“Pfft. Certainly not.”
She laughed, then rolled over and turned on the bedside lamp, so she could see. If she was about to mate with the most beautiful, most brilliant, and most deadly man on earth, she wanted to see him when they did it. She sat up, which had him reaching out to cup one of her naked breasts, his thumb rubbing idly over her nipple, his gaze fixed in fascinated attention as the soft nub hardened to a firm peak under the attention.
“Lovely,” he whispered, more to himself than her.
She leaned closer, going in for a kiss, but biting his lower lip instead. He didn’t curse and pull away as most men would have, most human men, anyway. Instead, he laughed and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her down on top of him and taking over the kiss, biting her lip in turn, then soothing the hurt with a stroke of his tongue that swept up the blood that spilled between them, a mingle of his and hers. His growl told her he liked it, and wanted more.
“It’s time.” His voice had gone dark and snarly, vibrating with the kind of hunger only a vampire knew.
“All right,” Layla agreed, a little out of breath, a little scared, but determined and ready.
“You should take my blood first. It will make the rest far more pleasant, and besides, your blood is too intoxicating, and much too delicious for me to stop. Once I taste you, I’ll want you in every way.”
Every part of her body responded to the desire, to the hunger in his voice. Both her breasts had gone heavy with need, the nipples swollen and achingly hard, while her thighs had clenched over her pussy, and it felt good. Hell, it felt erotic, and fucking fantastic. “Xavier,” she whispered.
“Come here, amor meu.” He tugged her down on top of him again.
His fangs had emerged, and she watched with studied interest when he lifted his wrist to his mouth, gasping when he sliced open his vein and blood poured out. Her eyes met his for an instant, looking for reassurance that this was . . . normal. That the blood dripping down his arm now was a good thing.
He nodded and held it out to her. “Drink, Layla. And be my mate.”
She licked her lips nervously. What would it taste like? But she’d never been a coward, never backed away from a challenge. Although this was so much more than anything she’d ever faced before. But if she wanted him, and God knew she did . . . She cupped his bleeding arm in both hands and lifted it to her mouth, intending to touch the tip of her tongue to the thick, red blood. What happened instead was driven by the raging need that small touch triggered in her brain, in her body. She’d never known such ecstasy, suddenly understanding for the first time what that word meant. Pleasure coursed through her body, hot and exciting, lighting up every nerve, every cell with lush passion and hunger. Her gaze swung to meet Xavier’s in demand. She wanted him. She was going to have him. A soft growl rumbled in her throat as she licked her lips.
He growled back, deeper and louder, his power a living, breathing thing in the room, surrounding her, claiming her, wanting her as much as she wanted him. Moving so fast she didn’t see him coming, he snapped up, and pulled her beneath him, his mouth at her neck, his fangs scraping her skin, his growl vibrating down her throat. A moment later, his fangs were slicing into her vein, her blood hot as it dripped over her neck to shoulder, while he drew long, greedy swallows. The growl became a rumble of satisfaction, when her arms tightened and her body bowed beneath him, as the euphoric in his bite sent wave after wave of climax cascading through her body, building to an impossible peak that left her screaming in helpless pleasure.
She was still trembling, still lost in the ripples of ecstasy rolling over her, when Xavier slid his cock deep inside her. Inner muscles stretched and ached in fresh need, welcoming his intrusion, sucking him in and holding him there, unwilling to let him go. Ever.
When he started to move, when he tried to pull his thick penis from inside her, her sheath clenched around him, and he groaned. “Your pussy holds me so tightly, cariño.”
She thought, “Because you belong there. You’re mine.” She opened her mouth to say the words, but she couldn’t remember how to speak. So she bit his jaw, opened the skin of his back with her nails, and didn’t let him go.
He chuckled low and sexy and satisfied, then pulled his cock out and plunged it back in again, doing it over and over until Layla thought for sure the heat of his passage, the friction of his hard shaft against her clutching muscles would ignite them both in a fire of passion and desire. Glorious, she thought. What a way to die.
XAVIER SENSED HER surrender to the passion, the heat between them. Heard the first whisper of her mind speaking to his, welcoming the fire. But he wasn’t ready to die. Not when Layla was finally his. He began moving, thrusting in and out, his erection growing, swelling until he thought she might get her wish after all. But then . . . sweet release, as ecstasy claimed him and a different kind of fire rushed from his balls to his cock, shooting deep into Layla’s body and sending her into a final, powerful orgasm. Her legs tightened around his hips, holding him inside her, while her arms clutched at him, nails digging into his back in delicious pain, until they slowly collapsed in each other’s arms, panting, limp . . . and mated.
They slept after that. Not daylight sleep, where he had no choice. But the two of them, sweating bodies twined together, sated and exhausted. They woke together. He didn’t know how long it had been, but his phone was ringing.
He reached over and glanced at the display. He recognized the name, but his mate was warm and soft in his arms. So he put the phone down, flicked off the ringer, and slid back down, holding her tightly.
“I love you,” he murmured, pulling the sheet over them both.
“Love you, too,” she said softly, then kissed his chest and drifted back to sleep.
Xavier smiled, utterly satisfied, utterly content and happy for the first time in his life.
Epilogue
Porto, Portugal, present day
ANTÔNIO SILVEIRA, Lord of Portugal, scowled down at the phone in his hand when his call went to fucking voicemail. The curse of modern communication, he thought. It was well past sunset. Where the hell was Xavier? He’d never speak those words directly to the Lord of Spain, who also happened to be his Sire, but as his thoughts were his; he felt free to vent his frustration. When the damn beep filled his ear, he calmed himself and said, “Sire. A situation has come up here, and I could use your advice. If you could call . . . at your convenience, of course, I would be very appreciative. I trust everything is well with you, and look forward to speaking with you directly. Muito obrigado.”
He disconnected, then assured that Xavier, his Sire, could no longer hear, slammed the phone down hard enough to crack the ancient acacia desktop.