Taken by a Vampire Read online

Page 15

 

  She didn’t need the fantasy to be aroused now. The need for touch, connection, was sharp as a vampire’s fang. As she held on to Niall, she had to bite down on a moan as the impact of his swift pace and the rocky terrain created a repetitive bump against her clit.

  When at last he came to a stop, she estimated they’d covered several miles in less than a half hour. Her breath was unsteady, her palms damp against his chest. In the not-so-casual insertion of his thumb beneath her clasped hands, the intimate rub against the damn creases of her palm, he acknowledged the arousal she was sure he could scent.

  “Look up,” he said. “This is our first stop. The one where the moon’s track is important. ”

  Reluctantly shifting her grip to his shoulders, she tilted her head back. The clearing was so small the tree branches laced together around it. The moon was directly in the center of their circle, a halo of yellow-white light radiating out from the white pearl.

  “Like a moon goddess in a circle of ancient witches, reaching up with bony fingers to adore her. ” Evan was behind her. “Lean all the way back and let go, Alanna. Keep your eyes on the moon. ”

  Tightening her thighs over Niall’s hips, she obeyed. Compliance had long ago made the issue of trust irrelevant. As she dropped her head back, she let go of the Scot’s shoulders. A short drop of her upper body through space, and then she was at a forty-five degree angle. Niall held her ankles locked securely around his body as Evan’s palm supported her between her shoulder blades. “Lift your hand,” the vampire said. “Toward the moon. ”

  He’d sent a command to Niall, because the servant turned inside the grasp of her legs. As his groin rubbed against hers from the movement, her body contracted in reaction. His large hands rested on her thighs as her ankles crossed over the rise of his buttocks.

  “Alanna. ”

  She jerked her hand up, obeying Evan’s command. The vampire intercepted it, catching her wrist, stroking it, soothing her, and then eased her hand upward along the track he wanted before he let her go.

  As her fingers reached toward that full sphere, Niall’s met them. His forefinger crossed her middle finger, his ring finger crooking around her smallest one. The branches formed the backdrop, the moon casting different types of light against pale skin, tanned skin, the gray-toned bark.

  “There. Keep them still. ” She heard the camera clicking from below and realized Evan was crouching beneath them, working the camera one-handed as he kept the bracing hand on her back. “Now, move your fingers with Niall’s however you like. Just keep them inside the moon’s sphere. ”

  Complying, she saw their fingers were becoming part of the tapestry of the tree branches. When the pictures were developed, she wondered if it would be hard to distinguish what part was human hands, and what digits belonged to the trees, reality concealed by the twist and turns of the shadows, the light breeze moving those thinner branches, the haze of the moon’s aura behind it all.

  Move your fingers with Niall’s however you like . . . She started in a functional way, a predictable pattern, not certain what Evan was seeking, but Niall slowed her pace, made it a more random, sensual dance, like that of the trees. His fingers slid under and over hers, tracing her knuckles, the tender flesh between. The wind moving the branches became something different, spirits dancing for the moon, a dance in which they were also a part.

  Niall’s thumb slid down the center of her palm, gliding over her wrist pulse, then went back up, following her straightening fingertips, exercising enough pressure her fingers uncurled and responded to the strength of his, like the branches giving way before the breeze. Her thighs constricted further on his waist, his hips, responding to his hardening cock with a rhythmic undulation. It felt natural, like part of the dance, and Niall’s other hand pressed into her hip, underscoring it.

  Evan set aside his camera to free her hair. He combed out the braid, putting her in a state of bliss at the stroking caress. When the hip-length tresses came loose, they drifted to the forest floor, the weight of it pulling her head back so her throat arched. She wanted to look at him, but kept her eyes on the moon, her lips parted with pleasure.

  Niall met her fingertips in a tent shape, sliding back down between the crevices, clasping her hand, holding that unified shape, an octagonal space between their palms through which the light of the moon funneled, spreading its glow on what should be the dark side of their grip. The camera clicked again, Evan’s other hand leaving her briefly, but then it was back, the camera silent.

  When Evan gripped a handful of her hair, twisting it in a closed fist so she felt the tug on her scalp, her eyes closed. As his fangs brushed her throat, she let out a little sigh of air. Her pulse pounded, an invitation. A plea he must hear.

  Though Niall had goaded Evan about his misuse of time, she’d also detected an amused acceptance she now understood. The vampire might not respect a schedule, but his value of timing, if it was always like this, made up for it.

  Since Stephen, she hadn’t realized how cold and lifeless she’d been inside, preparing to be a corpse. She’d been afraid to let in warmth or light, because fear of death would come with it. It was better to go ahead and make her mind believe she was already dead.

  Evan wouldn’t allow her to be cold and lifeless. The two males felt . . . immersed in her responses. As Evan caressed the tender joining skin between her fingers and won a soft moan from her lips, Niall’s eyes flickered. Evan laid his other hand on her heart, fingers firm over the curve of her breast, her heartbeat increasing beneath his touch as he brushed his lips along her throat, teased her with his tongue, his breath.

  He was touching her purely for his enjoyment, yes, but he wanted something from her . . . something more than a measurable physical response. Something more spontaneous, less trained. If she thought about what that was, anxiety could invade this moment, freeze her under their touch. Since she was certain that wouldn’t be what he desired, she tried not to think.

  She was clutching Niall’s fingers, then releasing them, then stretching her own fingers out, a rhythmic cycle, an articulation of what they were making her feel inside. Had Evan been taking pictures of that as well, and she’d been too involved to notice?

  It didn’t matter. Staring up at that moon, seeing the interplay of all the pieces of the picture, she wondered if what Evan had orchestrated was like what divine powers did, bringing together certain elements to see what kind of magic they produced, for their own wonder and delight.

  Evan bit down, fangs piercing her artery. She cried out, clasping Niall’s fingers hard, then they were sliding free again, twisting . . . It was a tangled dance against a moon that became even brighter with the rush of emotion through her chest. She would once again have the mind of another in her head, that empty, cold area filled with something new. It wouldn’t be the third mark, but she’d take it, the closest she’d get to that feeling she’d missed so much.

  The flutter of the leaves and slim branches that had joined the silhouettes of their hands, brushing and caressing those shadows, was too far up for contact, but she felt so connected to them that the movement of the wind over her skin felt like their touch.

  As Evan released the second mark into her vein, she stiffened despite her best attempt not to do so. This one hurt even worse. She clutched Niall’s hand again, trying not to fight the pain. She wanted to embrace it, let it course through her. It was the best moment she’d had in a while.

  Bring me back to life . . . you healed me . . . broken pieces . . . It was a song she’d heard once, on the music player of the gardener at the Berlin castle. The song had a Latin rhythm, soft guitar strands. The voice of the male singer was yearning, rough. In need.

  Your touch makes me whole again . . .

  She’d rarely spoken during those days she sat in the garden. But she’d asked the gardener the name of the song.

  “Stitch by Stitch. ” Appropriate. She was a b
roken doll, being stitched back together again, and the needle’s puncture hurt.

  “Easy. There we go, lass. Easy. ” The earlier mark was a burn, like a flame too close. This was like holding her arm again a hot stove, only the fire was scorching her skin from inside her veins. She gasped, struggling through it as Evan eased his touch on her hair. His thumb massaged the occipital bone, and when Niall’s hand closed over her wrist, that restraint, the stimulation to two erogenous zones, counterbalanced the agony, giving her something to combat it.

  I would have liked you to only feel pleasure from that. I’m sorry, Alanna.

  Pain . . . demand. Please. The natural response of her body to a Master’s demand came to her defense, to bear whatever a vampire needed her to bear. His apology wasn’t what she needed, and the plea was in her mind before she thought about the presumption of making it. But his fingers stilled for only a breath before he dug his fingers into her hair, drawing her head back, pulling against her scalp. “Let it flow through, Alanna,” he said, low and steady, those gray eyes dominating her vision. Dominating her, period. “Accept me as your Master. ”

  Niall captured both of her wrists, now crossed over her chest. His knuckles brushed the cleft between her breasts, and she arched into the strength of his hands. Had Evan spoken to the Scot directly, told him to increase the sense of restraint, or had he simply known? Somehow, she suspected the latter.

  A relieved breath escaped her, even though it was thready, overcome by the pain. “Thank you, sir. ”

  It seemed to take the pain far longer to ebb this time, but agony was like that. She’d been at a vampire dinner once where they’d subjected the servants to a pain endurance test, and then asked the servant to guess how much time had passed while the pain was inflicted upon them. The one who guessed closest won a special prize for his Master or Mistress, a pretty silver goblet offered by the host. She’d won, because she’d counted every second off in her head, refusing to lose track, even through the application of the brands to the bottoms of her feet. They had healed in almost the same amount of time, the benefit of the third mark.