Vampire in Paradise (18 page)

Somehow, sometime, in the process, she’d wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her bare legs twined about his thighs. And she was answering him, kiss for kiss.

It was no longer a question of would she yield? Would he?

Sigurd had never intended to take this “seduction” to the level of actual intercourse. Fool that he was, he’d planned the “near-sex” that his brother Trond had claimed to invent. All the touching and feeling and pleasure of bedplay without the sinful outcome . . . well, sinful in Michael’s eyes for unmarried couples, and, since marriage was forbidden, sinful, period, for vangels. Trond claimed it was almost as good as the real thing, meaning actual intercourse. This would be Sigurd’s first walk down that path.

Who am I kidding?

A lose-lose situation.

And I am definitely losing
.

Or winning, some might say.

Aaarrgh!

He panted for breath as he raised his head to look down at her.

She stared up at him, and while she held his eyes, she undid the front clasp on her bra and drew the fabric apart.

He was truly lost then.

Her breasts were full, even lying down—
some women’s breasts went flat as oatcakes when on their backs, a definite prick to the balloon of unrealistic male expectations
—and not peach-colored at all. More a dusky olive tone to go with her Spanish heritage.

In that moment, Sigurd decided that he liked olives, almost as much as he did peaches.

The areolas were a dusky rose, the nipples pointed nubs of paler pink.

He touched them, just touched them with the tips of his fingers, and she arched up off the bed, keening her pleasure in a long wail. “Aaaaaahhhhh!”

Temptation reared its head, and he succumbed without a shred of resistance to the desire, nay the compulsion, to sample the feast laid afore him. No tentative licks of the tongue or sweet kisses from his lips now. Instead, he took one breast into his mouth, areola and all, and sucked rhythmically, his tongue pressed against the hardened nipple.

As if he’d flicked the switch on her motor, she began to buck against him. With a keening wail of “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh . . .” she began to climax. Just from his ministering to her breast! What would she do if he employed any one of the dozens of other talents he had in his centuries-old arsenal?

Her peaking triggered his orgasm as well, and even as he continued to suckle her and thrust his denim-clad hips against the vee of her legs, he did something he had not done since he was an untried youthling back in the Norselands. He spilled his seed inside his braies. And it felt so damn wonderful!

He raised his head and saw that she was as stunned as he at the short bout of ecstasy that had overcome them. He probably could have gained her consent then for a sin fanging, but he wanted more now. Much more. Instead of being sated, his appetite was whetted. The sensual fog still surrounded them, in fact was growing stronger. Resisting temptation was no longer an option, if it ever had been. Especially since underlying it all was the faint scent of lemons.

With a speed honed over the centuries, he eased out of his jeans and small garment, wiping the wetness off himself with the dry part of the briefs. Then he tugged her loosened dress down over her hips and legs, leaving only a blush-colored scrap of fabric covering her clearly damp mons.

He put a hand over the dampness, then leaned down to sniff her musk. What a heady, heady scent to an already aroused male! And, yes, he was growing hard again. It had been so long, and she was so very fucksome.

His touch there caused her to rouse from her sex stupor, and she blinked several times before murmuring, “What? What did you do to me?”

He was not about to let her regain her senses. Yet. Nor would he argue who had done what to whom. Yet. The silk briefs joined the waitress dress, his jeans, and briefs in a pile on the floor. Not daring to put his body over hers, skin to skin, for fear of embarrassing himself, again, he instead lay on his side, propped on one elbow, and gazed down at her. No time to admire his handiwork in the kiss-swollen lips and budding nipples, or the sex flush that covered her face and upper chest. He placed a hand over her dark curls and urged, “Open for me, sweetling. Let me bring you to paradise.”

“Been there. Done that. Waiting for the T-shirt.”

“Huh?”

“Listen, Sigurd. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, and—”

“Not nearly as long as me, sweetling.”

She tapped him on the chin in chastisement for his interruption.

He nipped at the forefinger before she yanked it back.

“As I said, I’ve gone without for a long time, and that’s my only excuse for coming like a locomotive at your mere touch.”

“Loco-locomotive,” he sputtered. “Mere?”

She scowled at yet another of his interruptions.

He played with one of her breasts to make up for his rudeness.

She slapped the hand away. “Let me finish.”

He rolled over onto his back and put his hands up in surrender.

“As I said, twice now, I haven’t had sex since dinosaurs roamed the earth, practically, and I certainly didn’t plan on doing so tonight, but now that I’m here, I don’t believe in playing games,” she informed him.

“Which means?”

“Let’s just do it and be done.”

Huh? What did she say?
“Just do it,” he repeated dumbly. “No. See, the thing is, I never intended for us to actually do it. More like near-doing-it. Ha, ha, ha! Wait. What are you doing? Oh! Oh crap! Oh no, no, no! Oh yes, yes, yes!”

She had thrown a leg over him and levered herself up to a sitting position.
On him!
Before he could blink or say, “Sweet swiving sin!” or some such nonsense, she took his rampant erection in hand and was guiding him home.

He might have seen stars then.

“Hol-y mol-y!” she said, gaping at him as her body adjusted to his size, the inner muscles rippling and clutching like an erotic glove. A perfect fit!

“Do. Not. Move!” he ordered, and put his hands on her hips to make sure she obeyed his command. If she shifted even one little bit, he would be the one making locomotive sounds. And not the
chug-chug-chug
ging sounds, either. More like the
toot-toot
whistling ones, heralding a big train on the way!
My brain has turned to porridge.

She stared at him for a long moment. “So. You never intended to actually do the deed with me? Just tease me?”

“Seduce you,” he corrected, “but instead . . .”

“Instead . . . what?” she asked when he failed to finish his sentence.

“Instead you seduced me.”

She should have been outraged at his suggestion, but no, this wench just smiled a little Mona Lisa smile, and Sigurd, having met the model for the Mona Lisa at one time, knew good and well what that smile meant. She was pleased with herself.

“And now what?” she purred, leaning forward so that her breasts touched his chest hairs. Holding his eyes with her unblinking ones, she used her breasts like pendulums, back and forth, back and forth.

He felt the reverberation of her action all the way to his cock, which grew even larger inside her. Without any direction from him! Not that he ever had much luck “directing” that fool appendage.

She felt the reverberation, too, he could tell, because her vaginal muscles quivered around him. She sat up abruptly, stunned.

He impaled her still. Sweet heavenly skies! Did he ever!

Neither of them moved, down there, and yet there
was
movement. Subtle and excruciatingly, torturously exciting shifts where they were joined.

Something strange and mystical and wonderful was happening. The ginger-honey fog swirled about him, turning him nigh intoxicated like the most intense alehead madness. The fine hairs all over his body stood to attention like erotic antennae. What the fuck was going on? He didn’t have a clue, and, frankly, for his sins, he didn’t demon-damn care.

“You ask what happens next?” he asked in a voice he scarce recognized for its rawness.
I haven’t a clue.
He flipped her over and under him and ever so slightly lifted himself up and back inside her. “And now the seduction begins.”

“About time!”

“A
bout time, is it?” Sigurd shook his head at her. “Keep daring me, you wanton wench, and you will be sorry.”

“I’m already sorry, but that doesn’t mean I want you to stop.”

Did I just say that? Who am I? Who am I becoming? Wanton . . . that about says it all. Next I’ll be twerking.

No, I won’t.

Marisa didn’t recognize the person behaving in this manner. She was no virgin, true, but she didn’t have all that much sexual experience, either, other than Chip the Dip(shit) back in college, and two other short-term affairs since then. Very short. But being the sexual aggressor was beyond anything she’d ever done before.

Not that I started this whole shebang.

But I succumbed so-o-o easily.

You could say I put the she in the bang.

I was certainly the one who put him inside me.

Where he still is.

Boy, is he ever!

Shebang, shebang
, she sang to herself, doo-wop style.

“Do you blush now, Mar-is-a?” Sigurd drawled. “Troll’s breath! You do!” He hooted with glee.

It was enough to make her want to pull the blankets over her head with humiliation. Except that she was already covered. By the man himself.

Shebang, shebang
, her inner slut crooned.

She blamed it on the fog that seemed to envelop them. An orangey-evergreen mist with tendrils that swirled and touched all the secret places on her body, exciting her to the point of madness . . . or wanton behavior. In fact, even her scalp felt stimulated with sexual tension. The sensations were—she hated to use the word, but no other would suffice—heavenly.

Sigurd had her pinned to the bed with his “impalement,” but her upper body was relatively free, with his upper body braced on his elbows over her. So she took advantage of the freedom to arch her breasts up off the mattress against his chest with her head thrown back. The fine hairs there, along with the foggy threads of carnal mist, abraded her nipples with such sweet torture that her inner muscles spasmed around him.

She saw the surprise on his handsome face. “You are killing me,” he groaned.

“I thought you were already dead.”

“I am. You are killing me again.”

A sudden, uncomfortable thought occurred to her. “You’re not going to impregnate me with some monster seed, like
Rosemary’s Baby
, are you? I mean, some people say I look like Sophia Loren, but Mia Farrow? No way!”

“Sophia Loren? Isn’t she an elder movie star? Nay, I do not see the resemblance.” He was huffing slightly, as if he was trying to get his arousal under control. Fat chance! The huffing reverberated down to where they were joined and gave her a few little jolts, like electric shocks.

Marisa got so sick of the Italian actress comparison some times. Harry Goldman was the most recent man to home in on the resemblance. In fact, he seemed obsessed, like she was a doppelganger or something. It was refreshing to be just herself. “I could kiss you for that,” she told Sigurd.

And she did just that, with lips and tongue and teeth, to his obvious surprise, though he shouldn’t be all that surprised. After all, she’d practically impaled herself on him without an invitation.

“That was a demon in
Rosemary’s Baby
,” Sigurd told her when she ended the kiss. “I am an angel, remember?”

“How can I forget? A
vampire
angel.” For emphasis, she reached up and did a quick hit-and-run lick of one of his exposed fangs.

If the tongue-kiss had startled him, the fang-lick had a different reaction. He was the one spasming inside her then, before he stiffened and got himself under control. And she meant the other parts of his body stiffened, not
that
part, which was already stiff, of course.

Interesting, though. That fangs are especially sensitive. Like my nipples.
She stored that information away for later. And the fact that his fangs tasted like the sweetest, most delicious oranges.

“Besides, I could not impregnate you, even if I wanted to, which I do not.” He was back to the
Rosemary’s Baby
subject, which she’d already moved on from . . . to nipples. Much more interesting. “Except for my brother Ivak, all vangels are sterile. He recently had a baby, named Michael. Ivak ever was a suck-up!”

“Good thing about the sterility because I totally forgot that you aren’t wearing a condom.” And that was a monumental mistake she never made. A sign of just how strange this whole encounter was. “Um, do I have to worry about STDs?”

“Marisa! I am a doctor.” He shook his head at her asking such a question. “I get tested all the time, even though I have not been active sexually in a long time.”

She found that hard to believe, that a man as virile as he was could go without for more than, oh, let’s say, a week, but that was a question for another time. “So, back when you were a Viking—”

“I will always be a Viking.”

“Okay, back when you were a human Viking,”
Lord, that sounds so dumb.
“Did you have children?”

“No. None that I know of.”

“Do you care that you can’t have children now?”

“Not much,” he said. “Enough with this chatter. You are distracting me, and I must concentrate lest I explode from overarousal.”

That was exactly the point. She was trying to make him lose control. He’d teased her enough. Time to give him a taste of his own medicine. “Is there such a thing as overarousal?” She put her arms on his shoulders and raised her knees on either side of his hips, feet firmly planted on the bed. A clear signal, if there ever was one, that she was more than ready for him to move, that she was the one in control.

“I am depending on it,” he said, and withdrew himself inch by inch from inside her, then inch by inch put himself back in again, to the hilt. Definitely an impalement. Of the best kind.

She looked down, with fascination, at the picture they made there. His silky blond hairs blending with her coarse black curls, a tapestry of sex. Forget that classic combination, ebony and ivory. This was onyx and gold.

“Pretty,” he said, and she saw that he was looking at the same place she was.

Then, to her chagrin, Sigurd withdrew from inside her, every excruciating drag a pleasure-pain path. She grabbed his hips to hold him in, but he was stronger than she . . . and determined. And in control. Dammit!

“No, no, no!” she protested.

“Shh,” he said, placing her hands above her head, “we do it my way.”

“But—”

“This time.”

“Oh boy!”

Sigurd laughed and then used what seemed like two hours, but was probably only twenty minutes, to demonstrate just what a master of seduction he really was. Marisa had been outclassed in that game from the get-go. And she no longer cared. What hormone-packing woman would?

He caressed her skin and murmured his approval of everything he saw and touched. The smoothness. The naturally tan, olive tones. The dips and swells. He was especially fascinated by her breasts, “the perfect size to fit a big man’s hands,” and her butt, “firm but deliciously ample.” She would have been insulted, except he made “ample” sound like the highest compliment. Truly, there wasn’t any part of her body that escaped his attention, including her toes, “like succulent figs.” At first, she thought he said “pigs,” as in “This little piggy . . .” and almost giggled. Almost. But he’d already moved on to her belly button, “Satan’s well.” That last wasn’t such a great compliment, either, in her opinion, but Sigurd explained that he meant it was “sinfully tempting.”

Okaay!

He was also vocal in his appreciation of her taste as he explored her with his mouth. And there wasn’t any-place forbidden to this man’s wicked lips and tongue and teeth, and, yes, fangs, which she’d discovered added a new dimension to a kiss. A little extra friction. A little extra bite of pleasure. Oh, he never broke the skin. That he was saving for when she gave her full consent. Frankly, at this point, she would agree to swinging on a trapeze, or a cloud, if he would just damndamndamn-move-dammit inside her.

“Do you like this?” he murmured, as he sucked softly against the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Yes. Can I touch you now?”

“Not yet. How about here?” He was kissing the underside of one breast.

“Yes, but higher,” she demanded.

“Here?” His lips moved over to her underarm, which, to her surprise, was an erotic spot on her body she’d been unaware of. Still, it was not where she wanted . . . needed . . . to be touched. “The underside of a woman’s arm, where it meets her body, is especially sensitive on some women. Do you agree?”

“Talk, talk, talk. I would agree that the moon was made of blue cheese if you would just move.”

She felt laughter rumble in his chest, reverberating right down to his penis that was embedded even tighter inside her, if that was possible.

“You know that I can feel your penis laughing, don’t you?”

“What?” That certainly got his attention. He raised his head. He had been licking the curve of her elbow. “It does not,” he said indignantly, as if a laughing male appendage was the last thing on earth he would want.

“Oh yeah, it definitely does. You laugh. It laughs, too.”

“That was another deliberate attempt to distract me,” he decided, then used his nose to nuzzle her underarm. He was back to that territory again. “You never answered. Dost like me here?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. Aaarrgh! You know good and well where I want your mouth. Either put yourself there now or I’m going to grab on to those angel wing knobs of yours and guide you there.” She’d already discovered that just the mere brush of her fingertips over that scar tissue caused him to practically jump off the bed. She started to lower her hands to do just that when he grabbed her wrists and raised them on high again, pressing them down onto the mattress above her head, and holding them in place with just one hand.

He suckled her then, with an expertise that was beyond anything she’d ever experienced or imagined. He drew on her hard, then soft. Setting a rhythm that alternated with flicks of his tongue and the grating of teeth against her nipples. Her breasts seemed to throb. Her nipples hardened even more and were almost painful with the intensity of his ministrations. The expression “Hurts so good!” came to mind.

Then, he withdrew his penis from inside her and used his hand to guide its tip in a strumming fashion across her engorged clitoris. Once, twice, and she began to keen, “Oh, oh, oh . . .” The prelude to her orgasm. He slammed back inside her.

And stopped.

Again.

She moaned.

Again.

“Stop your climax,” he ordered.

“What? How?” she stammered through the haze of the overwhelming excitement rippling over her body.

“Stiffen your body. Look at me.” When her sex-hazy eyes were unable to focus, he demanded again. “Look. At. Me.” But his voice was so raw and raspy with his own arousal that she could hardly hear him. His eyes were more silver than blue now. His long hair was thrown back over his shoulders. And he could no longer hide his fangs, which should have been frightening, but for some odd reason were just the opposite.

“I like your fangs,” she whispered.

He nodded, as if that had some meaning.

“Do you agree to my removing the sin taint, Mar-is-a?”

She nodded. She would agree to anything he asked of her now, her body was so thrumming with need.

“Do you repent of the sin you are contemplating? Will you deny Harry Goldman your body? Will you let me fang you?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“So be it!” He licked his lips and put his mouth to her neck. The piercing didn’t hurt at all. In fact, she rather liked the feel of his fangs breaking her skin. When he groaned deep in his throat, she sensed the moment that her first drop of blood trickled into his mouth.

But then, she lost all sense of what was happening where. His fangs at her neck. His hands everywhere, always on the move, caressing and arranging her body this way and that to intensify what his erection was doing inside. Because he was finally, finally, moving.

In, out, in, out, he moved with incredible slowness.

Suddenly, he wasn’t moving slowly at all. He was pounding into her. Slam, slam, slam. Each wet, slick sound of him hitting her just there was causing the most incredible, hard, convulsing climax of her life. And it was never-ending.

Somehow, her knees were over his shoulders. When had that happened? She took advantage of the opportunity and used the backs of her calves to rub against his angel wing scars.

He roared, he actually roared, when she did that and she felt some warm liquid eject from his fangs into her neck and, like the headiest, most potent aphrodisiac, her entire body went on humming, mind-blowing red alert.

Good Lord! Do fangs ejaculate? And do they ejaculate some sex drug or something? Should I be alarmed? Hah! Too late for that!

And speaking . . . thinking . . . of ejaculating, he was certainly doing that below at the same time. A torrid stream was hitting her vaginal walls. Talk about multitasking, she thought, which was amazing that she could even put two thoughts together in the midst of this mind-blowing sex.

Even more amazing, she could swear she was doing the same. She’d heard that some women ejaculate during orgasm, but it had never happened to her before. It hot damn was now.

Even her breasts seemed to be throbbing convulsively. A breast climax? That was a new one. If she ejaculated there, she would be mortified, not that she wasn’t mortified by the other ejaculation. She lowered her hands and touched her breasts. The only moisture was what remained from Sigurd’s mouth.
Whew!

Finally, he withdrew his fangs from her neck with a tiny pop, threw his head back, his arms extended like virtual tree limbs, and groaned long and hard as he continued to twitch inside her, and her body continued to spasm around him.

She thought she heard him mutter, “Holy Heaven and Viking Valhalla!” before she passed out.