. Vampires are born, not made. However, if a human drinks the blood of a vampire they can change into an Imiti.”

“What’s that?” Sara asked.

“Something that resembles a vampire—something that has lost all of its humanity—something corrupt. Not something to be loved.”

A slow, unsettling reality came over Sara in that moment. The desire, the need, the pull—it was all there between them, unstoppable and undeniable. And yet it meant nothing more than an acknowledged understanding. Desire, yes. Love and a future together, no. She put down her fork. “So this . . . you and me ...”

His gaze held hers. “Impossible.”

Her appetite died right there and her body went cold and numb. The impossibility of her and him was barely a shock and yet she felt bereft at hearing him concede to it. Angry as well. She’d let herself think there might be a way, a place for them to exist, to know each other better between two worlds. She pushed away from the table, stood and went over to the door.

Alexander watched her. “What are you doing?”

“Kicking you out.”

His eyes softened. “Sara ...”

She shook her head, hand on the doorknob. “No, there’s not going to be any of that. I heard what you said, and I know what you meant by it, so let’s just call it a day. I have enough impossibilities in my life right now. I don’t need another one.”

“Sara, come back to the table.”

“I won’t deny my attraction to you, Alexander. You know it. I know it. And sitting around here flirting and one-upping each other with witty sexual innuendo is fun and all, but it’s going to become real painful real soon.”

Sara never saw him move. It was like sensing wind before the gust hit, and in the space of a mere breath, he was standing before her, his eyes feral in their unquenched need. “It’s already pretty fucking painful.”

His arm went around her waist and he gathered her close, his head lowering, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was neither sweet nor soft. It was hard and urgent and hungry—just as he was, and Sara felt unable to resist him or her own curiosity, her own desperation to taste his mouth, his skin. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers gripping his hard, nearly shaved skull.

“You are mine,” he uttered, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, possessing her, lapping at her teeth, groaning as he found the wet heat inside. “An impossible future,” he uttered, pulling back just a breath. “But now—right now—I cannot deny what my unbeating heart desires.”

With his free hand, Alexander untied the knot of silk at her waist and dragged the robe from her shoulders and hips. “Hot skin,” he growled as the white silk landed in a pool around her feet. “Beautiful Sara.”

The cool air hitting her naked flesh warred with the hot touch of the vampire who held her so close. Yes, she could pretend as well as he could. She was his. For now she was his.

Alexander ground his erection against her belly and raked his fangs across her bottom lip. Yes, that was what she wanted. Draw blood. Taste.

The muscles between her thighs quivered at the thought, of the image in her mind—her blood on his tongue—and she reached down, gripped the edges of his shirt, and yanked the fabric over his head. The black thermal flew to the bed just as Sara’s gaze landed on Alexander’s chest. Wide shoulders and thick biceps gave way to yards of lean skin over waves of muscle. Her hands, her touch, began at his throat and drifted lazily downward before sneaking between their bodies. A low, fearsome growl erupted from Alexander’s throat as Sara’s hand closed around the heavy cock in his pants. Mine, she thought, feeling the pulse of his shaft against her palm. Mine. For now . . .

She squeezed him, and with her free hand fumbled with the zipper of his pants. Alexander sucked air between his teeth, pulled back, and stared down at her. “Careful now, woman.” His eyes blazed with lust and his fangs elongated before her eyes. “Release me or blood will be spilled.”

A warning.

He wanted to bite her.

Sara’s fist clenched tighter around his shaft, showing him how badly her cunt wanted to do the same.

“A dangerous game you play,” he hissed, his eyes turning black cherry. He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the bed, sat her down on the achingly soft bedspread. He lowered to his knees before her, his even gaze roaming her naked flesh, the trimmed curls between her thighs that glistened with moisture, her flat stomach rising and falling with each heavy, desperate breath, and her sensitive, distended nipples that ached to be suckled.

His fangs quivered. “I have a need to torture myself, can’t breathe without torturing myself.”

Her cunt ached, clenched with a need to be touched, to be filled. “This is torture? Touching me? Kissing me?”

He leaned toward her, his large hands encircling her waist, his mouth closing in on her left breast. “Sweet, painful, exquisite torture.” He latched on to one ridged nipple and suckled deep.

Sara arched her back, giving herself to him as a mother to her child, feeling the tips of his fangs scrape enticingly against the dusky circle surrounding her nipple. Wetness dripped from her core to her thighs and her breathing turned ragged and strained as the early pulls of orgasm hummed within her.

Alexander left one breast for another and fed deeply, his tongue flicking over the aching bud until Sara was panting, her brow glistening with sweat. “Please ...” she moaned. “I need you . . . Please, Alexander.”

“You never have to beg, Sara.” Alexander grabbed her ass, pulled her to the edge of the mattress and whispered, “Open for me.”

Splaying her thighs, Sara glanced down, her gaze foggy, dreamlike. She saw Alexander’s head poised before the entrance to her body and she saw his cock, jutting out from the confines of his pants. She licked her lips, wondering what he tasted like, wondering if she would ever get the chance to find out.

“Open yourself wider,” he uttered, his hands gripping her inner thighs now. “I want to see all of you . . . yes, every pink, swollen inch.”

“What are you doing?” She knew. Yes, she knew—hell, her body knew. She just wanted to hear him say it.

Alexander traced one long finger down her center, making her hips jerk. “Feeding from you in the only way I can.”

As he said the words, clear fluid leaked from Sara’s cunt and she moaned. Alexander saw it too. He lowered his head and lapped at the sweet moisture, groaned as it traveled down his throat. “Oh, sweet love. So hot, so wet. Your taste . . . It will haunt my days, stretch my cock at night.”

“Alexander, please ...”

“Yes,” he whispered, penetrating her with two thick fingers, “ending your torment will be my greatest pleasure.” His dark head disappeared between her thighs, and he licked at her flesh, flicked his tongue over her clitoris, grazed her swollen lips with his fangs. Just as he’d suckled at her breasts, Alexander milked her clit, gently and rhythmically. He slipped a third finger inside her and went deep, curving his fingers to hit the sweet, hidden spot of pleasure.

“Oh God. Alexander ...” Sara gasped, bracing her hands on the bed, and she thrust her hips up, forward, pressing herself tighter against his mouth. As he played her body, Sara’s mind cleared of all thoughts, leaving only sensitized, electrified skin and muscle.

Her legs began to shake, her thighs too, and she felt tears well at the corners of her eyes. He made her feel this way, only him, for however long it lasted, and she would take this memory with her into every night she was without him.

Heat and electricity surged within her and she bucked against his mouth, everything gone, nothing remembered—the only thing that focused her was climax. Her thrusts became wild, unchecked, and she gripped his head as he flicked her clit over and over with his hot tongue. And then she gasped, stiffened, the walls of her core clenching around his fingers, bathing his fingers as rocketing pleasure coursed through her.

“Yes . . . oh God, yes,” she cried out, riding the waves, riding his mouth, each electric current more intense than the last until finally the world slowed and stopped spinning, and her brain was cleared of the fog of passion and everything returned to the way it had been before.

They gripped each other at the same time, holding on tight as sex scented the room, as Sara caught her breath. She wanted him inside of her, but she didn’t want to let go of him either. She opened her eyes and saw the curve of his neck and the shoulder that only hours ago had been ripped into by a bullet. She stared at his skin, blinking to clear the remaining fog in her head as she noticed that the wound had opened again, just a tiny sliver. And it was leaking blood. She licked her lips, ran her fingers over the healed section of his injury.

He hissed.

“I wish I could’ve done this for you,” she said softly. “Healed you.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was everything.”

His hands went to her waist and he eased her back from him. The absence of his skin gave her a cold, lonely feeling that she despised, but the sweet sincerity in his merlot gaze cut her heart deep. “Please understand my meaning. Her power was nothing to me—meant nothing to me. You are the one I want.”

She believed him and knew that their impossibility plagued his heart as much as it did hers. But she couldn’t help herself, she wanted to give him something. She leaned down and kissed his wound.

Alexander froze, his eyes growing wider as he seemed to feel something. “What? What the hell was that?” He cursed, jerked away from her as though she’d burned him.

Sara’s heart started to pound, and she shook her head. “What’s wrong?” She’d never seen him look so panicked, not even in the credenti standing before his family. “What did I do?”

He turned his head, stared at the wound on his shoulder. “It opened—how is that possible?”

Sara fought for an answer as she wondered why this seemed so important to him. “Maybe when we were together, when you were—”

“No! Nothing should be able to open that wound after a veana has healed it.” His eyes flew to her face. “Did you get anything on your mouth?”

“What?”

“Blood?” he nearly shouted. “My blood—on your mouth? Did you ingest it?”

She shook her head, confused, troubled. “No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Be sure. What do you taste?”

“Nothing.”

The relief that spread over his face, the way his shoulders dropped with eased tension scared her, perhaps even hurt her a little. It was clear that he wanted no part of himself inside her . . .

He stood, grabbed for his shirt. “I have to go.”

“Why?” Sara asked him, then demanded, “Where?” Just moments ago, he’d given her the most perfect pleasure of her life, while taking nothing for himself. She didn’t understand that, didn’t understand him. She knew he was in need of release—for God’s sake, his cock was still stiff in his pants.

He pulled the thermal over his head. “I have business with the Order, then training.”

“Alexander—”

He stalked over to the door, looking like something a linebacker would fear, but Sara knew . . . she knew him, she knew the heart he swore he didn’t possess. His hand on the doorknob, he paused and muttered, “Shit.” His voice dropped, went as gentle as he could manage. “I apologize for my harshness, I—”

“It’s okay,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she meant it. After all, he wanted to run from her, escape the desire that rushed through him like a tidal wave, and yet it seemed he couldn’t stop himself from coming back for more.

“If I’ve finished before the sun is up, before you must leave for work, I will return—”

Neither could she. “Okay.”

“—to your bed.”

“Yes.” How could she ever refuse him? “Be careful.”

“Good night, Sara.”

When he was gone, the room felt cold and empty, and Sara slipped on her robe again and went over to the window. Black sky and city lights. She doubted she would sleep tonight as her fatigue had all but disappeared.

Turning away from the window, she sat down at the table and stared at her plate of uneaten Chinese food. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of eating, but stopped herself. She would have no interference. Wrong or right, sick or sane, Sara wanted nothing to take away the little bit of Alexander that was inside of her—nothing to quell the hint of sweet metallic that hovered on the tip of her tongue.

Blood.

His blood.