Bloody solange was killing him.
Drake reached into the slim pocket sewn in his coat lining. One vial left. He needed more—
this would be enough for tonight. A few minutes away from Miss Lark and Sommersby was all the time he needed. He’d ducked into this unused room, while Miss Lark and his partner waited on the gallery.
Hell, hiding in a brothel’s bedroom to drink a potion that would kill him. Christ. He’d fought hard to be better than this.
Beneath the pad of Drake’s thumb, the glass was smooth. Fragile. His thumb toyed with the stopper, easing it up.
As much as he hated leaving Miss Lark with his partner, he didn’t think for an instant Sommersby would take advantage of his time alone. Miss Lark was a beauty, but Sommersby wouldn’t try to seduce her. Sommersby seemed to like to punish himself by denying himself sex.
Hell. Women were like drink. Like solange. Guilt, regrets, fear, anger—all vanished when you had a woman’s heels hooked around your neck and you were pounding your cock deep in her wet, welcoming pussy. A mind-shattering climax was a good as a drunk any day.
There was something about Miss Lark that commanded Drake to stay near her.
All it had taken was the touch of his mouth to her satin-soft neck and she’d climaxed…he knew female ecstasy when he saw it. And she was a deliciously noisy woman when she came. Inside the studious governess there lurked a seductive woman.
Bloody stopper was stuck. With a snap of his thumb, Drake flicked the rubber wedge so savagely he snapped off the top of the vial. It tinkled as it struck the floor.
He knew the warnings about solange. He’d heard the other hunters speak of it. None touched the drug. All knew it destroyed faster than opium.
Drake didn’t have a choice anymore. He tipped up the vial.
It would make him forget. Forget Mary, the lost babe, his past—it would obliterate the memories and the nightmares.
The vile taste hit his tongue. He grimaced, his stomach rebelled, but he swallowed fast. Christ, he hated this stuff. It rushed through him, and within moments he had a cockstand as rigid as iron.
One thing about solange—it made a man hunger to fuck.
Drake tossed away the vial. The glass struck the ground, rolled beneath the fireplace fender.
The faint glimmer from the moonlight touched the room with blue. Warmth spiraled through him, warmth that fought the cold in his heart, his limbs, his head. Within seconds, the shaking stopped.
“Where is Mr. Swift?”
Drake could hear Serena Lark’s voice. The room seemed to light up for him. Hell, he didn’t care if she and Sommersby found him in here. He soared now.
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The solange changed his face, he knew it did. He’d seen his eyes in his ex-mistress’s mirror after taking solange. The pupils became mere dots in green irises. He’d looked mad but he’d felt like a king. He’d dragged his mistress—what had her name been?—back into bed, had thrust into her for hours. Until she’d been so slick they’d lost the friction and so weak from her orgasms she’d pleaded with him to stop.
Tonight, the mask hid his face and shadowed his eyes enough that Sommersby, or Serena Lark, wouldn’t notice the change.
As he strolled back into the hallway, he saw Miss Lark turn at the sound of his boots on the wood floor. Behind the gauzy veil of her mask, she glowed as she saw him. Relief. Happiness.
Hell, it appeared the lady cared whether he lived or died.
She stood waiting for him. Her black hair curled over her shoulders, tendrils fell into the valley between her generous round breasts. Her cry of pleasure still rang in Drake’s head. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her into a bedroom and—
“Where the bloody hell were you?” Sommersby growled, but Drake ignored him.
Miss Lark glanced up and down the now-quiet hallway. “We must get to the servants’ stair at the end of the hallway—it leads down to the tunnels.”
Sommersby took the lead, striding down the hall, but Drake waited. He caught hold of Miss Lark’s wrist to keep her at his side. The drug was hot in his blood. He wanted to fill his senses with her.
He took her hand, and she moved to him—he knew she expected him to lead her down the hall.
Instead, he cupped the neat indent of her waist and brought her into his embrace. He wanted to hear her quickened breaths. He wanted to smell her skin, her intimate honey.
In front of them a door creaked. A woman’s throaty laugh washed over Drake—the lush sound of a woman well pleasured. His cock responded; blood surged there, making him painfully hard.
He glanced up. A red-haired prostitute lounged in the doorway, stroking the jaws of two dark-haired vampires. She wore a robe of rose silk—loosely belted. Her enormous tits were exposed, her rouged nipples hard and jutting. Her neck was punctured, and blood smeared her pale skin.
Against his chest, Miss Lark gasped and Drake pulled her hard against him. He nuzzled her neck. “A bit of playacting, sweet,” he warned.
He traced the arch of her neck with his tongue and caught sight of the grins of approval from the pair of vampires who kneaded the courtesan’s breasts. Their caresses were rough but the woman tipped her head back in pleasure—most women enjoyed rough play. The vampire cocked his head—looked a question. He wanted to be invited to taste Miss Lark’s neck, too.
Drake gave a rueful shake of his head, staying in the character of the sexually driven vampire.
Christ Jesus, it was no stretch of his acting skills—his cock throbbed against Miss Lark’s silk-clad belly. He forced himself not to reach down and fill his palms with her voluptuous arse as he suckled her neck.
The vampires’ courtesan was a beauty, with magnificent breasts that bounced as the vampires played, but she was no match for Miss Lark.
Hell, he was no gentleman, and Drake admitted it freely. When he’d burst into the billiard room where Miss Lark was a prisoner, he taken a long look at her naked form while battling her captors, and he’d savored the sight.
Miss Lark’s pulse fluttered in her throat, and Drake angled to get a better view of the scene before them. The vampires bent to their lover’s breasts, and two tongues flicked the hard nipples.
Miss Lark gave a startled cry, then a moan—a husky moan that spoke to Drake’s soul.
He cradled her breasts, knowing he’d gone too far. Her sweet nipples rose at once at the scrape of his fingertip. Drake’s voice was a rasp from his dry throat. “Do you desire me as much as I want you, little lark?”
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Serena knew she must stop. Lord Sommersby must have noticed they hadn’t followed—he would return any moment. She had to regain control of herself. Vlad Dracul’s journal—she needed the journal. And this was not a dream! What was to happen tomorrow, in daylight, after she’d let these two hunters touch her?
She had to concentrate on her goal—but Drake Swift’s body, lean and powerful and solid, pressed against her. She should push his hands from her breasts. But she couldn’t. She wanted them there. It thrilled to look down, to see him cupping and fondling.
“Of course, I desire you—” His thumbs strummed her nipples through silk, and she lost her voice. She struggled to speak. “Don’t all women?”
He chuckled. “Putting me in my place, little lark?”
She couldn’t answer his question. To her shock, she saw the vampires part the courtesan’s robe. Their hands disappeared inside, and the woman’s moan was pleading, agonized. Serena could imagine the way his fingers—in black gloves—would look as they played within glistening pink lips—
“The vampires want to perform for us,” Mr. Swift murmured. “If we leave, they might grow suspicious.” His voice sounded like Lucifer, urging the innocent to offer their souls. As dangerously seductive as a drug. She knew now why the other hunters called Drake Swift a madman.
He squeezed her bosom, his tongue slid up to her earlobe, and her legs became melted butter.
“But Lord Somm—”
“Do not think about Lord Sommersby, sweeting. Think about me.”
Both vampires played between the woman’s full, nude thighs—so many fingers. The woman moaned at the invasion, and as they withdrew, Serena could smell the woman’s desire. Their gloves would be soaked and sticky with the woman’s juices.
“I would like to touch you that way, Serena.”
Her Christian name. Spoken with a softness, a vulnerability, in his voice that Serena had never heard before. “Mr—”
“You can’t shock me by enjoying my touches. It pleases me to know you do. Life is short—a shame to endure it in frustrated piety.”
“Yes, touch me,” she invited, and wondered if she’d plunged into madness.
The nose of Mr. Swift’s mask ran teasingly along her neck. Shivers tumbled. Her cunny throbbed. “Do you know what the nose of the mask is used for, love?” Swift asked.
Had she thrown herself off the cliff into wanton insanity? She knew, she knew, she could never tame a rogue like Drake Swift.
She gave one brief shake of her head.
“The nose of the mask would tease your clit while I licked your sweet quim. Do you know about your clit, Miss Lark? How touches there can make you explode?”
She froze. Yes, she knew about pleasure, about a man’s touch between her thighs, but she had never revealed her sin to anyone.
It had been a mistake. A foolish mistake. Too often girls made mistakes, and she’d been a very foolhardy girl, with a foolhardy heart.
“I could slide the nose inside you, filling you, while my tongue circles around your bum—”
Serena moaned. Pleasure, demanding and intense, built in her. Her hips began to sway. Her nether curls were soaked.
Footsteps sounded behind them—the click of boot heels on wood in an impatient stride. In an instant, Lord Sommersby was at her side.
“What the hell are you doing, Swift?” he snapped. He pushed Swift’s hand away from her breast. But his settled on her stomach, on the belt of her robe. For just a heartbeat and then left.
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Drake Swift merely laughed—his low, dangerous laugh. “Claiming my prize. Actually I’m avoiding suspicion.”
The words
claiming
and
prize
hit like Serena a douse of cold water. Was that how he saw her—a woman to seduce because he’d rescued her? Was she just a reward of battle?
She stepped away from them both. And caught her breath.
Over Lord Sommersby’s shoulder, Serena could see one of the vampires open the falls of his breeches and pull out his cock. It was dusky brown, the engorged head purplish and thick. One violent thrust and he was inside, and the woman was weeping in pleasure as he banged his hips mercilessly against hers.
The other vampire held the woman up from behind—with his palms beneath her breasts, cupping them. He grinned at Serena, and she felt her cheeks catch fire.
“Care to join us? An orgy would be a fine diversion.” He spoke affably but lust burned in his reflective eyes.
Lord Sommersby’s lips were grim, his brown eyes almost black. She sensed his rage. Drake Swift stepped around her and shook his head. “Not tonight, my friend. Another perhaps.” Swift turned to her. In the same jovial voice, he asked, “And where is your room, maid? I’ve had enough teasing for one night.”
The perfect exit line. Her voice faltered on hers. “This—this way, sir.”
By the time they’d reached the stairway door, the vampires and their lady had vanished into a room. A groaning bed could be heard. And each frantic moan they made pricked Serena’s legs like an arrow.
Sommersby turned the door handle, revealing steep steps descending into complete blackness.
But before they could step inside, a door opened directly across from them. A vampire stood in the doorway.
Before Serena could think, Lord Sommersby wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. Drake Swift’s erection nudged her bottom—she realized they’d cuddled up to her to hide the open door. She could barely breathe. Lord Sommersby’s gorgeous face lowered—his wide, hard lips came down over hers. It wasn’t like the fierce open-mouthed kisses she saw from the gallery. This was a slow kiss, and his lips slanted over hers with unhurried desire. Hot, wet, and so commanding. Stubble brushed, his tongue teased, his breath joined with hers, and everything fell away from her, leaving her clinging to a kiss.
Her legs splayed, her body instinctively pushing against Sommersby’s erection, the long, unyielding ridge of it. Mr. Swift pressed against her, his lips on neck. She was book-ended by their massive erections!
Time stopped, and when his lordship drew away, when Drake stepped back, they left her spellbound.
The door closed with a click and reality roared in. The vampire had returned to his lover. They were alone again. Serena’s lips yearned for another kiss. She ached everywhere—mouth, nipples, quim. Her thighs were slick with her juices, her nipples taut.
But her goal was so close. “Downstairs,” she insisted.
Mr. Swift went first. She heard the creak of the stair treads. Taking a deep breath, she followed, and the narrow stairway seemed to close in on her as she descended. Only the faintest glimmer of light showed at the very top—a touch of moonlight that turned Mr. Swift’s hair to silver and shimmered along the folds of his black cape.
“Is this library worth the risk, Miss Lark?” Lord Sommersby growled. He filled the stairwell behind her. She was trapped between the two of them—cocky scoundrel Mr. Swift ahead and the dangerous, guarded, taciturn Earl of Sommersby behind.
Her slippers trod on the worn stairs, but she felt the warmth of his lordship’s breath. She felt Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 34
the brush of his hand against hers on the wall as they descended. “Knowing the truth is worth any risk, my lord.”
“Is revenge worth so much risk?” His voice was low, authoritative.
Serena shivered—she was going to have a devil of a time sneaking Vlad Dracul’s journal from under the nose of this perceptive man.