Forsaking (Vampire Assassin League Book 26) (7 page)

He was thankful he’d cleaned up in his big Victorian claw-foot tub and donned new store-bought underwear briefs before heading into the city last night. This could be worse. Bram shifted on the seat. The wood was hard. Unforgiving. Shoving deeper into it didn’t alleviate the throbbing pain overtaking his groin area. It felt like he was immersed in a fiery bath and someone kept adding boiling water.

Lady Luck was on Marielle’s side. And she was good. Not perfect, but damn close. The two times he’d had a better hand, he’d believed her bluff and folded. She now had over two million in chips in front of her. He’d lost his spurs, his boots, and both socks. She knew a whole lot about him, too.

More than any other person.

Ever.

He’d told her how he’d run away from home - a farm back east. Hooked up with a herd leaving Texas. Learned how to ride. Rope. He’d been twelve. Big for his age. Raw-boned. Eager. Angry. Those traits helped when he’d been tossed from a mustang or had to race down a stampede and head it off.

After he lost the next hand, he’d told Marielle of those years. Six of them. Each summer the trail ended at Dodge City. That last year he’d gotten a little too drunk. Shot up a bit too much of the city. Had a nice overnight stay in the jail. Gotten off with a fine. That night altered him. He no longer cared for long days in the saddle with only his horse and the wind. He wanted more out of life.

So. With Marielle’s next win, he’d told her more. He’d spent his nineteenth year practicing guns and cards, got fitted for a couple of fancy suits, and took up life as a steamboat gambler. The Mississippi River was full of men just like him, all working the card rooms and anywhere else they could get into a game. Or a fight. Bram ran through a couple of small fortunes before deciding gambling wasn’t his calling, either.

A couple of wins later, and his mate knew more.

Bram had been twenty-seven then. He’d been in a few gunfights. He never lost. He had a reputation. Dobbin Creek, Nevada wanted that. They’d hired him as sheriff. And despite how he’d flushed and mumbled through it, Marielle got him to admit that he’d toyed with settling down then. He’d had his eye on a clapboard house and a very pretty girl. Fate sent him on another path, however. He didn’t tell her why. That was one secret nobody would ever hear. It had been bad enough he’d ditched a future and gone into Indian Territory for a spell. Bram joined a gang. Spent a summer and fall working the stage line, lightening drivers of their strongboxes. Getting his picture and name on wanted posters.

He’d learned from that experience. Not how to become an outlaw. That was the easy part. He’d learned that nobody could be trusted. And that any company was sometimes too much company.

Oh. Hell
. His mate even knew how he’d been turned.

He’d been heading back to Dobbin Creek. Spring. 1883. Penance included paying for past sins, and remorse was a weight he’d tired of hefting. He suffered a thirst nothing quenched, a hunger nothing satisfied. He felt old beyond his years. Thirty-four. That’s why he’d surrendered to a posse. He hadn’t fought a neck-stretching from the first tree they’d come across, either. He still remembered the feeling of everything going dark before fate stepped in again. Akron Profit had materialized from behind him, tossed Chinese-made firecrackers like they were candy, scattered men and horses, and then he’d cut Bram down. That night Bramwell Stark got the choice: Vampirism or burial in an unmarked hole somewhere between Winnemucca and Carson City.

She didn’t look quite as skeptical when he’d finished, but he was only able to send a quick glance her way before looking elsewhere. He didn’t have a choice. The room had gotten warmer. The air even heavier. Each breath carried a sensual scent now, adding to his ills. He couldn’t quite place it. Warmed musk oil? A hint of cedar wood as it caught fire? All he could do was endure it and try to keep her in ignorance.

One more hand, and she’d have his gun. He’d also be out of chips. Unless she loaned him some. Or he managed to win. She started shuffling, losing more than one card as if she’d lost agility or something. Bram watched her hands. He didn’t dare look anywhere else.

Her heart was a ragged thump of motion. He knew because his matched it. Her breaths were short. Almost gasped. His own matched them perfectly, making him a bit light-headed. That was ridiculous. He didn’t need air. He hadn’t breathed for decades. The consequence of finding his mate shouldn’t change things this much. He had to focus. She hadn’t shed one piece of clothing, but he could swear he saw the outline of nipples through her shirt. Small. Pinched tight.

At the sight, he lost command of his canines. He’d been keeping them at half-length. That stricture was history. He clamped his lips shut. Fangs stabbed into his tongue. The taste sent fire shooting to his groin, scorching the area. The zipper fly was the temperature of a red-hot branding iron. This was worse than penance.

“So...what’s it like?”

Her voice was a husky whisper. His shoulders sagged momentarily before he caught the loss of control. Bram tightened everything again. Trembled for a bit. And then he tried to answer. He should have waited. The word was growled. And slurred, due to his teeth.

“What?”

“Being a vampire. What’s it like?”

She looked sincere. Bram’s glance touched on her features before skittering away. The piano to one side of them was inanimate. Wood. Ivory. Strings. Totally safe.

“Pure hell at the moment,” he finally replied.

“Really? Why?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“I knew you weren’t a vampire.”

He shook his head.

“I have to win another hand first? Is that it?”

“No.”

“Then, why can’t you answer it?”

He licked his lower lip. It was a wasted gesture. He didn’t have any spit and his fangs were in the way. “Becoming a vampire is being dead. I can walk. Talk. Exist. But I’m still dead.”

“I thought it was eternal life.”

“No. Uh...well. No.” He sounded like he’d been on a three day drunk. With bad whiskey.

“You don’t look dead.”

He cleared his throat. That didn’t do much for his voice, either. “We’re told when we go into this. We all get warned. Getting turned is not eternal life. It’s eternal death. Unless...uh.” He stopped. Choked down a swallow through a too-dry throat. Blinked. The piano wouldn’t even come into focus.

“Unless what?”

“There’s one, uh...event that alters undeath. Brings...things back.”

“What things?”

“Sensations. Emotions. Heartbeat. The ability to...uh. Yeah.”

Damn it to hell. And back
. He was blushing. He felt it taking over his upper chest, throat, and then it stained cheeks. And his dick was joining in, slamming against the zipper with bruising efficiency.

“Really?”

She wasn’t going to let it go. He’d have to tell her. He’d just have to be strong enough to hold any response back. It felt like his entire afterlife had been spent readying for this one moment. The mate gift was everything Akron had promised. And then some. It was wonder. Awe. Amazement.

He was afraid of what it would feel like if she rejected him.

“So...are you going to tell me what it is? Or do I have to guess?”

He narrowed his eyes.
Nope.
Still couldn’t see the piano clearly. There was a red-colored wash of color in the way. Blood red. Thick. He spoke in that general direction. “You sure you want to know?”

“Oh. Yes. Most definitely.”

Bram turned his head. Lifted his chin so he could see around the hat brim. He didn’t even try and hide his teeth. Oddly, her image was the only thing he could make out. She was surrounded by a haze of red-tinted fog. And damn. She was incredibly beautiful. That long black hair. Those aqua-shaded eyes. The full, red-hued lips. He shook for long moments as he took in the view. The wooden chair kept accompaniment as it skittered along the floor, pulling rugs with it. One of the arms broke loose in a hand. He clenched his fist tighter around it, warping the wood.

“We find our mate.”

“Mate?”

“I didn’t believe it. Thought it was so much hokum. Until...right now.”

“You have fangs.”

“I know. I’m a vampire. I told you.”

“Holy shit! You have
fangs
!”

Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. Both bad signs. Bram didn’t move his gaze.

“Marielle? I need an answer.”

“To what?”

“I just explained. I have been reanimated. It’s hell. Trust me. You don’t have much time. I don’t know what will happen if your answer is no. Heck. I don’t even know what will happen if the answer is yes.”

“Wow.”

He didn’t actually hear the word. There was too much buzzing going through his ears. He saw her lips make the gesture and assigned the sound. And then she pointed to herself. His heart stopped.

“I’m your mate?”

He managed to nod. It seemed to be the only motion available to him. Everything else on his entire frame was locked in place. Held in check by the power of will alone. Just like his Colt 45 when he used it.

Hammer back. Loaded. Primed.

And cocked.

Time stopped.

Sound was right behind it.

A second ticked by on her wristwatch.

He heard it. Several more followed. Shivers coursed his skin as she watched him. She didn’t blink. She wasn’t breathing. The other chair arm came loose with a crack of splitting wood as he tightened his fingers on it.

“Take the hat off, cowboy.”

“The...hat?”

Her words irritated. Confused. Both emotions were reflected in his voice. He was surprised he spoke. He could barely function. He was caught in a cesspool of angered longing frustrated by raging need. The mating urge was at consuming level. Bonfire high. Searing hot. His command of anything was in question. She didn’t understand. He hadn’t been succinct enough. He
had
to mate with her. Mesh. Get buried. Deep. That need superseded everything. It hammered against every restraint he engaged, like a beast testing its cage. Over and over. Again and again. Harder. Stronger.

And she was what? Playing strip poker?

“You still trying to hide?” she asked.

He lifted a hand. A broken chair arm came with it. Bram shoved his hat off with his forearm. Felt it slide down his back before it fell. He didn’t care where it landed. Freed from his hat, his hair hung to his shoulders. An errant strand fell across his left eye. He pushed it away with a shaky hand. He couldn’t move his eyes from her.

“Wow.”

“Wow?”

The word was a grumble of sound from deep within his reanimated body. Bestial. Raw. His fingers tightened. The wood splintered into slivers of kindling, adding wood dust to the air mix.

“You need words? Okay. Fine. You got ‘em. It’s yes! You hear me, Bramwell Stark?
Yes
!”

She jumped upward. Her chair tipped over. Bram leapt across the table, scattering chips and cards and broken chair parts. He snagged her in his arms, and then stayed airborne. The level of his emotions terrified him after so many years of feeling nothing. Sensations loomed, overwhelmingly massive. Beyond scope. The room wasn’t large enough to contain this. No enclosed space could. They hovered beside the table for what could be moments or an eternity of them. Her arms were about his chest, her legs straddled his thighs. Want hammered at his gut. Desire squeezed his heart. Need had a grip on his groin that just wouldn’t let up.

Her frame began trembling in perfect cohesion with his. Their hearts beat in tandem, breaths fused. He’d been right to avoid locking gazes with her earlier. It was beyond mesmerizing. He could drown in her eyes. Longed to. He’d give anything. Pay any amount. The clarity of her eyes! Aqua cool. Ocean deep. Universe wide. Her eyelids lowered slightly. Her mouth pursed. And it was her move that brought their lips together. Touching. Lightly at first, and then...

Oh. Hot damn!

Her kiss was intensity. Power. Absolute pleasure. And it was painful. Shards of fire shot through every part of him. He hadn’t prepared, either. He hadn’t even covered over his fangs. She got a tiny cut. He got a taste. And that sent his body and mind rioting.

They started spiraling. Gained speed. Lift. Breadth. He was shaking, and he was sucking. The most rapturous sound started coming from her throat. A long, drawn-out cry of complete wonder. Beautifully toned and orchestrated. It infiltrated the space, thickened the air. Making it a materialistic entity that cushioned. Supported. And buoyed.

Marielle tightened her hold on his hips. Pulled him closer. Tighter. And then she shimmied her loins against him, sending their spin even quicker.

His head smacked into the ceiling. The hit separated their lips. His cry conveyed loss. Anger. Ache. Her voice carried the same emotions as it died, leaving an echo of sound. He licked at the dual puncture wounds he’d made in her bottom lip. Sealing. Healing. All the while working to contain and direct what had become a nightmare of passion-fueled aggravation and frustrated need. His broken words reflected most of it.

“Oh, darlin’. Oh, Marielle. Oh, sweet. Love.”

“We’re...flying?”

She wanted to talk? Now?
Ah...hell.
At least she’d panted between the words. It wasn’t much. Bram groaned before answering.

“Yeah.”

“You can fly?”

“Uh. Sorry. Control issues.”

“Oh. Don’t you dare apologize. Just. Don’t. This is about the coolest—! Where are we going?”

“Inside.” He dropped enough to clear the first door.

“Inside? Oh, yeah. Please.”

She whispered it against his earlobe, and then licked the spot. Bram’s head smacked the ceiling again as elation lifted them. Tremors scored through him, keeping rhythm with each head knock. It took several moments before that subsided.

“Your table looks inviting, Bram. Sturdy, too.”

“I got a bed, sweetheart.”

“All I saw...was a coffin.”

“I got a big bed. Just inside—oh!
Darlin’!
”

She wiggled against him some more, scrambling his wits. His words. And his tongue. Her arms loosened around him. And then she put her hands on his chest and pushed, using her legs for balance. It took an act of will, and a lot of effort, but he gave her an inch of space. Another. And what she did with it nearly sent his head off his shoulders.

She yanked her top over her head, giving him a good look at her perfect bosom. She was nicely-sized. Firm. Pert. With the smallest, most tasty-looking nubbins...

Bram starting heaving against her. The crotch of his denims had become an instrument of torment. His zipper resembled a medieval torturer’s tool. With spiked teeth. It skidded along flesh with every lunge he made. He should have worn long johns. They didn’t have a front opening.

“Oh, honey. Marielle. I need you. I want you. I have to be buried in you. Oh, darlin’. Please?”

He was begging. She laughed. An instant flash of anger got trumped by the feel of her fingers. First on his belly...and then against his waist as she plucked his belt prong loose and then she worked the waist button of his trousers open.

“The table looking any better to you, handsome?”

She licked her lips. Blew him a kiss. Bram’s control slipped. And they dropped.

Hard.

He’d rolled, so it was his back slamming onto the wooden surface instead of any part of her goddess body. The room didn’t have a high ceiling. The landing shouldn’t have been as bone jarring. Breath-robbing. Passion-denting. Bram grunted. It would have hurt if he wasn’t dealing with it already. Or something close. Holding back the mating urge was a physical reality. It pained. Demanded. Centered in his loins, it radiated outward from there. Coursing through his thighs, searing his lower back, then hitting hard in his belly.

The table wobbled. Creaked as it swayed twice. And then it held. Any notion of pain went right out his ears, because he had both hands cupped about her breasts, discovering exactly how perfect they were. But she was doing even worse damage to his ability to rein this in. She’d molded her hands around his erection through the denims and she’d started squeezing and caressing...and then she was talking again.

“Oh, Bram. Wow. Oh, man. You are—. There are no words. Holy heck. Bet the saloon girls loved you back then. Didn’t they?”

“Huh?”

It was the best he could manage. She expected him to make sense? His comprehension skills were running a far second to tactile sensation at the moment.

“I’ll rephrase. You’re packing some major muscle, Bramwell Stark. I mean
major
. The ladies had to have loved it. Yes?”

She squeezed. He finally caught her drift. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah. That.”

“Don’t remember any...uh...complaints.”

“They were probably too busy giving standing ovations.”

“What?”

“Later, cowboy. You are...just. Wow. I mean, wow. You are very nicely equipped, Bram. Heavy. Long. Hard. Hmm.”

She matched each word with a caress. Her tone held awe. Intrigue. Excitement. Her aqua-shaded gaze lifted to meet his. A yellowish light seemed to emit from the centers of her eyes. Just outside her pupils. It tantalized. Destabilized. He lurched upward and clumsily dropped back. The table wobbled again, but handled the move.

“Oh, baby. May I?”

“May...you what?”

“It’s an expression, cowboy. Doesn’t mean much. Just don’t say no. Hear?”

He snorted. She fumbled with his zipper pull. It didn’t pull down easily. Strain was making each zipper tooth cling. Bram didn’t know how to help. He vibrated with desire and want while teetering on the brink of a precipice. The final bit of zipper opened. His cock sprang out. She caught him with both hands. Made a tunnel. And then she started sliding along him...

Down.

Back up.

Down again.

He was going mad. His shoulders smacked against the tabletop, making knocking noises. “Oh darlin’. Oh, sweet. Oh, Marielle.”

“Sure wish you’d won at least one hand earlier. Know what I mean?”

“What?”

She maneuvered her hands up.

Back down.

Her hands were delight. Pleasure. He reveled in her ministrations. She was wrapping him in heat. Heavenly tightness. Each move creating the perfect collusion of tension, pressure, and movement...

Up again. Man. His body wasn’t just shaking. The table was quaking beneath them. He needed to stop this. Before things got out of hand.

Literally.

She giggled. It was a breathless sound. “Our poker game. You never got my shoes off. Remember?”

“No.”

“Can’t get my leggings off without removing the shoes first.”

“Oh. Not a problem, sweetheart.”

Bram grabbed the sides of her waistband and yanked outward. Material tore. Seams split. She gasped. Her breasts jiggled. He gave a growl and continued ripping until he had her freed enough. She had some tiny lacy string thing doing little more than highlighting exactly what he craved. It sure wasn’t covering much. He stuck a thumb beneath a string and pulled it away. He didn’t get farther. She knew exactly what he needed. She chucked a leg over him and mounted.

Oh.

Holy hell
.

Bram’s entire body went ramrod still. Stiff. Taut. He was afraid to move. Every muscle was locked. Wound to a maximum tightness. A steel coil ready to rupture. It wouldn’t take much for that to happen. The slightest touch. The smallest space. The first opportunity. She was ready. Hot. And incredibly tight. He was getting sheathed in heaven. Swathed by wet satin. Caressed and lubricated with thick honey. Little sighs accompanied her move to encase him. Inch by inch.

“Oh, Bram. You’re...wow. Really big. Larger...than. Ah!”

Another inch. His restraint took another hit. He ground his teeth together. Shook in place. The table shuddered. Her body sucked him in another inch.

“Oh, darlin’. I’m sorry—.”

“Oh! Don’t you dare apologize. Are you frickin’ kidding me? Oh wow. Wow. Bramwell Stark.
Wow
.”

She was down. He was fully sheathed. She was trembling. He instinctively flexed. And all kinds of things happened, starting with her exclamation and ending with a series of pumping motions he had zero control over. None. His hands gripped her waist. Not just to hold her, but to manipulate. He lifted her slightly. Pulled her back down. He did it again, lifting her a little more this time. Slid her down a little quicker. Accomplished another small lift. Back down.

“Oh, Bram. Uh...this is. You’re just. Oh. Oh.”

His ass started thumping against the tabletop, creating a rhythm she matched with her heels. And then each breath.

“You are so...wow.
Big
.”

The words came between surges of her body as she alternately sucked him in, and then eased out. Perfectly timed. Perfectly executed.

“It’s...been a while. And you’re...wow. Just...wow. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”

Stopping was not the problem. Maintenance was. He’d entered a realm of intense pleasure matched alongside supreme delight. Unbelievable pressure was keeping company with a riot of returned sensation. It was too soon, and not soon enough. Too much, yet not enough. He’d held back almost too long. Tamped things almost too tightly. Restrained just a bit too heavy-handedly. And every thrust, every twinge. Every slight move, drew him closer to losing complete control. He needed to command. Dominate.

Take.

“Oh man, Bramwell. You are...one hell of...a ride.”

Her breaths were coming quicker. Each one took in more air. Held it longer. He knew, because his matched. Exactly. Something twinged in his pelvic area. Sharp. Harsh. It sent a stab of ache. He groaned.

“Easily worth...eight...seconds.”

“Eight...what?”

The words were grated. That came from sending them through a raw throat.

“Don’t tell me...you don’t...know what...that means...either.”

He shook his head.

“You need...to get out...more. Oh. Oh.
Oh!
”

She screamed the last word, sending a joyous sound aloft. Her head snapped back. Her neck and breast reddened. And Bram went crazy.

He grabbed her, rolled, slid somehow off the table, and the next thing he knew he had both feet planted on the floor, her buttcheeks settled on the table edge, and he was pumping. Hard. Swift. Furious.

“Oh, darlin’. Oh, Marielle. Oh, sweet! Ah!”

His strokes got wilder. Deeper. More intense. There was no stopping this. There wasn’t even a way to divert it. All he could do was thrust. Pull out, and thrust back in. Again and again. Harder and deeper. Wildly. With complete abandon. And absolute power. She’d been right about his table. It was sturdy.

“Yes! Yes! Oh, Bramwell! Yes!”

Her words touched his heart. Lifted his emotion. Fueled the conflagration all about them. Every heartbeat came louder. Stronger. Quicker. Each breath deeper. Harsher. More strident. Until the air reverberated with a hammering sounds and heavy breaths. Pressure attacked his lower back. Weakened his legs. Grabbed at his ability to move. He damn near sobbed.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Yes! Yes! Again! More!”

Her wish was his to grant. Bram slammed into her. Again. And again.

“Now!”

She pushed onto him, grabbed his shoulders, and started shuddering. And everything went beyond crazy. Bram’s eyes slammed shut, he shoved his head back, formed a back-cracking arch, and roared. He sounded enraged. Insane. He couldn’t halt any of it. The release was violent. Unrestrained. And explosive. He lost contact with the floor. It didn’t matter. He’d entered a place of absolute ecstasy. Wonder without bounds. Bliss beyond description. He’d never experienced anything even close to this. Everything about mating was bright. Wondrous. Enervating. Death and destruction didn’t exist. Time and space were meaningless. There was just this experience...with Marielle.