“I normally make a man beg much longer before seeing me in a bathrobe,” she purred, settling into a plush chair nearly identical to the ones in my room. She’d stoked a small fire in the hearth,and the flames danced in the glass of whiskey perched on her other side.
“And how many of them knocked on your fourth-floor window?” I closed the window behind me, dusting my hands off before settling in the chair across from Miss Amato.
“You’d be surprised.” She nodded to the whiskey, and I shook my head. “And how can I help you this fine . . . ” she glanced at the clock above the mantel, “ . . . morning.”
She could let me untie that infuriating robe while I sank my teeth into her neck. She could keep that self-satisfied smirk until I fucked it off her face, until the only visitor she allowed in her window was me. She could tell me what enchantment she wove that had me speechless, gawking, heaving for breath like a petrified teenager with a crush.
“Patrick?” She arched both brows. “Everything alright?” I could smell the soap on her skin, knew she must still be warm and damp in the folds of the robe—places where I needed desperately to run my tongue and trace my fangs.
I cleared my throat, hard, unsuccessful in dispelling the growing lump there. “I’m feeling strange.” My voice was thick, choked.
“A little worked up after your dinner?” There was that smirk again as she lifted the tumbler to her lips. I had to stop looking at her lips.
Desperate for some semblance of control, I settled on the ticking clock above the fire, hands wavering in the flickering light. “A simple feed shouldn’t be enough to . . . have such an impression.” I crossed and recrossed my legs in the chair, discomfort swelling against my best efforts.
“Billy told me this place can have that effect—although he thought it was his dirt.” She stubbed her cigarette out, stretching in her seat with a satisfied sigh that nearly undid me. “ButI won’t have anything to offer you on that front until my appointment at the records office tomorrow.”
“So . . . the way I’m feeling . . . itisthis place?” There was too much hope hanging off the question.
“That depends.” She refilled her tumbler with no more than a second splash. “How are you feeling?” Her sharp, dark eyes fixed on mine as she, too, recrossed her legs. The barest flash of her thigh had me gripping the arms of the chair hard enough that I heard the upholstery tear.
“Out of control,” I barely managed through gritted teeth. I could see her pulse, followed it through her every inch, could smell the warmth of her. Drool was pooling at the front of my mouth, and it took an all-too-obvious swallow to dispel.
“Go burn off some of that fresh energy.” Rye raised her glass in the direction of the dark woods. “Plenty of hunting, or so the fanglings say you told them.”
“You disapprove of my methods.” I couldn’t stop tracking the rise and fall of her breath, the soft swell of each involuntary, life-perpetuating action. How long had it been since I’d released a sigh? Since I’d heaved a breath in exertion? I would suck the air from her lips and press it free again for the luxury of mimicry.
“I think you’re stern and that takes some getting used to for this group. But that’s not why you’re feeling . . . ” She took another sip, fixing me with a pointed look. “How did you put it? Out of control?”
I nodded, grinding my teeth so hard I could almost taste their dust. Every piece of me was twisting, low and tight, heat lapping over my chest and neck in waves. Why had I come here? How did I think this was going to help?
Rye’s smirk split into something brighter, rarer, more brilliant. A true smile. “You poor thing.” She stood, all liquid like the melting ice in her glass, and joined me in my chair, settling into my lap like a blessed pool of sun in the winter. I froze as shewrapped her arms around my neck and dipped her mouth to my ear. I was right—she was still warm and damp from her bath.
“Billy said it had been a while,” she whispered. “That you might be overwhelmed by me.”
“Billy had a hand in this, did he?” I let my hands wander to her waist, across the plane of her back, over the tempting swell of her thighs.
“Don’t mistake this.” Rye pulled away, fixing me with a meaningful look. “I’m here because I’m an expert researcher, and I’m good at my job. But I know how men react to me, and Billy’s not blind.”
“Yes. Of course. Research.” I traced the impossibly soft skin of her neck down along her clavicle, something in me clenching as she hummed and tilted her head to give me better access.
“I like how much you fight it.” She grinned again, the full smile punching the air from my lungs. “I’m a sucker for a man who plays hard to get.”
“I fear I’m only playing myself then.” My hands found the base of her skull, the silkiness of her hair. I tugged, testing, and nearly combusted at the heat that sparked in her eyes, the rapid descent of her mouth, pausing just a breath from mine.
“Don’t make it weird,” she whispered, the warmth of her dancing across my cheeks, my only warning before she kissed me.
It was like stepping into the full blaze of the sun after too many centuries in the dark. Heat slammed over me, boiling, searing, bubbling under my skin, and the only relief was more of Rye—more of her against me.
I fumbled with the tie of her robe, unable to swallow the throaty growl at the sight of her bared in the firelight. Her breasts were two modest swells above a soft waist lined with stretch marks, the delicious stripes continuing down over herthighs. I wanted to trace each one, to praise the work they’d done for such a woman.
But Rye had other ambitions. Her hands made short work of my belt and trousers, releasing my cock with an urgent bounce, her touch firm but needy, pulling and twisting me to a peak.
I pulled her to me, maneuvering her into a straddle so that the heat of her core met the press of my cock. The friction sent stars wheeling overhead, crashing down over the edges of my vision. I cupped her breasts, thumbing her pert nipples and licking the soft skin between, wishing I could swallow her moans from the air.
Angling herself, she pressed my cock to her entrance, sliding easily over me as I took her nipple into my mouth. I sucked and lapped first, testing, but her insistent hands on my shoulders, gripping the back of my neck, the neediness of her as she rode me, adjusting to my size, told me she wanted more. Careful of my fangs, I nipped at the tight bud, meeting her cry of pleasure with my own at her response. She slammed down on me harder, faster, a free hand pounding the back of the chair. I repeated the action, lavishing small bites across her breasts as she rode me, controlling the speed and cadence of our union.
She was beautiful, sweating and undone, hair mussed at odd angles, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. I was lost to the vision of her, memorizing every flickering shadow licking across her body.
