A Vampire's Claim (3 page)

He wasn’t one of those dickheads who wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d been without for quite a while, but he’d cut off his own balls before forcing a woman, no matter how loose she was. But it was as if her proximity had touched something even deeper than his eager body, and he was having a hard time remembering what was proper behavior. He didn’t want to chase her off, despite his challenge, but it was only with considerable effort he was able to keep his grip firm, not bruising.

When she looked at his hand and then back up at his face, he saw something in hers that made his need even worse. Desire, goaded by his unplanned and possessive act.

“I’ll be right back,” she said softly. “I promise.”

He let her go with reluctance. She did return a blink later with the rag from the bar, despite Elle’s unfriendly look. Lady Daniela lifted it, that mysterious smile playing on her lips like the shadows playing among the lush mystery of a rainforest, concealing all manner of hazards among its beauty.

“You warned me if I was going to cuddle up to a bushman, I might get dirty. Thought I’d take care of some of the grime.” Laying the cloth on his chest, she began to rub slow circles. Damn if she didn’t tease a nipple with her clever fingers buried in the rag as she passed over it. His hand flexed convulsively at his side. “Plus I thought this cool cloth might feel good to you.”

It did, primarily because she was the one wielding it. He couldn’t imagine feeling the same way if Elle was swiping it over him like she would a dirty table. Of course, he’d never seen Elle wipe down a table the way this one did, following every contour of him intimately.

“God, you are something else. I bet the girls want to eat you alive.” She lingered over the smooth flatness of his pectorals, the ridges of his sectioned abdomen, the curve of biceps. Dev knew he was in fighting shape because of the life he led, but having her appreciate it so openly, in such a tactile way, made him want to exercise some of that strength now. Put her under him, spread those slim legs and plow her like a wheat field.

“Don’t have call to see many,” he managed roughly. “I’ve had some roos give me an affectionate glance now and again.”

She chuckled, and the sound was like a kitten purring, inviting his touch. As she made free with her fondling, he put his arm back around her waist, intent and easy as a python, flexing the muscles she was admiring to bring her closer to him. As she obliged, moving in another step, he rested his free hand on her shoulder, his thumb and forefinger cradling the base of her delicate neck. She didn’t stop him, keeping on with her cleaning as if she were polishing him for her fancy walnut mantel, though he couldn’t imagine how he’d fit with all the expensive and breakable things she’d likely keep there.

Her gaze wandered over the ridged circular scars on his chest again. Then she touched him there, the slow examination almost more than he could take and remain still. When she tossed the rag on a nearby table at last, before she could ask the inevitable question, he took her damp hand firmly in his fingers. “Let’s dance.”

True to his barter, he closed the last gap between them. Her eyes widened at the firm pressure of his hips against her pelvis. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “Is that all you?”

Lord, he was twisted enough to enjoy the paradox of her, a fine lady behaving like a wanton. It was like walking into a minefield, terrifying and exhilarating at once, making his balls draw up as though to prove he was still alive. “I suppose that’s what we’re going to find out, hmm?”

Her hand drifted down his back, as welcome as only the caress of a woman’s hand could be, no metaphor needed to enhance the simple truth of that. She curled her fingers into the loose fabric of his open shirt. “Not in a mood for courtship, are you?” she teased. “Wooing me with charm?”

“That’s not what this is about. I’m not sure what your angle is, love, but I’m interested in following. That’s what I can give you.”

The next song gave him a hitch to his step. It was an old spiritual that spoke of a miner at the end of his life’s journey, hoping that when he fell to his knees alone in the desolate rock desert, he’d fall into the cradle of God’s hands. She had some odd tastes, this Lady D. But he pushed away his disturbing emotional response to the song and resolutely moved them into an easy, three-step rhythm. She followed with no trouble, moving with his body in a way that suggested to him a far less religious activity, though perhaps no less spiritual than the emotions evoked by the song.

“What is it you think that I want, exactly?” She made a soft noise of pleasure when his hand pressed on her lower back. With his blood stirring, he made sure their next turn changed the position of their legs so his was interposed between hers, rubbing a passing stroke over the sensitive pubic bone guarding her clit, sending an unmistakable answer to her question. Her lips parted, giving him a glimpse of tantalizing wetness.

“I do appreciate a confident man,” she whispered, the words a teasing caress.

“I’ve been out bush over two months,” he said with sudden desperation. He couldn’t shake his innate sense of fairness, much as he wished he could. The song was too haunting. “This is no game to me, lady. I’m looking for a hard ride, the harder the better. If that’s not what you’re after, you’d best back off now and no hard feelings.”

“The proper term is ‘my lady.’ ” She never flickered an eyelash as she made the correction. “You’ve been with a woman before.”

Puzzled, he inclined his head. “I think I made that obvious, love.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Halting midstep, he dropped his hands to the curve of her hips. A warning. “Don’t,” he said. “That’s not a place you’ve been invited.”

Something passed through her eyes again. A shadow . . . He couldn’t tell if it was irritation with his reaction, which was too bloody bad, or something deeper, something he would like even less. Before he could put his finger on it, she moved her free hand to his chest, laying it over the ritual scars on his upper body again. There were two, each one curving up over the pectoral in a winged arc and circling the nipple, the outer rings dotted with bumps, scars made by putting clay in the fresh wounds. Her fingers passed over them like Braille, which he knew in a way it was. “I won’t step through a door where I’m not invited, but this is related, isn’t it?

There’s magic to it. Significant . . . grief.”

“Yeah,” he said shortly, unsettled by the understanding in her tone. Thank God, the song was over. She nodded, then cupped the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. She’d willingly moved back onto safer ground. Respecting him. Showing compassion, not pity.

“I’m filthy.” He gave a strained chuckle. “Likely to get all manner of things under your nails.”

“I’ll risk it.” She leaned against him, so her body pressed into his as he turned them, now swaying without much in the way of steps while the jukebox crooned another, more popular but less poignant song. It was a tune he expected was played with full, wailing gusto in the clubs of the big city she was used to. But she seemed to like the quaintness of the tinny sound.

As for him, the music made no difference. The slow dancing he wanted to do with her wouldn’t be obeying any tempo except the thundering of his heart against the wall of his chest, the pulse of need building in his cock and testicles. Did she have some strange ability to make a man, already in sore need of a woman, suddenly consumed by a maddening hunger for one? For her specifically?

“Tell me some of the amazing things a bushman can do. Like all city folk, I’ve heard the stories.” She flashed him a mischievous look. “But I don’t know if they’re only stories now. It’s been a long time since I’ve been home.”

“Same as Knights of the Round Table or American cowboys. Romantic fantasy, for the most part.”

She tilted her head. “Romantic fantasy is usually born from some piece of reality, even if it’s only one man. A hero among the ruffians can transform the whole lot of them into legends.”

“Wishful thinking can do the same. Some say Ned Kelly was a thug. Some say he was a hero. Only he knows the reality. I wouldn’t get carried away by any of it.”

She managed to slide an inch closer, such that he had the pleasurable and disquieting sensation that they’d become like two interlocking puzzle pieces. Every part fit together easily, no pushing needed. Though he wouldn’t mind doing some pushing. Some thrusting, ramming, pounding. The need was becoming a raw ache in his gut, a hammering pain in his temples.

“Seeing as I’m holding a real man in my arms now, and I’ve had some quite fierce wishful thinking in my life, I can tell you that one would never be mistaken for the other.” Reaching up, she laid her hand alongside his face. “Easy,” she murmured. “We’ll get there.

At my pace, bushman. You understand?”

“I can’t handle much more in the way of games, my lady.”

“I never play games. It’s all about what I want, and when I’ll demand it. Now . . .” She put some more space between them again, let go to take a turn under his arm, and then came back to him, a piece of footwork that couldn’t help but make him smile. “What type of thing can a
real
bushman do that will impress me? Quick, the first thing you can think of.”

“I can guess your exact weight. We do that at the fairs. If I guess right, you have to buy me a drink.” He gave her a wink, trying to regain some sense of the upper hand. In response, her thigh pressed to the inside of his so she grazed his aching balls. Her hip slid across his groin and her lips parted. The bloody tease.

“If your guess isn’t ten pounds
less
than my actual weight, you’ll owe
me
a drink.” Her eyes glinted in that elusive way, a danger back in the air he couldn’t identify. And didn’t give a damn about anyway.

“I don’t lie. But I can tell you, your body couldn’t be more perfect.” When he leaned in close to her ear, his nose against her hair, she stilled on the outside, while everything inside him just locked up. His nostrils flared, taking in the scent of soft female flesh. He wanted to taste her, put his lips under the ear, bury his nose deeper into spun gold silk. He made himself rein it in. Settled instead for caressing with his breath the shell of an ear so delicate it looked like something found broken on the beach sands. He hadn’t been to the ocean in a long time. Surfing at Cottesloe . . . He shoved that thought out of his mind and whispered the number to her.

When her head turned, he stayed where he was, so her nose brushed his jaw and he could see the moistness of her lips up close.

“That’s my exact weight. So according to my terms, you owe me a drink.” Her fingers skimmed the line of his jaw, several days’

worth of stubble, down to the vulnerable Adam’s apple, his jugular. “Again, when I demand it.”

“I never agreed to the bet.”

By all the cruel gods, she felt good. Good enough to suffer that crushing despondency he’d feel in the morning if he took her to bed.

It was looking like a closer-than-distant possibility, and he already knew he wasn’t smart enough to walk away.

Her breasts were firm and soft at once, and she didn’t seem to mind his hand was low enough on her trim waist to graze the top of one fine arse cheek. As he said, he wasn’t a dickhead. He didn’t grope, but Jesus, he wanted to fill his hands with her. Maybe he’d be better off with a whore. His wants tonight were tumbling off the edge to savage, and while she sparred a fine game, he wasn’t stupid enough to think she was ready to take a rutting beast to her bed.

“I noticed you carry a whip.” She nodded to it, coiled on his pack, the handle slid through a loop. “Are you a fair hand with it?”

He tried to pull his thoughts back in order. “Passable.”

She chuckled. “You said you always tell the truth.”

“Well, there’re degrees, love. There’re men tons better than I am.”

“Then I have no one but myself to blame if I don’t believe you.” She leaned back in his arms then, way back. Dropping her head and shoulders in an elegant and impressive dip, she trusted him to hold her by the waist as she did it. The strands of her tied-back hair brushed the floor before she straightened, displaying a grace and dexterity that caught every man’s attention with its obvious implication. When she’d come all the way back up, he made sure she was so securely held in his arms there wasn’t air between them.
She’s mine tonight, mates.
He could feel their attention and envy pressing in on them like wolves, and wanted to make it clear who was alpha this evening. No matter the men she’d brought, she was sending out a strong message with her behavior that could turn this lot into beasts in truth if she wasn’t careful. That was likely why Elle was so stirred up over her.

She’d chosen him, though. Over all of them. The thought roused something just as primal in him, only it would make him far more dangerous than the other blokes.

Her breasts were pressed to his chest, her hips against his arousal, her mouth so close. He put his lips there, brushing the fullness of hers as she spoke. “Tell me, Dev. Can you strike me without marking my skin, so that it feels as good as your breath on my flesh, like right now?”

It took him a minute to remember her question about the whip. The smile had left her lips, and her blue eyes were focused, intent.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to be sunk to the balls inside you, to have you under me.” He wasn’t going to dress it up for her. Oh, hell, it wasn’t that. He was a coward. She was making him feel a hundred different ways he couldn’t afford to feel, and he was resorting to crudeness. Part of him cursed himself, for he was going to lose her with the defensive tactic. Another part hoped it worked, so she wouldn’t tear his guts out.

When a shiver rippled through her body, his arms tightened around her.

“I’m at the boardinghouse down the way,” she said. “Once the sun sets, I’m going to take you there. I’ll show you what scraps of fancy I’ve got on under my clothes. We’ll see then if you can curl that whip around me without the slightest pain. You show me you have that kind of control, no matter how worked up I’ve made you—and we’re nowhere close to how worked up I intend to make you—and you can dish out whatever pain you want. I’ll take every bit of it. But you
will
owe me that drink.”