Текст книги "Blood Kiss"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-one

“I’m sorry … they’re doing what?”

As Butch spoke, he looked at the males-only group sitting around the mansion’s dining room table. Not one of his brothers or any of the soldiers was laughing or talking loudly. The bunch of sad sack losers was just sitting in front of half-eaten plates and untouched rocks glasses of vodka, bourbon and whiskey like a roll call of bassett hounds who’d lost their anti-depressants.

Not what he’d expected to find as he came late to Last Meal.

When Marissa had texted him and told him she was working with the females on something, it had seemed like a good idea to take care of some trainee stuff.

He hadn’t banked on this funeral thing just cuz the ladies were doing a project.

“Hello?” he demanded. “You guys lost your hearing along with your sac or something?”

Wrath inhaled like he was about to break the news of a death in the family. “They’re having a movie night.”

Butch rolled his eyes and went over to his chair. Yeah, it was a little weird to sit down without his Marissa by his side, but for crissakes, it was nothing to go Prozac over. Besides, he was glad his woman had friends in the house—

“They’re watching Magic Mike,” someone said.

“Is that a children’s show?” He sat back as Fritz put a heaping plate of lamb in front of him. “Thanks, man—oh, thanks, yeah, I’d love a drink. I’ll take a Lagavulin on the rocks—”

Butch stopped talking as he realized the entire table of males was looking at him. “What?”

“You haven’t heard about Magic Mike?” Rhage demanded.

“No.” He leaned back again as his drink was delivered. “Thanks. Is it like Barney?”

“It’s about strippers,” Hollywood countered.

Butch frowned and lowered the glass from his lips. “I’m sorry?”

V came in from the pantry with a thick pouch of tobacco, a pack of rolling papers, and a scowl like somebody had stripped his favorite sex toy of its batteries.

“Naked,” Vishous muttered as he sat where Marissa should have been. “Buck-ass naked. And they’re humans. Christ, it’s like being shown up by a pack of dogs.”

“In thongs,” someone else bitched. “Dogs in thongs.”

Butch followed through on taking a drink this time, swallowing the burn, welcoming the heat in his gut. Okay, fine, it was a bit of a surprise to find that he kept going until the glass was empty, but hey, he had a lot to think about. On one level, the fact that his shellan was watching a movie with her buddies, even if it did involve some nakey, really wasn’t a big deal.

On another level, he wanted to find the electrical box and cut the power to that part of the mansion.

Then torch the DVD. And the screen.

And take his mate to bed just to show her all the tricks he had over some actor in a—oh, God, a thong?

“It’s fine,” he heard himself say as he motioned to a doggen for a refill. “I mean, first of all, they love us—and second, it’s not like it’s an X rated—”

“They show a cock pump,” Lassiter said with a wide smile, like he was helping. “And in action. You know, it’s on a cock and it’s pumping—”

Vishous unsheathed a dagger from somewhere and pointed the thing at the fallen angel’s head. “You keep talking like that and I’ma trim your hair. With my eyes closed.”

Lassiter laughed. “Yeah, whatever, big boy. I thought you had more mojo than to get worked up over something like this. You really that insecure?”

“You want insecure,” V said. “I’ll make you—”

“Okay, okay,” Butch cut in. “Leave it, V. It’s fine, it’s great—they’re just enjoying themselves. What’s wrong with that? It’s not like they’re sleeping with the guy.”

“You sure about that?” Lassiter smiled. “You don’t think they’re fantasizing about—”

The collective growl that rose up from the Brotherhood was so loud, it managed to agitate the crystals in the enormous chandelier hanging over the table. And the fallen angel was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid.

Moving slowly, like there were multiple guns pointed at him, he put his hands up in submission. “Sorry. Whatever. I’ll stop before all this lame-ass uncomfortability you bunch of morons are sporting kills me.”

“Wise choice,” Butch said dryly. “Not that I wouldn’t mind hitting you right now. Although that’s not specific to this sitch.”

Lassiter went back to eating, shoving food into his face.

The Brothers weren’t so quick to do a reset on things, those narrowed eyes and bared fangs still trained on the angel with the big mouth.

“Come on, boys, it’s fine.” He cut a piece of lamb off and put it in his mouth. “Mmm. Delish.”

In reality, the stuff tasted like cardboard, but he made a show of the yummies. He couldn’t keep it up, though.

Two minutes later, he was shoving a full plate away and nursing his second whiskey. “Really. They should have a little independence. They don’t need to be locked at our hips, and listen, life here revolves around us. It’s about time they do something just for them. Really. This is great.”

Next to him, V lit up a fat hand-rolled. “Is it. You like the idea of Marissa looking at some other male’s junk?”

“It’s not an X-rated—” As his voice squeaked, he cleared his throat. “I mean, it couldn’t be … no, it’s not—”

“I already checked,” Rhage muttered. “They have the DVDs—they’re probably watching the extended, uncut versions.”

“So the strippers aren’t circumcised?” Lassiter put his palms up again before the growling got even worse. “Jesus, you guys are so damn touchy.”

Butch shook his head and decided the angel was on his own. “So, yeah, I mean, a little gyrating—a pec pump or two. It’s nothing to get worked up over. Fritz, can I have a refill over here again?”

The butler hustled over to pick up the empty glass. “Would any of you care for dessert? We have homemade ice cream and Petit Gâteau.”

Butch glanced at Hollywood. “What do you say there, my man?”

When Rhage just swished his ginger ale around in his glass, Butch cursed and said to Fritz, “This one here will have some even if no one else does.”

“Bring me the dessert,” Rhage spoke up.

Fritz bowed with Butch’s glass in his hand. “But of course, sire. I shall fix you a plate directly—”

“No. I want the whole dessert. All of the cake and all of the ice cream.”

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd that was how Hollywood ended up with a morose audience of however many playing witness to his consuming fifteen small chocolate cakes and two gallons of vanilla ice cream.

It was like watching paint dry, except there was no chemical smell and the room was the same color before and after.

The good news was that the booze was doing its job, fuzzing out Butch’s mind, making his body both numb and horny. “May I have another?” he asked a passing doggen who was removing the final chocolate-smudged plate. “Thank you so much.”

When his glass came back, he pushed his chair away from the table. “I’m out. I’ve got some work to do.”

And no offense to any of them, but hanging around in their vibe was just making him more depressed. Any more of this and he was going to start braiding the noose.

Walking out, he paused in the grand foyer. Looked up the stairs. Tried to imagine his Marissa ogling some actor in his underwear.

“Really. It’s fine. Good for her.”

He took his phone out and called up their text string. Hesitating, he thought he’d just send her something, you know, to remind her that …

Wow.

In his human iteration, he would never have given a shit about something like this. Marissa wasn’t only the love of his life; she was a female of worth who would never cheat on him. And hello, it wasn’t like she’d checked into a seedy motel with the guy, for fuck’s sake. She was hanging with her friends just like he hung out with his.

This was ridiculous.

He was not the jealous type—

The sound of shitkickers approaching had him glancing over his shoulder. It was Rhage, and the brother had a frothing glass of Alka-Seltzer in his hand.

Hollywood looked up the stairs. And dollars for dipshits, he was thinking exactly what Butch was.

“I’m going up,” the guy announced.

“Now, wait, wait, wait.” Butch grabbed that huge forearm and squeezed. “It’s not like you can just burst in there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s girls’ night.”

“So I’ll put on a dress.”

“Fucking hell, Rhage. Really?”

Next out were V., John Matthew and Tohr. And everyone else, including Wrath—and even Manny, who, in spite of being a full-blown human, was right there along with the hound-faced rest of them.

“We are not going up there,” Butch announced. “We’re going to go play some pool, and get drunk, and talk about all the kills we had in the attack on Brownswick. We’re going to have a great fucking night—day, whatever the hell it is. Now pick your balls up off the floor and let’s start behaving like men.”

“He has skills. I’m just saying.”

As Doc Jane spoke up, the captivated audience that was focused on the big screen was in total, very unmuted agreement.

Payne let out another of her now-trademark wolf whistles.

Xhex cursed and threw more Milk Duds at the image, yelling, “Damn, son, you get that shit! You get it!”

Marissa just laughed again. She couldn’t decide what was more amusing, the movies or the company—probably the company. Although the humans were not hard on the eyes, she had to admit.

And then it was time for another round of hooting and hollaring.

God, she couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed this hard. There was something about being with the girls that made the jokes both worse and better at the same time, and the giggling louder, and the silliness more stupid.

All of which was a very beautiful thing, as it turned out.

It also reminded her of how great it was to be accepted for exactly who she was, no external expectations laid on her, no shortfalls she hadn’t volunteered for cutting her down. No judgment, just love.

Plus a number of naked guys who were almost as hot as her male? Not a hardship.

When the final scene was over and the credits started to roll, they clapped like the actors could hear them all the way out in California.

“Can you teach me how to whistle like that?” someone asked Payne.

“You just put two lips around your fingers and blow,” the female replied.

“Isn’t that a line from a movie?” somebody chimed in.

“Are they going to do a third one—”

“Magic Mike Ginormous—”

“We need to watch one and two again first as prep—we’ve got a tradition to uphold—”

“Anybody see Nine and a Half Weeks lately—”

“What’s that—”

One by one, they stood up from the padded leather recliners and stretched in the dim, windowless room, backs cracking, shoulders unknotting. And it was funny—Marissa felt the urge to cut through the conversation and say something profound and meaningful, just to acknowledge the space they’d been in. But the right words didn’t come.

Instead, she said, “Hey, can we do this again?”

Then again, maybe that was exactly what she meant.

Well, what do you know, the peanut gallery was so on board: The rousing cheer was as loud as the hoots at the dance scenes, and the idea that this special time wasn’t a one-off made her feel a piercing kind of relief.

“I think we need a Chris Pratt marathon next. Guardians of the Galaxy,” Beth said.

“Is he the guy with the brother?” Bella asked.

“That’s Hemsworth,” someone answered.

Starting the line for the departure up the middle aisle, Marissa wadded her empty Milk Duds box and made a rim shot with it into the trash. Abruptly, she realized that she couldn’t wait to see Butch—and not because of all the scenes of half-naked bodies. She missed him—which was ridiculous, considering neither one of them had gone anywhere.

Heading for the door by the glass display of candy bars, she was smiling as she pushed open the—

“Dear … God,” she blurted as she recoiled.

The hallway beyond was filled with the males of the house, the Brothers and other fighters and Manny sitting on the floor with their backs to the bare walls, their legs stretched out, propped up, crossed at the knees or crossed at the ankles.

Apparently there had been quite a bit of drinking going on, empty bottles of vodka and whiskey littered around them, glasses in hands or on thighs.

“This is not as pathetic as it looks,” her Butch pointed out.

“Liar,” V muttered. “It so fucking is. I think I’m going to start knitting for reals.”

As the females emerged with her, each one of them registered shock, disbelief, and then a wry amusement.

“Is it me,” one of the males groused, “or did we just perform our own mass castration out here?”

“I think that just about sums this shit up,” somebody agreed. “I’m wearing panties under my leathers from now on. Anyone joining me?”

“Lassiter already does,” V said as he got to his feet and went to Jane. “Hey.”

And then it was group-reunion time.

While the other pairs found one another, Butch smiled as Marissa came over to him and put out her hand to help him off the floor. As they embraced, he kissed her on the side of the neck.

“Are you out of love with me now?” he murmured. “’Cuz I’m pussy-whipped?”

She leaned back in his arms. “Why? Because you pined after me while I was watching a dirty movie with my girls that wasn’t all that dirty? I think it’s actually—and brace yourself—really pretty cute.”

“I’m still all man.”

As she rolled her body against him, she let out a mmmm as she felt his erection. “Yes, I can tell.”

With Butch’s bonding scent roaring, he took his female’s elbow and drew Marissa deeper into the staff wing. Except for V and Jane, all the others had a shorter distance to go than they did: The Pit was just across the courtyard, but it was daylight now, and that meant a trip all the way downstairs, into the tunnel, and through the underground passage to get back to their bedroom.

He wasn’t going to last that long.

Not even close.

The first available vacancy with any privacy came in the form of an unoccupied staff bedroom that had pulled drapes, a twin bed with no sheets on it, and a very handy brass lock.

Butch didn’t bother turning the lights on; he just pulled his female against his body and kissed the ever-loving crap out of her as he kicked the door closed and worked that dead bolt like a pro.

“I need you so bad,” he growled.

“You’ve got me,” she said against his mouth.

Fucking perfect, his cock roared in his pants. And talk about following orders: with a quick shift, he backed her up to the bed, sat her down and knelt in front of her. As he inhaled deeply, he started to laugh.

“What?” she murmured, all half-lidded and wholly edible.

“You’re aroused.”

“Of course I am.”

“You weren’t when you came out of the movie.”

“Why would I have been? That was just good fun with the girls. Like going to a museum, you know? You appreciate the art, but you wouldn’t take it home with you.”

“So I’m still your favorite flavor?”

“You’re my only flavor.”

Well, didn’t that make him go all robin-breasted, dick swing with the ego. Flashing his fangs, he said, “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”

“Were you really jealous?” she said. “Of a movie?”

“Yes.”

The laugh that came out of her was so easy and relaxed, such a happy sound, that it made him hope she and her girls got together again and, yes, to watch sexy humans gyrate on the screen, if that was what made his mate uncoil like this. Granted, he wasn’t about to write that Tanning Chatum guy a fan letter, but he was more than grateful for those females and that friendship.

Anyone, anything that took care of his shellan was all right in his book.

Refocusing, he split Marissa’s thighs and eased her upper body down on the little bed. He had a lot of plans that involved him going down on her for two hours—but his cock wasn’t going to be able to wait for all that.

He needed in her. Now.

Zeroing in on the fastening of her slacks, he had her naked from the waist down with some quick hand work and one pull down her long, lovely legs. And then his palms were traveling up her calves, her thighs. With a moan, she spread further for him as if she wanted this as badly as he did, revealing her bare, glistening sex—and that was when he lost his damn mind.

Outing his erection, he went right for the heart of her, no preamble, no foreplay—they were both beyond ready.

“Marissa,” he groaned as he penetrated her, sliding in deep, the sensation at once familiar and bracingly electric.

Cursing on the exhale, he reared up and his hips took over, grinding, thrusting, pumping—and he loved how she held on to his neck and shoulders.

“Take my vein,” she ordered.

His fangs had already punched out of the roof of his mouth, and he bared them with a hiss. Striking in his favorite spot, on the left side, he drew deep, drank hard, got high on her taste as well as the sex.

He couldn’t last long with that, though. Shit was getting too hard, too fast down below. Licking the puncture wounds closed, he repositioned her so he could go even deeper—then he grabbed onto her hip bones and dug in, pistoning her body, rocking things so hard the thin metal frame banged into the wall and the tinny mattress springs became a symphony of wild creaking.

He heard her come, which was what he’d been after, heard that common, nothing-fancy name of his erupt into the sex-scented air—and he wanted to stop so he could feel that rhythmic gripping of her core. He was too far gone, though. His balls were tucking up and going hot, his pelvis was doing that autonomic jerking shit that he was no more capable of reining in than he could stop his own heart, and his cock was that bizarre combination of numb and hypersensitive—

Butch came so hard he got a load of fireworks across his vision, and even as he started to ejaculate, he knew he wasn’t finished.

He kept riding her, shifting positions again, arching farther over her body until his weight was braced on the balls of his feet and his arms were supporting him so he didn’t crush her.

Even deeper. Which was amazing.

Not so hot for the bed, which started to migrate across the floor.

But again, there was no stopping. He just walked along with it—until the frame fit itself obligingly into a corner.

Talk about some leverage.

Fucking. Perfect.

Butch kept going at it, pounding her, his body doing an uncoiling of its own, the weeks—and maybe, if he was honest, months—of feeling somewhat separate from her disappearing like he was fucking that subtle distance out of existence.

Lot of orgasms. The fantastic ugly kind where your face screwed up hard, and you were going to be sore when you woke up, and shit got really, really messy down below.

When it was finally over, he collapsed on top of her. He meant to roll over, though, so she could breathe easier. He really did. Yup.

Rolling over would be good right now.

Uh-huh.

In three … two …

… one.

Except he couldn’t quite manage the effort: He felt like someone had parked a Hummer on his spinal cord.

Marissa ran her hands up and down his arms. “You are incredible.”

He tried to lift his head. Discovered that the same rat bastard with the Hummer had left a four-wheeler on the back of his skull.

“No, that’s you.” Or at least, that was what he’d meant to say. What came out of his mouth was a stroke victim’s speech.

“No … that’s you,” he repeated.

“What?”

All he could do was laugh, and suddenly she was laughing, too—and that was when he forced himself to get with the program and ease off the poor female. She followed with him, and then they were scooting around so they were lying on the bed properly. With their bodies still throwing off tremendous waves of heat, they were warm, warm, warm even without a blanket.

“I love you, Butch,” she said.

In the dense darkness, he knew she was looking at him, and he fucking loved it. He wanted her undivided attention, craved it, needed it to ground him on some pathetic, talk-about-castrated level. But he would never demand that kind of thing from her—and for an impatient SOB, he was very, very willing to wait for it. God, when given freely? Her love, her focus, was a gift that, like her, never grew old to him.

Closing his eyes, he felt how much she loved him—and it was funny, sometimes, when you were with a person for so long, married to them, living with them, moments like this were just as wondrous and magical as that incredible instant when I love you had been said for the first time.

“God, I love you, too.”

The kiss he gave her now was soft and gentle, and not because he was spent—because, actually, if she’d been up for another round, he was more than capable of going the distance. No, he kissed her with care because the emotional tie between them was at once strong as a steel cable and delicate as a blade of grass.

With a light touch, she ran her fingertips over his chest. “Do you ever wish I were different?”

“Not possible. You can’t improve on perfection. And no, I don’t.”

“You’re sweet.”

“That is one thing that has never been said about me.”

“Well, you’re sweet to me.” There was a pause. “May I ask you for some help?”

“I’d be pissed if you didn’t.”

Cue another long pause. To the point that he eased onto his side and propped his head on his hand. Now, he wished there was more illumination in the room other than that thin strip around the doorjamb. “What’s up?”

“Well, I know you’re busy with work and the training center—”

“Stop. Really?” He frowned at her even though she probably couldn’t see it. “You’re going to suggest anything is more important than you?”

The curse she let out was a kind of defeat. “Can you help me find out who killed that female? Who she was, what happened to her, who did it to her?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I will. It would be my honor.”

Her exhale of relief was another compliment the likes of which he would never stop relishing.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“I was going to offer, but I wanted to respect where you’re at.”

“I can’t leave her in an unmarked grave.”

“Not going to happen. I’ll take care of it.” He frowned again in the darkness. “You should know something, though.”

“What?’

“I’m not the type who’s going to let it go.”

“Oh, I know. You and I will dig until we find out everything.”

Butch shook his head. “Not what I mean. The vampire race doesn’t have a police force. There are no jails—”

“There’s a penal colony out west somewhere. At least, there used to be. I’m not sure what happened to it?”

“Which is my point. There’s no real procedure or consequences for crimes within the race. No way to punish the guilty or handle false accusations. Wrath doing the audiences again has helped with certain kinds of conflict, but he’s judge and jury all at once—which is fine until we get some capital murders and felonies into the system. And they will come. That’s a fact of society whether you have fangs or not.”

“So what are you saying?”

His voice lowered to a growl. “If I find out who did that to some innocent girl? I’m not going to be able to let that go without reprisals. Do you get my drift?”