"I can't stop."
"I know. And I want to touch you." "Why?"
"I want to feel you." She couldn't believe it, but she tilted her head to the side, exposing her throat. "Take what you need. And I'll do the same."
This time he lunged at her, clamping a hand on the op posite side of her throat and biting her with power. Her body surged, her br**sts making contact with the hard wall of his chest, his scent roaring. Gripping his heavy upper arms, she fell backward onto the pillows and he came with her.
Michael's body was now solidly on hers, the weight of him pushing her down on the mattress. He was blocking out the candlelight so she couldn't see anything clearly, though the glow behind him grounded her against infinity. Some how it was okay, although for a dangerous reason: The dark ness made the sensations of him at her neck all the more vivid, from the wet cup of his warm mouth to the tugging draw of his swallows to the sexual current between them.
God help her, she liked what he was doing to her.
Claire searched out and found his hair. With a groan of satisfaction, she tangled her hands in the silken thickness, balling up huge chunks of it, feeling her way to his scalp.
As he froze, she fell still and felt the trembling that went through him. She waited to see if he would continue and he did. When the drinking started up again, the room began to spin, but she didn't care. She had him to hold on to.
At least until he pulled back quickly and left her on the bed. Retreating into the dark corner, with his chains to mark his movement, he all but disappeared on her.
Claire sat up. When she felt wetness between her br**sts, she looked down. Blood was running down her chest and getting absorbed by the white robe. She barked out a curse and scrambled to cover the puncture marks he'd made.
Instantly, Michael was in front of her, peeling her hands back. "I'm sorry, I didn't finish it properly. Wait, no, don't fight me. I need to finish it. Let me finish it so I can stop the bleeding."
He captured her hands in one of his, moved her hair back, and put his mouth on her throat. His tongue came out and stroked over her skin. And stroked again. And again.
It wasn't long before she'd forgotten all about bleeding to death.
Michael let go of her hands and cradled her in his arms. With abandonment, she let her head fall back as he lapped at her and nuzzled her.
He slowed. Then stopped. "You should sleep now," he whispered.
"I'm not tired." Which was a lie.
She felt herself get repositioned against the pillow, the curtain of his hair falling forward as he made her comfort able.
When he would have pulled away, she took his hands. "Your eyes. You're going to show me. If you're going to do what you just did to me for the next two days, you owe me this."
After a long moment, he pushed his hair back and lifted his lids slowly. His irises were brilliant blue and bright as neon; in fact, they glowed. And around their outer edge, there was a black line. His lashes were thick and long.
His stare was hypnotic. Otherworldly. Extraordinary . . . just like the rest of him.
His head lowered. "Sleep. I shall probably come to you before breakfast."
"What about you? Do you sleep?"
"Yes." When she glanced at the other side of the bed, he murmured, "Not here tonight. Worry not."
"Then where?"
"Worry not."
He left suddenly, disappearing into the darkness. Left alone in the candlelight, she felt as though she were floating on the vast bed, at sea in what was both a luscious dream and a horrid nightmare.
4
Claire woke up when she heard the shower go on. Push ing herself off the pillows, she put her feet to the floor and decided to do some exploring while Michael was busy. Picking up the candle, she walked in the direction of the desk. Or at least where she thought the damn thing was.
Her shin found it first, banging into a stout leg. With a curse, she bent over and rubbed at what was no doubt going to be a hell of a bruise. Damn candles. Moving more care fully, she felt around for the chair he had sat in and lowered the mostly useless light at what he'd been working on.
"Oh, my God," she whispered.
It was a portrait of her. A stunningly deft and frankly sensual portrait of her staring straight out of the page. Except he never looked at her. How did he know— "Step away from that, please," Michael said from the bathroom.
"It's beautiful." She leaned farther over the table, taking in a wealth of different drawings, all of which looked very modern in execution. Which surprised her. "They're all beautiful."
There were forests and flowers that were distorted. Vistas of the Leedses' house and grounds that were surreal. Depic tions of the rooms inside the mansion that were all a little off, but still visually arresting. That he was a modernist was a shock, given how formally he spoke and his old-fashioned manners—
With a chill, she looked back at the drawing of her. It was a classic portrait. With classic realism.
His other work wasn't a style, was it. The depictions were skewed because he hadn't seen what he was drawing in over fifty years. It was all from a memory that hadn't been re freshed for decades.
She picked up the portrait. It was lovingly executed, care fully rendered. A tribute to her.
"I wish you wouldn't look at any of that," he said, right into her ear.
She gasped and wheeled around. As her heart settled, she thought, damn, he smelled good. "Why don't you want me to see it?"
"It's private."
There was a pause as something occurred to her. "Did you draw the other women?"
"You should go back to bed."
"Did you?"
"No.""
That was a relief. For reasons she didn't enjoy. "Why not?"
"They did not. . . please my eye."
Without thinking, she asked, "Were you with any of them? Did you have sex with them?"
He'd left the shower on and the raining water on marble filled the silence.
"Tell me."
"No."
"You said you won't have sex with me. Is it because you aren't. . . able to be with humans?"
"It is a matter of honor."
"So vampires. . . have sex? I mean, you can, right?" Okay, why was she going down this road? Shut up, Claire—
"I am capable of arousal. And I can . . . take myself to conclusion."
She had to close her eyes as she pictured him on the bed gloriously na**d, his hair let loose all around him. She saw one of those long lean hands wrapped around himself, strok ing up and down his shaft until he arched off the mattress and—
She heard him inhale sharply and he said, "Why does that entice you?"
Jesus, his senses were acute. And how could it not?
Although it wasn't as if he needed to know the ins and outs of her arousal. "Have you ever been with a woman?"
His lowered head went back and forth. "Most of them have been terrified of me and rightfully so. They have shrunk back from me. Especially as I. . . fed from them."
She tried to imagine what it would be like to only have contact with people who thought you were horrific. No won der he was so self-contained and ashamed.
"Those who didn't find me . . . repugnant," he said, "those who got used to my presence, who would not have denied me . . . I found that I lacked the will. I did not find them comely."
"You have never kissed someone?"
"No. Now answer the question I asked. Why does the idea of me . . . relieving the ache arouse you?"
"Because I would like to . . ." Watch. "I think you must look beautiful when you do that. I think you . . . are beauti ful."
He gasped.
When there was nothing but shower sounds for a long while, she said, "I'm sorry if I shocked you."
"You find me pleasing to your eye?"
"Yes."
"Truly?" he whispered. "Yes."
"I am blessed." The chains rolled across the floor as he turned away and walked back to the bathroom.
"Michael?"
The metal links just kept going.
She went over to the bed and sat at the end of it, holding the candle with both her palms as he took his time. When the water was switched off and he finally came out from the bathroom, she said, "I'd like a shower, too."
"Avail yourself." The water came back on as if he'd willed it. "I assure you of your privacy."
She went into the bathroom and put the candle on the counter. The air was warm and moist from his shower, scented with milled soap and his dark spices. Dropping her robe and her underwear, she stepped under the spray, the water pouring over her body and soaking into her hair and cleansing her skin.
She was appalled by the lack of compassion he'd received over the last five decades. By the cruelty that his only com panions were stolen for him, their rights violated so that he could survive. By his imprisonment that had persisted and would continue unless he was freed. By the fact that he didn't even know he was beautiful.
She hated that he had lived alone for all his life.