“Stop,” I said, and my voice was firm. “I know what you are. You’re a vampire.”
He hissed and uncoiled himself from me, slinking back.
“What are you?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m just a woman, and I’ve seen some things.”
“You really know how to kill the mood.”
“You weren’t just here to watch me,” I said.
He beamed a half-grin at me.
“Correct. Duke Arden’s running a dirty game with Ar-Trem. I’m here to see what he’s shipping. Looks like you are, too.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “I can’t talk about it.”
“You on Corkie’s payroll? I hear he wants to blackmail the Duke. Supposed to have leverage over him. These books would prove it. Let me just look at ‘em. I’ll give ‘em right back.”
“You promise not to hurt me once I hand it over?”
“I promise I’ll never hurt you,” he said.
I passed him the little black book and he flipped through it, tutting and tsking.
“Yup. About what I thought. Look here. Metal exports are all the way down. The Duke’s taking shipments over and just dropping them off. But the money keeps coming back. What are we… ohhhhh. Look. He’s pushing Opium on the Chinese black market. Look at this. ‘Flowers,’ he says. Not a very smart man.”
Past-Vic closed the book and handed it back.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m working for Richard Tremblay. Supposed to investigate his associates. That’s the whole reason this party was started tonight.”
“Is that so?” I asked. “Can you prove that?”
“That I’m working for him? Whyever would you ask that?”
“You know I work for R—Master Tremblay as well,” I said. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same side.”
“Little girl. There is no such thing as the same side in games of intrigue. Now, if you’ll excuse me. The boys believe I’ve wandered away from the game for the little boy’s room. Unless you have any other reasons you’d like me to stay?”
I thought about Eddie. Honest to God, I did. I tried to hold him up in my mind’s eye like a candle to ward off any untoward thoughts. But the way Vic’s voice curled up and in my ears…
“Go,” I said, barely choking it out.
“Are you sure?” His hand was suddenly on my shoulder, and I could feel his warmth radiating from him, some inferno of lust.
He bent down to kiss me, and as soon as our lips touched, I knew all was lost. He walked me back to the bed, sitting me down, grabbing my face and forcing his tongue practically down my throat. He waved his fingers, and I could feel a force like static press my wrists back against the bedposts.
“What are you,” I said, but he kissed me again, and I struggled to try and reach for him.
I could feel my ankles sliding into those sonic cuffs as well, watched as my legs slowly spread as he moved his fingers like a magician. I moaned as he slipped in one digit, then another, and explored me. This was so wrong, I thought. This was. This was cheating. This was. This was adultery.
And then he was moving, the whole of him, and I felt that static again, that static electricity something swelling and slipping inside. I tried to argue, tried to plead, tried to do anything I could but felt myself and my inhibitions melting, flowing away and pooling around me. He was moving inside me without even being near me now—hands moving and orchestrating me like a puppet from afar, and I groaned and thrashed and moaned my pleasure on the bed, writhing, until I felt it, like a volcano spewing up out of me, and my orgasm finished.
I was trembling, a pool of flesh and limbs unsteady.
“That was amazing,” I said. “What was that?”
“Magic fingers,” he said, closing his palms up.
