Authors: Lexi Blake

Tags: #romance, #Lexi Blake, #Urban Fantasy, #Vampire, #Fae

Steal the Light (Thieves) (42 page)

* * * *

“Who?”

Charlotte frowned as though the whole meeting wasn’t going quite the way she’d expected. She’d no doubt expected him to give in to instinct number one. “What do you mean who?”

Ian liked the fact that she was off balance. She couldn’t seem to get a handle on his calmness. He couldn’t blame her. He’d always been a dipshit passionate idiot around her. She didn’t know the real Ian Taggart, the one he’d been before he’d married her, the one he’d found his way back to after long years of mourning. He was cold, calm, collected. He was a professional. “Who shot you, Charlotte?”

She stilled. “You’re not going to like it, Master.”

“Ian, please. I’m not your Master, sweetheart. I would prefer you use my given name. I keep the honorary title for the submissives I top.” He kept his voice at the same even keel, but the word did something to him when it came out of her mouth.

“You’re always my Master,” she said, her voice sweet and a little sad. “And I’m your submissive.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that.” Or he could shove her over his knee, work those jeans off her hips, and slap her ass silly. Charlotte could take it. Charlotte craved it.

Who had been smacking her cheeks and tying her up and fucking her until she screamed? Because there was no way she went without.

“Master, I need you to listen to me.” Her blue eyes fairly pleaded with him. Those eyes were what had gotten him in the first place. Oh, he’d loved her breasts and her hips. She was solidly built, and that just did it for him. He wanted a woman he could fuck for hours and not worry about breaking, but her eyes were striking. Ocean blue, like the waters of the Caribbean reflecting a crystal blue sky. He’d been drawn into those eyes.

“I’m listening, Charlotte.” A thought occurred to him. “Is that the name you’re going by now or should I call you Kristen? I have no idea what your real name is.”

Her hands made frustrated fists. Ah, she hadn’t changed her little tells. Those fists always made an appearance when she thought he was being stubborn. Her hair might have changed, but he could still tell when he was getting to her.

“I’m Charlotte Dennis and you damn well know it. You checked me out the first time. I never lied about my background.”

He raised a single brow.

She bit into her bottom lip, her eyes sliding submissively away. “I apologize, Master. I shouldn’t have cursed.”

He shook it off. It had been a habit. Disciplining her had been a habit. The way her sinking to her knees at his feet and rubbing her cheek to his leg had been a habit. The way he’d been able to relax and think as he’d petted her hair and enjoyed the contact before he would inevitably pull her into his lap and start to make love to her.

Yep. Just a habit. He could break habits. He hadn’t had her in five years and he’d survived perfectly well. “Curse all you like. I probably would if my boss had shot me and then dosed me up with puffer fish toxin. Do you think he expected you to live?”

He tamped down the panic that flared at the thought of someone shooting her and dosing her up and leaving her there on the floor of their flat like a sacrifice. The protectiveness was a habit, too. She wasn’t his to protect, and she never had been. She hadn’t really been his sub. She’d been his opponent, and the first round had gone to her.

But she wasn’t going to win this one.

“He wasn’t my boss, babe. He had something I needed, and I thought he was the only one who could do the job. After I met you, I realized just how stupid I was.” Her eyes were cloudy with tears, and she started to reach out for him. He moved his hands and leaned back, but not before sniffling a little. “I should have talked to you, but by then he had Chelsea. I couldn’t risk Chelsea.”

“Of course not.” He had no idea who Chelsea was. Probably her dog. “I would like a name, Charlotte.”

Her jaw tightened, and she looked down at her hands. “Chelsea is my sister’s name. I know I didn’t tell you about her, but she’s younger than me. She’s more…fragile. You remember how I told you about my father?”

Her Russian mobster dad. Yes, Vladimir Denisovich. He had a rap sheet about twelve miles long in twenty-two different countries. If he followed the Russian mob practice of tattooing his crimes on his body, Ian was sure there wasn’t an inch of skin left on Vlad’s flesh. But his crimes against his children were even worse. And Ian no longer cared. “I asked for a name. I don’t need to know about your sister.”

“You’re going to be difficult.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. If you don’t want to talk, you should feel free to leave. There’s nothing at all difficult about it.”

She took a long breath before speaking. “I’ll tell you, but I want you to stay calm.”

Everything fell neatly into place. There was only one name he could think of that would truly enrage him. Or would if he really gave a shit about her. “Then it’s Eli Nelson."

A Love Worth Biting For

By Roxy Mews

Hart Clan Hybrids Book 1

Available through Samhain Publishing October 2013

I wasn’t prepared for it. That’s what everybody says when they meet the love of their lives. But I’m not everybody. Hell, most of the time I’m nobody, or at least I try to be. I was given the name Amber Paulson for crying out loud. A name like that does not a rock career make. Daddy always told me that the urge to mate is something you can’t control. That you would just find yourself smacked upside the head one day. If you were lucky.

I didn’t know anyone in my Pack who was mated. That’s not to say we are virgins.
Hell no!
Everybody that uses the expression “Fuck like bunnies”? Well, those people obviously haven’t met a werewolf. Me and the rest of my Pack got furry on occasion, but for the rest of the time we rocked a decidedly human form. Those forms just had libidos of epic proportions.

Anyway, I was walking through the latest campus we had moved to. It was some little rinky-dink town in Indiana of all places. Land-locked, but lots of places just outside the city for a wolf to run. Big enough to get lost in, small enough to get away from everybody when you needed to. The campus was walkable, and I took my time, because if I hurried, I could outrun an Olympic medalist. And I still had plenty of time until my next class.

Mary called and reminded me not to be late. Mary Fields was my best friend these days. I liked humans, but I loved Mary most. I met her on my first day of orientation, and somehow she puts up with me. I threw her a quick text to let her know I’d see her in class.

Did you know the average werewolf lives for four hundred years after turning? I’ve been around for fifty as my wolfy self, so the American History class was one I have repeated often. From the complete lack of effort needed this time through, either I was radically expanding my brainpower or society was expecting less and less intelligence from the general student body. Which brings me back to me not being prepared. I was walking slowly to class, when one student body in particular caught my attention.

There always seems to be an impromptu game of football being played on the practice field outside the cafeteria that involves guys taking their shirts off and trying to impress the co-eds in hopes they could get the chicks’ shirts off later. Personally, unless you’re taking down a twelve-point buck with your shirt off—while covered in hair—I am not usually impressed.

That day was different. For some reason, my feet stopped moving when they hit the spray-painted white line on the field. Guys and girls chased the pigskin in the sunshine. The temperature was a degree below fried eggs, and not a cloud was in the sky. I heard a bottle pop open, and what should have been a glance turned into full-on ogling. He still had his shirt on, but had begun pouring the open bottle of water across his chest in an effort to cool off.

My increased hearing picked up the sighs and elevated heart rates from the women around me as the thin fabric of his shirt clung to his body and drops of water cascaded down. Deep tan skin began to peek through. His chocolate brown nipples puckered. The water must have been cold. Thank you Jesus for whoever had those puppies in a cooler.

I could see a slight smattering of chest hair sandwiched between his skin and tee. Then he pulled up the shirt to wring it out, and I caught the brief glimpse of his six-pack and a trail of body hair that drew my attention down to his black shorts. I swear it was like an arrow directing me where to go. Boy, did I want to follow it.

The healthy dose of yum shook the water from his head and hands. The shirt fell, and I pulled my jaw up off the ground just in time to not have my tongue loll out the side like a freaking German Shepherd.

He looked up and waved. My hand waved back on instinct. When his eyebrows drew together and he began jogging back toward the game, I looked around to see a petite blonde behind me, with her hand also up in greeting. I gave her the “I’m an idiot, never mind me” salute and started off toward campus. What the hell was wrong with me? He wasn’t even Pack. Why was I ogling him like I was headed into my first heat?

“Hey! Wait up!” A feminine voice called from behind me.

I slowed my pace to about half my pulse rate. I had learned that to step below my pulse rate was a great way to appear more human. The fact that I was still speeding through campus told me my pulse was hammering like a hippie playing bongos.

“Sorry, I…oh. Were you talking to me?”

The blonde from the practice field jogged to catch up with me. Her little perky boobs bobbed with her ponytail, but nothing else on her jiggled. I hated her instantly.

“Yeah. Damn you’re fast.” A smile broke her face, and not even a drop of perspiration dotted her brow. I really hated her. “Do you know Jake?”

“Who?”

“Jake’s my brother. You know, the guy who put on a water show at the practice field.” She knocked her elbow into me.

Little tip from a werewolf—don’t touch us. It’s considered a confrontational act. Lucky for this chick, it was pretty obvious to my wolf that her little five-foot-nothing frame was no match for my five-feet-ten-inches of overgrowth. When my instincts settled, I noticed she smelled different. She wasn’t from the area. For some reason, everyone here smelled faintly of earth and plants. Okay, they smelled like corn, but I don’t want to sound prejudiced. This little waif smelled empty. Like, clay or wood. You know that smell you get when you open a really old box or jar? Not moldy or musty, just…empty.

“So I saw you looking at my brother.”

“What? No I wasn’t. I was watching the game.”

“They were taking a break.” Her voice shifted from upbeat to dead serious in a second.

“Yup. I noticed that. Why I left. Have a good one.” I turned and tried to pace my steps. Then an image of Jake filtered into my brain, and I found my steps increasing their tempo. I tried to slow them, with the old standby of listening to the closest pulse. My feet stopped midstride when I realized the closest pulse wasn’t inside my little cling-on. I couldn’t hear the small blonde chick’s pulse. She didn’t have one.
Fuck.
Vampires.

For more information, visit
www.roxyrocksme.com
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About Lexi Blake

Lexi Blake lives in North Texas with her husband, three kids, and the laziest rescue dog in the world. She began writing at a young age, concentrating on plays and journalism. It wasn’t until she started writing romance that she found success. She likes to find humor in the strangest places. Lexi believes in happy endings no matter how odd the couple, threesome or foursome may seem. She also writes contemporary western ménage as Sophie Oak.

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Also from Lexi Blake
:

EROTIC ROMANCE

Masters And Mercenaries

The Dom Who Loved Me

The Men With The Golden Cuffs

A Dom Is Forever

On Her Master’s Secret Service