Cerulean Sins (20 page)

His hands went to the back of his pants and it was Jason that slid the silk and the jeans down his hips. Him that revealed himself to me while I knelt in front of him.

He was smooth, the head wide and rounded, graceful, straight and fine, running slightly to the side, so that he nestled in the hollow of his own hip.

I took him in my hand, and his breath quickened. I lifted him away from his body just enough so that I could spill my mouth over the head of him, rolling my tongue along that graceful curve.

He shuddered under my touch.

I drew more of him into my mouth, sliding my hand down to cup lower things. He was smooth to the touch, everywhere I could touch with hand or mouth, there was nothing but the smooth perfection of him. He was shaved smooth.

I'd been with men who trimmed, and shaved some, but never one that was perfectly smooth. I liked it. It made so many things easier to take into my mouth, to roll and explore.

Every touch, every caress, every lick, seemed to bring some new noise
from him—whimpers, soft cries, breathless words. It became a game to see how many sounds I could draw from him.

I drew his pants down farther, so that I could spread his legs, lick between them, along that thin line of skin between testicles and anus.

He cried out, and I moved up his body, one lick, one nibble at a time. I took him into my mouth again, as much as I could from this angle, wrapping my fingers in a ring around the rest of him, my other hand cupping his testicles, playing along that line that ran between his legs. His breath was coming quick and quicker. His body quivered against me.

He grabbed a handful of my hair, drew me back from him. He looked down at me like a drowning man. “Up,” he said.

I frowned at him. “What?”

He bent down, grabbed my upper arms, drew me to my feet. He kissed me, and it was like he was trying to crawl inside me through my mouth, lips, tongue, teeth—something between a kiss and eating me.

His hands slid down my back, following the curve of my spine, then lower over the swell of my hips, until his fingers found my thighs. He lifted me, with just his hands on my thighs, our mouths still locked together. The movement of his hands spread my legs, pressed me against him. The feel of him so hard, so ready pressed against my body, drew small sounds from me, and he ate those sounds straight from my mouth, as if he were tasting my screams.

He used his hands to draw my lower body away from his, my arms still locked around his shoulders, one hand sliding through the baby silkiness of his hair. He moved one hand to my butt, supporting all my weight on one hand, while he moved the other hand between us. I had a second to realize what he was going to do. I fought the
ardeur
, I fought the feel of his mouth on mine, the feel of him in my arms, to rear back enough to try and say, something, I managed to say, “Jason,” and he drove his hips forward, upward. But the feel of him inside me was exactly what the
ardeur
wanted. Exactly what I wanted.

He entered me, and it wasn't hesitant, or gentle. He fought against the wet tightness of my body, both hands on the backs of my thighs, pulling me to him, as he pushed himself inside me. It drew small screams out of my throat, one after the other.

He walked us backward until he collapsed me on the edge of the bed, most of my lower body still held in his hands, trapped against him. He stayed standing, his body pinning me to the edge of the bed, his hands holding me as if I weighed nothing.

He stared down at me with eyes that were no longer human, but wolf. He drew himself out of my body, slowly, an inch at a time until I was almost
free, then he shoved himself back, and made me scream again. It wasn't a scream of pain.

He found a rhythm that was fast, and deep, and hard, as if he were trying to shove himself out the other side of me. He beat his body into mine with a thick, meaty sound.

The orgasm caught me unprepared. One moment I was caught in the rhythm of his body in mine, and the next I was screaming, writhing underneath him. I raked nails down his body, anywhere I could touch him, and when that wasn't enough I clawed my own body.

Jason's screams echoed mine, and his body tightened against me, spine bowing, head thrown back, and a howl spilled from his lips. The
ardeur
drank him down, his skin, his sweat, his seed.

He collapsed on top of me. His breath came in a painful struggle, and his heart pounded like a trapped thing against my skin. He scooted us more solidly onto the bed, his body still deep within mine. When we were both lying on the bed, breathing hard, pulses quieting, he looked down at me, and there was something in his eyes, something serious, and very un-Jason.

His voice was still breathless, hoarse, when he said, “I know that this may be the only time I get to do this. When I move, let me hold you for just a little while.”

My own voice wasn't much better than his, “Since I can't move from the waist down yet, sure.”

He laughed then, and because he was still inside me and partially erect, the movement caused me to writhe underneath him, tightening, setting nails into his back.

He screamed, and his hips ground himself against me again. When he could breath again, he whispered, “Oh, god, don't do that again.”

“Then get off me,” I said, voice almost as breathless as his.

He raised up on his arms, almost like doing a push-up, and drew himself out of me. Feeling him pulling out made me writhe again. He collapsed beside me, half-laughing.

When I could talk again, I said, “What's funny?”

“God, you're amazing.”

“Not bad yourself,” I said.

“Not bad?” he said, and gave me wide eyes.

I had to smile. “Fine, you're amazing, too.”

“Don't say it if you don't mean it,” he said.

I finally managed to turn onto my side so I could see his face better. “I do mean it. You were amazing.”

He turned on his side so we lay there facing each other, but not touching. “If I never get to do this again, I wanted it to be good.”

I had to close my eyes, to fight off another urge to writhe on the bed. I
let out a long, steadying breath, then opened my eyes again. “Oh, it was that. I had a really good time, but are you always this vigorous? Not every girl likes to be pounded into the mattress.”

“I've seen the men you've been sleeping with, Anita, I knew I could be as hard and fast as I wanted to be, and not hurt you.”

I frowned at him. “Are you implying that you're small?”

“No, I'm saying that I'm not huge. I'm good sized, but some of the men in your bed are more than good-sized.”

I blushed. I hadn't blushed the entire time we'd been making love, and now I blushed. “I don't know what to say, Jason, I feel like I should defend your ego, but . . .”

“But inch for inch I know where I stand, Anita.” He laughed, and slid an arm under my shoulders. I let him bring me into the curve of his shoulder. I slid my hand across his stomach, my other arm underneath the small of his back, my leg sliding over his thigh. We cuddled, almost as close now as we had been earlier.

“You were wonderful,” I said.

“I noticed how wonderful you thought I was.” He raised his free arm up so I could see the fresh bloody scratches I'd put down his arms.

I widened eyes at him. “Does your other arm look that bad?”

“Yes.”

I frowned, and he touched my forehead. “Don't frown, Anita, I'm going to enjoy every mark. I'll miss them when they heal.”

“But . . .”

He touched fingertip to my lips, to keep me from finishing. “No, buts, just amazing sex, and I for one want to feel the aches and pains of it as long as I can.” He touched my arm where it lay across his stomach, raised it so I could look at it. There were nail marks, some of them seeping blood, some just red and raised. “These aren't my marks.”

Of course, once I saw them, they started to hurt. Why is it that small wounds don't hurt until you see them? “Actually,” I said, “they are your marks, or at least a sign of a job well done. I don't remember ever marking myself up this badly.”

He gave that low masculine chuckle with an edge of laughter that was pure Jason. “Thanks for the compliment, but I know that whatever I did, it can't be half as wonderful as what Asher and Jean-Claude did a few hours ago. No amount of inches, or talent, will put a man in that league.”

I shivered, hugging him. “That's not necessarily a bad thing.”

“How can you say that? I've felt a fraction of what Asher did to you, and it's . . .” he seemed to be searching for just the right word, he finally said, “wondrous, mind-blowing.”

“Yeah,” I said, “the kind of pleasure you'd do almost anything to experience again.” My voice sounded less than happy.

Jason touched my chin, raised me to look at him. “Are you thinking of not going back for more?”

I tucked my face against his shoulder. “Let's just say that I'm not completely happy about it.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I don't know exactly.” I shook my head as much as I could pressed against him. “Truth, is that it scares me.”

“What scares you?”

“Sex is great, Jason, but this . . . what Asher can do with his bite.” I tried to put it into words, and knew that whatever I said would fail to describe it. “Asher feels like a Master Vampire in my head, his level of power, but he has no animal to call. He can do the voice trick like Jean-Claude, but that's a minor power. I was a little puzzled, I mean, he feels like a master, but where's his power?” I shivered again. “I found out.”

Jason rested his chin on the top of my head and said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that his power lies in seduction, sex, intimate play. He can't feed off lust the way Jean-Claude can, and he doesn't cause lust in those around him the way Jean-Claude does, but damn, once the preliminaries are out of the way, he can cause such . . . pleasure. It really is something that people would kill for, sign their fortunes away for, do whatever Belle Morte wanted them to do, just as long as Asher would keep visiting their beds.”

“So he's like this amazing lay,” Jason said.

“No, you're an amazing lay, Micah is an amazing lay, I'm not a hundred percent sure that Jean-Claude is as good as I think he is, because I'm not sure anymore how much of it is true talent and how much is vampire powers. I did not have intercourse with Asher. We just shared blood.”

Jason moved so he could frown down at me. “I'm sorry, but the wolf knows these things. It wasn't just Jean-Claude I smelled when I walked into the room.”

I blushed again. “I didn't say Asher didn't have a good time, I just said we didn't have intercourse.”

“And your point is what?” he asked.

“My point is that if that was only taking blood, I'm afraid to have real sex with him. I mean how much better could it be?”

He gave a laugh that held an edge of giggling, almost a giddy sound. “I'd love to find out.”

I raised up on one elbow. “Are you telling me you'd do Asher?”

He frowned, the laughter still glinting in his eyes. “I was a little confused for awhile about exactly what my preferences were. I mean I've been
Jean-Claude's
pomme de sang
for about two years now. It's amazing when he feeds, Anita, a-fucking-mazing. Enjoying being with him this much made me think I might be gay.” He traced his hand down my shoulder. “But I like girls. I'm not saying that with the right person bisexual isn't a possibility, but not if it means never being able to do this again. I like girls.” He drew “like” out into a multisyllabic word.

It made me laugh. “And I like men.”

“I noticed,” he said, still with a trace of laughter in his voice.

I sat up. “I think we've cuddled enough.”

He touched my arm, face serious again. “Are you really not going to bed Asher?”

I sighed. “You know how you said Jean-Claude is so amazing when he takes blood.”

“Yeah.”

“Jean-Claude says that Asher's bite is orgasmic, literally. So that means that Asher's bite is more pleasurable than even Jean-Claude's.”

“Okay,” he said. He propped himself up on pillows, hands folded across his stomach as he listened to me.

I was sitting Indian fashion, still nude, and it didn't seem to matter. It wasn't sexual now, just comfortable.

“I've had sex with Jean-Claude, but never allowed him to take blood with it.”

“Never?” he said.

“Never.”

He shook his head. “You are the strongest willed person I've ever met. No one else would have refused the double pleasure, not this long.”

“You haven't done both with him,” I said.

He grinned. “It's considered bad form to fuck your
pomme de sang,
unless they initiate it. If they initiate it, then it's an extra treat, and only if they've been good.”

“You sound like you asked him about this.”

“I did.”

I raised eyebrows at that.

“Oh, come on, Anita, I've slept with him longer than you have. You'd have to be more of a flaming heterosexual than I am to not wonder.”

“He turned you down?”

“Very politely, but yeah.”

I was frowning. “Did he say why?”

Jason nodded. “You.”

I couldn't frown any harder, so I tried to stop, but I was puzzled. “Why me? You've been his
pomme
longer than I've been his girlfriend, and a hell of a lot longer than I've been his lover.”

“By the time I asked, you were dating. He seemed to think that you would dump his ass if you found out he was doing another man.”

“You're making my head hurt,” I said.

“Sorry, but if you don't want the truth, don't ask.” He settled the pillows more comfortably at his back. “But you've managed to avoid answering my original question.”