Witch Blood

FOURTEEN

SHE CURLED HER LEGS AROUND HIS WAIST, FEELING the ridge of his hard cock rub against her tender flesh. The scent of him — part cologne, all man — teased her senses, and the brush of his hair over her skin raised goose bumps along her flesh. She loved the weight and heat of him on top of her; lying flush up against Thomas Monahan was fast becoming one of her favorite places to be.

“Being confusing is part of my charm,” she sighed as she slid her hands between them and impatiently undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt. “Keeps a man on his toes.”

Thomas only grunted in response and slid his palm down her outer thigh and under her to cup her bottom and grind himself gently against her. They both groaned. Isabelle’s clit plumped with need, becoming sensitive and yearning to be stroked.

Lady, she had to get his clothes off a lot faster than this.

She finished with the buttons of his shirt and ran her hands over his chest, feeling the smooth, hard muscle that lay beneath his satiny skin and the rough rub of his chest hair.

“Off,” she ordered softly and he shrugged his shirt down his shoulders and threw it to the floor. “Mmmm…much better. You have an exceptional upper body, Thomas.”

He dropped his head to a breast and murmured, “So do you. Can’t keep my mouth off it,” right before he took a nipple between his lips.

Isabelle arched her back at the erotic, punishing scrape of his teeth, followed by the soft swipe of his tongue. The combination caused lust to flare low in her body and made her want much, much more.

Rolling to the side, he reached down between them and yanked her panties to her knees, then dragged his hand between her thighs. His fingers found her swollen, aroused clit and petted it while his lips worked over one nipple and then the other with exquisite care.

“You have an exceptional lower body, too,” she breathed, running her palms up his biceps and over his shoulders to enjoy the satiny hardness of him — like silk poured over steel.

He chuckled low, sending vibrations through her breast. He raised his head for a moment and murmured, “Is that a hint?”

Isabelle threaded her fingers through his long, silky hair that spread over her chest and stomach as he moved, and closed her eyes. “Uh, maybe. Not sure I’m capable of something as complex as a hint right now, though.”

In an impatient, almost rough gesture, he pulled her panties all the way off. Pleasure warmed her sex and tingled through her body, making her half-crazy with the need to feel him thrusting deep inside her. She moved her hips toward him in an unconscious way, seeking his cock to ease the throbbing ache he’d kindled in her.

He dragged his hands up her legs, and parted her thighs. For a moment, he just looked down at her, taking in the view of her aroused sex. Then he dragged his skillful fingers over her folds, rubbing between her labia until she moaned, and slid them inside her.

She felt the walls of her sex clamp down as he moved them in and out. Isabelle rode his fingers, fisting the blankets on either side of her, and tossing her head.

“Hint or no hint, I need to taste you,” he murmured, dropping his mouth to kiss between her breasts. He trailed his tongue down, over her abdomen, into her belly button and lower, all the way to her clit. There he teased her with his tongue and lips until she felt herself break apart beneath him.

Pleasure burst over her body, swamping her mind and forcing her to arch her back. Thomas rode her through it, petting her sex and tonguing her clit when her climax stuttered nearly to a halt. Her clit became sensitive almost to the point of pain, and then her orgasm flared again, engulfing her body once more and making her cry his name.

Once the ripples of pleasure had subsided, she yanked him up and kissed him, her tongue skating between his lips to mate with his. She dropped her hand to the waistband of his pants between them and undid the button and zipper as fast as she could. Not wanting to take the time to pull his pants off, she simply pushed them down far enough to pull his cock out and stroked it in her palm until he groaned into her mouth and shuddered against her.

“Isabelle, I want you,” he rasped.

She smiled against his lips at the need in his voice. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

He pulled away from her and nearly ripped his pants and shoes off. Thomas stood for a moment, watching her. His hair had fallen across his face, shadowing his eyes. She let her gaze travel over his gorgeous body and long, wide erect cock for a moment. The man’s beauty was breathtaking.

Then he stepped forward, grabbed her by the back of the knees and pulled her so her ass was nearly off the edge of the bed. She gave a squeal of surprise.

Thomas grabbed her wrists and pressed them to the mattress above her head. She had a flicker of unease that made her breath catch, but then Thomas kneed her thighs apart roughly, and guided his cock into her and she forgot her fear, forgot everything.

He held her hands above her head and pushed into her wet heat slowly until he’d seated himself to the base. He stayed that way, staring down into her eyes. Isabelle’s heart beat faster. With her wrists restrained, his cock buried deep inside her and his dominant, almost challenging, gaze on her, she felt trapped, possessed. It edged her pleasure with the slightest bit of panic that she fought to control.

Thomas withdrew and thrust back in, steadily increasing the pace of his thrusts, setting up a rhythm that would soon send them rushing headlong into ecstasy.

She dug her heels into the mattress and curled her fingers around his wrists as he held her captive. Pleasure skittered through her sex and up her spine, signaling her oncoming climax.

Thomas rotated his hips a little, driving into her by another angle, one that brushed the head of his cock against her G-spot with every thrust. Isabelle sank her teeth into her bottom lip and came. It slammed into her body with the force of a train, stealing all her thought and her breath momentarily along with it. She felt the muscles of her sex pulse and ripple along Thomas’s thrusting length.

“Isabelle,” he breathed a moment before he released himself inside her with a long, rumbling groan of pleasure.

They lay tangled together, breathing hard. She’d thrown one leg around his waist and the other now hung off the side of the bed. Thomas released her wrists after a moment and she rotated them. He’d held her firmly, but he hadn’t hurt her. Oddly, she felt a bit sad that their contact was now broken.

“Isabelle,” he murmured again as he moved to her left with a groan of exhausted satisfaction. “You kill me, woman.” He crawled onto the mattress and collapsed. After a moment she followed him.

Thomas rolled onto his side, tucking up against her body and propping himself up on one elbow, and stared down at her with an unsettling intensity. He said nothing. He didn’t need to say anything; his emotions lay in his gaze.

Thomas cared for her a great deal.

That knowledge made a wisp of fear curl through her stomach, brought images of long, dark winding roads and airport terminals flickering through her mind. Instead of giving in to her fears, she reached up and cupped his face, feeling the rough stubble that he hadn’t shaved since that morning.

She’d meant what she’d said about trying. For the first time in her life, she’d found a place and a person she just might want to hang around for. Maybe. Thomas Monahan was worth a closer look, at least. There was no doubt about that.

Idly, he stroked her breast, playing with the nipple until it hardened and she squirmed on the bed from the heat it kindled in her sex. “Never thought I’d fall for a high-maintenance woman.”

Her eyes widened. “First of all, who’s falling for anyone? This is all about the sex, bub. Second of all, who’s high-maintenance?”

He chuckled. “Funny.” Then he lowered his head, closed his lips around her nipple and she forgot the flare of panic she’d felt when he used the words falling, as in falling in love, in reference to her.

His hand slipped between her thighs to stroke as he paid careful and thorough attention to each of her nipples in turn. Her breath came sharper and her body tingled. He could play her like an instrument, make the sounds of pleading fall from her lips like music.

Dangerous was the man who could make her beg for him….

“Thomas.” One word. His name. But it was spoken like a prayer and an entreaty all at once.

He kneed her thighs apart and slid between them, slipping his cock into her body as though it were a part of her. His hand followed the curve of her waist and hip until it slid under her buttocks to cup her against him as he rode her so slowly the pleasure made tears sting her eyes.

Yes. This was a man she could stay for. Here was a man who could be her home. The thoughts came into her mind like leaves falling from a tree, so naturally. In a haze of pleasure, she felt warmed by them.

Her climax rose slowly this time, teasing her with the edge for many moments until it stole over her and then exploded. It rolled up her spine and through her body, thieving everything in her world for a moment that wasn’t directly related to the sensation.

Thomas responded to her climax only a moment after hers had ended. He groaned her name low, while she scattered kisses along his throat and gently dragged his skin between her teeth.

After it was over, he pulled her to the side with him, burying his face in the curve of her throat and breathing heavily.

“Orgasm blindness,” she murmured.

His breathing paused for a moment and he lifted his head. “What?”

“Orgasm blindness. When I climax, for those few moments, I can’t think at all. Can’t focus on anything but the pleasure. It’s like I’m blind and deaf to everything else.” She adjusted so she lay on her side and propped her chin in her palm. “Is it like that with men?”

“Yes.” He pursed his lips. “Although you seem to have that effect on me all the time.”

She buried her face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him and hiding the pleasure his words gave her.

Eventually Thomas’s breathing evened out and relaxed into that of deep slumber. Her thoughts were heavy tonight, and complex, just as complex as the emotions that Thomas engendered in her.

She might be falling in love with him.

That realization came with equal parts terror and joy. Joy that she might actually be capable of a deeper relationship, a tie with another human being. The terror came from the same thought.

Unable to sleep, she slipped from under the blankets, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a light white sweater, and left the room. Wandering the halls of the Coven in the dark was actually relaxing. The gentle magickal hum of the building’s wards warmed through her, soothing her. Just the very leading edge of morning filtered in through the windows. The world outside was still hours from truly stirring.

Finally, she reached the library and slipped inside. She knew why she’d been drawn there; within, it smelled like Thomas. This was his favorite room in the Coven, the one that doubled as his office. The place was steeped in the energy of Thomas and she felt comforted here.

She hesitated at the doorway, suddenly torn between wanting to enter and wanting to go back to Thomas. The desire jarred her. She’d never wanted to return to a man’s bed before. Moving by only the light that filtered through the big window, she felt her way to Thomas’s desk and flipped on the lamp.

Then she turned around and came face-to-face with Boyle.

Isabelle stared into the demon’s eyes for a moment, unblinking. Adrenaline zinged through her body. His eyes were flat gunmetal gray. She’d expected them to be empty, but they weren’t. The demon’s eyes were full of emotion, of personality. Like a human’s.

One would have to have emotion to want to chew on the bones of a child, wouldn’t one? One would have to have a force of personality to lie in wait within an attorney’s office for an innocent witch and then suck the life from her body and the magick from her soul.

Isabelle lunged backward, skidding over the top of Thomas’s desk, knocking everything off and grabbing a letter opener she’d seen as she went. The demon didn’t move as she put the heavy piece of furniture between them and brandished the weapon in her hand.

“You killed my sister.” She didn’t even realize the words had come from her throat until they were out. They didn’t even sound like they’d come from her, so low, so sinister, so gravelly. “You killed those four innocent witches. You tried to kill that little girl!”

The demon remained disconcertingly motionless, his eyes unblinking as his gaze bored into her. “It was necessary. I needed them.”

The answer was far from satisfactory. Pure rage blossomed in her chest. She moved from behind the desk. Taking her eyes from the demon fleetingly, she glanced to note Thomas’s sheathed sword lying against one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. That would be so much nicer to have between herself and the demon than a tiny letter opener. As it was…

She hurled herself at the thing in front of her and plunged the letter opener straight into where she assumed the demon’s heart would be, if he had a heart.

Blood dripped from Boyle’s wound, but he didn’t move, didn’t react. It was like stabbing a living statue. She backed away, the letter opener still embedded to the hilt in his chest. Blinking away the sting of tears, she fought to comprehend that she hadn’t hurt him, not even a little.

She wanted so much to hurt him.

“I need you, too, Isabelle Novak.”

She blinked. Why wasn’t he fighting her, trying to kill her then? “What does that mean?”

“You have the right combination I need for my spell. You are perfect in your magickcal balances and fit the puzzle I am trying to piece together.”

“You mean you want to chop me up and stir me into your magickal stew?”

Boyle thought about that for a moment. “Yes.”

“You know what, Boyle? Fuck you.”

She lunged to the right and caught up the sword. By the time she’d unsheathed it, he was on her.

He grabbed her around the throat and squeezed. Isabelle felt her eyes bulge and her larynx begin to crush. He lifted her and the sword dangled impotently at her side. The handle of the letter opener still embedded in him poked her chest.

Even though it was a violent action and it made panic race through her veins like drinking ice water on a hot summer’s day, the demon was being gentle with her. He could crush her throat as easily as she could break an egg in her fist. He wasn’t killing her because he needed her alive for some reason…at least for now.

Isabelle brought her knee up hard and fast, right between his legs. The demon yowled and dropped her. Isabelle crashed to the floor and landed on her ass, still holding tight to the sword and gasping for air. Well, that was one part of the demon’s anatomy he had in common with a human.

When she could, she looked up to see Boyle doubled over. She took the opportunity to bolt to her feet and swing the sword at him. With lightning fast reflexes, he blocked her stroke and grabbed the blade with his bare hand.

He pushed it away and she yanked it from him, demon blood dripping from his palm and sizzling to the floor where the sword had bit into flesh.

Isabelle went into a half-crouching position and circled him, waiting for a better opportunity.

He opened his hand and showed the cut made by the copper sword. It wasn’t smoking, not peeling away. Nothing. Why hadn’t it worked? Why wasn’t he screaming and writhing in agony like he had before?

“I can see the questions on your face, little witch. You’re wondering why the copper isn’t making me sick. I have treated myself since we last met. I’ve given myself allergy shots, so to speak. Such a superficial exposure to copper will not harm me now, though the swords are clever.”

Then she’d have to make sure the exposure wasn’t superficial then. “Whatever. Swords still maim. They’re still capable of hacking off limbs. I guess you can’t grow limbs back, right? No allergy shot for that.” She feinted to the left, then turned and brought the blade down toward him.

Boyle moved at the last moment, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the satisfying bite of the blade into demon meat. He bellowed, grabbed the blade with both of his massive hands and threw it across the room. It shattered the window at the far end.

Isabelle cringed at the sound of breaking glass and the noises of an animal in pain. She’d wounded him with the blade, but he still hadn’t had the allergic reaction he’d had in the parking lot, damn it.

Blood coursed from the demon’s side, soaking his jeans and the black T-shirt and leather jacket he wore. With one mighty sweep of his arm, he smashed the liquor cart near him, sending the bottles and glasses crashing to the polished wood floor.

“You have the blend I need, Isabelle Novak, but there are others. You have time to think on my proposal. I’m doing this only because I felt how distraught you were over the most recent deaths. Ah. I see your face. Yes, little witch, I’m empathic. I will come for you when I am ready. I have work to do before you. Sacrifice yourself and you save another witch, or save yourself and doom another to death. The choice is yours.”

She stared up at him. Boy, she didn’t like the options.

“The head mage has grown fond of you,” Boyle added. “The one ridden by the angel. Do not let him know of my offer. His interference will mean his death. You have been warned.” Boyle turned, threw open a doorway, and exited. Poof and he was gone.

Shock numbing her body and stealing her thought, Isabelle sank to the floor amid the jagged edges of broken bottle and glass. Amber-colored liquid mixed with clear on the dark wood floor. From the opening of the shattered window at the far end of the room, early morning air drifted in and made her shiver.

Lady…

Soon the numbness let go and pain registered. Her throat ached and burned at the same time. Now that the demon was gone the adrenaline slowly leaked from her system, leaving her feeling like she’d just been hit by a freight train.

Her life for another witch’s.

Would she have traded her life for Brandon’s or Mary’s? Her mind balked at the choice, riffled through scenarios. Selfishness screamed no. How could she sacrifice her life for a stranger’s? She liked life. She liked her life. Dying wasn’t on her agenda for a good sixty or more years. Isabelle was no martyr and she’d never been particularly self-sacrificing.

But would she have traded her life for her sister’s? Nausea roiled through her stomach. The answer, of course, was yes. Would she have given her life to protect that little girl from the demon? She’d done her level best, hadn’t she?

Mary had been a mother, a grandmother, a sister, and a freaking retired kindergarten teacher, for the sake of the Lady. Brandon had been a son, a brother, and a devoted uncle. They each had had strong familial ties. Many people now grieved them. They each had left large holes in the world.

Isabelle closed her eyes. If she died few people would even notice. She wouldn’t leave a large hole, just a pinprick. These thoughts didn’t come from a place of self-loathing; they were simple facts.

In the face of that realization, her choice became sickeningly, stomach-lurchingly clear.

She closed her eyes for a moment and just concentrated on breathing — in through her nose and out her mouth. Breath by breath, moment by moment, that’s how she had to take this.

How long did she have until Boyle came for her?

Once her heartbeat returned to something resembling normal, she opened her eyes and surveyed the damage to Thomas’s office. The breeze that shouldn’t be there buffeted the papers that had been knocked off his desk. Alcohol soaked through files and made ink run. She hoped it was nothing too important.

She doubted anyone would have heard the ruckus. The library was far from the residential portion of the Coven and it was the middle of the night. The wards were set to register magickal disturbances, not swords thrown through windows.

Isabelle wondered how Boyle had gotten into the Coven, though she suspected she knew. Witch magick didn’t work on demons, so it went to follow that neither did wardings. The reason was moot; obviously, he’d gotten through. She would have the bruises on her throat to show for it, not to mention a lovely decision to make.

Not that it was much of a decision.

She wouldn’t go out without a fight, though. Already her mind worked through the possibilities. Maybe there was a way she could defeat Boyle, keep her life and that of the witch of the equivalent magickal consistency who would serve in her place. Maybe she could.

Or maybe not.