“Then your mother is a true mistress of her craft, for your skills are immeasurable.” Gideon’s eyes warm. “I have a friend who is a performer of some renown in this city, an acquaintance of Lucien’s, and I believe she would be eager to meet you. I hope I can arrange a meeting one day. Why did you choose this life, this theatre of the grotesque, instead of the stage at the Palais Garnier?”
“I thought you detested the opera.”
“I do, but unlike me, you are a woman of refined taste.”
With a smooth flick of his wrist, he tosses the dice and gets both his men off the bar, blotting one of mine. He grins at me, every perfect inch of him radiating the most infuriating sunshine.
I want to burn up in his light.
I raise my eyes to him, fixing him with my most devilish smile. I quirk my lip to the side, allowing him to see the tips of my fangs for a fraction of a second.
And I say something true.
“Because I can be myself here.”
I know exactly what I expect. I know how a human should react to seeing a monster.
But that’s not how Gideon reacts.
He leanstowardsme, tilting his head again. That infernal gold curl flops across his forehead. His eyes fix on the corner of my mouth, where I retracted my fang, but there is no fear in that peacock-blue gaze, onlyhunger.
“You are yourself when you cast enchantments on stage, drenched in faux blood,” he whispers, his voice choked with awe.
Real blood.
“I am myself when I am both lover and horror, priestess and supplicant.” I sip my drink, aware of a tingle in my lips where the blood stains them. “In my grandiose and completely correct opinion, nothing says romance like splitting open the rib cage of your lover and snuggling affectionately inside.”
I’m testing him, pressing at the edges of what he’ll accept from acocotte.
Gideon shoves the table aside, scattering backgammon pieces across the thick Persian rug.
He falls to his knees, his hands finding my thighs. I grab his wrists, ready to toss him across the room for his insolence, but I find myself unable to separate myself from his warm, pulsing flesh.
Instead, I tighten my grip, drawing his warmth into myself, as if his fire can possibly thaw the ice from my immortal veins.
Gideon whispers. “Then allow me to present my rib cage for your pleasure, Mademoiselle.”
Damn him.
Damn.
Him.
His lips are an inch from mine, full and wet from the juice I gave him. His scent swirls around me, syrupy-sweet cherry laced with thebreathtaking tang of fresh, warm, vinous blood. My fingers itch to tuck that gods-damned curl back where it belongs.
We hover there, in that delicious, agonising space between acting and not acting, where every reason I shouldn’t kiss him does battle against the one reason I should…
Because Iwantto.
Gideon leans in, eyes wide open, dark irises blown out with hunger.
Iwanthim…
I draw back.
“Get yourself up off the floor before you crease that fine suit of yours.”
Gideon sighs. His shoulders shudder as he stands, drawing himself away from me as if the act of doing so is physically painful. I see the evidence of his arousal in the tent of his trousers.That is one impressive bulge.
