State of Grace (Resurrection) (21 page)

I could hear the storm battering the walls of the cottage, and under that, soft sounds of sobbing and panting, and it was only when he shrugged
his legs free of the garment I realised the panting was coming from me.

His lips traced down my breast, licking a trail towards one very upright nipple. His hand crept along my hip, searching for the dampness between my legs. His mouth and his fingers found their goals simultaneously, and I couldn’t help a cry of pleasure as my nipple was drawn into th
e coolness of his mouth, and a finger parted the folds of skin between my open thighs. I gasped as the finger slid into me in one slow movement. He stirred against me and I lifted my bottom off the cushions, urging him with my body to replace his finger with something more substantial. He flicked my nipple with his tongue and I moaned in pleasure as my breast turned to white hot fire. I wanted him inside me, and I thought I was getting my wish as he withdrew his finger. Digging both hands into the hard muscles of his bottom, I tried to encourage him on top of me, spreading my legs further in anticipation.

Instead of sliding into me
, he found the hard nub at my centre and began to circle it with his thumb, sending flames of desire to every part of me. I had never wanted a man as badly as I wanted this one.

‘Please, oh please,’ I begged, one of my hands gripping his shoulder, the other rooting for his penis. When I found it we both gasped, my fingers closing around the width of him. He throbbed in my palm, cool and hard, and oh so big. Dear lord, I couldn’t wait any longer. I was close to climaxing without him even inside me, and
I wanted to feel all of him before my pleasure hit.

Too late:
his thumb continued to circle and the sweet tension was almost unbearable. When his finger plunged inside I was engulfed in pleasure, crying out with the force of it, soaring into the night. He held me, keeping up the rhythm until he was certain he had coaxed every shudder from me, then he did it all over again.

Roman
inhaled deeply and I could tell he was scenting me once more. He growled, a deep rumble in his chest, sending ripples of renewed excitement through me. I found it strangely erotic that my smell affected him.  His fingers hadn’t ceased their stroking, and ultra- sensitive, I squirmed against him, hardly able to endure his touch. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand any more of the exquisite attention, he stopped and pulled back from me, his mouth leaving my nipple, his hand stilling. Stopping was even worse.

‘Don’t stop,’ I sobbed
, ‘oh please don’t stop.’

He didn’t. Staring into my eyes, his face comp
osed and pale, he shifted position slightly, then thrust deeply inside in one long smooth stroke, never taking his gaze from mine, watching my reaction as he entered me. I shrieked softly as he filled me, his hardness swelling inside. I was impaled on him, and it was the most pleasurable thing I had ever experienced.

He moved slowly, long slow deep thrusts, and I drew my legs up around his waist, trying to get every last inch of him. His eyes were midnight black and as fathomless as the night sky,
but I could see his desire and pleasure mirroring mine. I knew I was going to climax again.  As I inexorably built towards it, he lowered his head and lapped at a nipple, then moved to the other breast so it wouldn’t feel left out. I sighed with the ecstasy of the sensations he drew from me and heard his ragged breathing as he controlled the pace of his thrusts.

Moving slickly inside me, my body turned to liquid as he stroked harder
and deeper. He bit at the exact moment my senses left me, my back arching as my climax tore through me. His teeth punctured my breast, twin points of pain swiftly morphing into undeniable pleasure, exceeding the sensations that were pulsing through me where our bodies joined. I shuddered, my whole body clenching and relaxing as the pleasure surged through me, aware of him sucking my life force with each beat of my heart, and giving it to him gladly.

He lifted his head and yelled ‘Eryres!’ and I
felt his body stiffen as he reached his own pleasure, pumping savagely into me. His long, long teeth were tipped red with my blood, and his heat coursed through me. I flew.

C
hapter 9

I didn’t need to open my eyes to know I was in the little bed in the other room of the cottage. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know I was alone. And I didn’t need to open my eyes to know what he was. All the pieces of the puzzle that was Roman fell into place and I accepted it with ease, surprised at how little fear I felt.

I stretched, my bruised muscles protesting: my throat was sore from Godfrey’s near strangulation, my stomach was tender from his punch and my head was aching, but I had never felt so good, so absolutely at peace with myself.

It was still daylight and I speculated at how long I had slept. Although, to a point, time was immaterial to me here, I missed the comfort and predictability of my watch. My life had been so bound by time I found it difficult to let the inexorable motion of the minute hand go. It seemed important I know the hour, yet knowing time was the least of my worries.

Vampire. The word echoed in my mind, lying in wait to ambush me when I tried to think about something else, catching me unawares. I analysed my conclusion, probing it for weak spots; he was incredibly fast- check; unnaturally pale – check; stronger than any human had a right to be – check. And let’s don’t forget he drank blood, too. My hand strayed to my left breast and I gingerly touched the twin
holes his teeth had made in my fragile skin. To my surprise they were partly healed. I craned my neck to look, pushing down the scratchy blanket. Yup – if I didn’t know better I would have thought they had been made a few days ago. I wished I had a mirror because straining so I could examine the puncture wounds hurt my neck. It also made me cross-eyed.

I thought some more: he was incredibly handsome, and the attraction was far more than just good looks. Wasn’t that supposed to be one of the signs of a vampire? My eyes opened wide
: perhaps that was why there weren’t any mirrors in the cottage, because of the reflections. I put a tentative tick in that particular box.

I hadn’t
seen him eat or drink anything, except me. And he had a sort of ‘alien-ness’, an other-worldliness about him. They both did. If Roman was a vampire, then Viktor had to be one, too. Then, there had been all that talk about ‘their kind’ and ‘humans’, and let’s not forget the mention of living for centuries: weren’t vampires supposed to be immortal? Another thought occurred to me: Roman was cold, not freezing cold, but cool to the touch, except after we had made love and he had drank my blood, and I recalled the warmth of him then. And, I had a strong suspicion he didn’t breathe: not all the time anyway. Only now and again. I vowed to listen for a heartbeat if I got close enough again. If.

The thought of getting ‘close’ to him, sent my nether regions into a tizzy, and I damped down my libido firmly. I had other issues to deal with; I needed food, badly, before I could get jiggy with him again.

I clambered out of the bed, awkwardly, my clumsy body giving lie to my name. There was nothing graceful about me now. In fact, I was in a bit of a state: hungry, hurting, and craving a shower. I suspected that bruises were rainbowing my skin, I knew my hair was sticking out in all directions, and I moved like an eighty year old arthritic woman. I would be startled, nay, thunderstruck, if anyone could find me attractive in this state.

I remembered the feelings Roman invoked i
n me, of being a gazelle to his leopard, of being prey, to his hunter. When I thought of him, apart from lusting after his perfectly formed body, I envisioned a big cat, a leopard. A predator.

I peeked through the shutt
ers and squinted at the light slicing through the gap. Even though the sky was overcast, pregnant with unshed snow, the white stuff on the ground was dazzling. Pure, virgin, unsullied snow coated everything. I estimated that about five to six inches had fallen during the night.

Belatedly I wondered where Roman was. He must still be in the cottage because I could see no footprints marring the crisp whiteness outside.

I dressed hastily, finding a linen chemise and pantaloons (although they were so weird, being in two halves and leaving the middle open, like crotchless knickers), thick woollen stockings,  underskirt, stupid long dress and a shawl, all folded neatly on a stool in the corner. I was touched at Roman’s thoughtfulness.

I put them on grate
ful for the warmth they would provide, even though the bedroom wasn’t unduly cold, and pulled aside the curtain separating the two rooms, expecting to see Roman. Nada. Nothing. I had a feeling of déjà vu: this was my Ground Hog Day. I’d lived this day before: not exactly the same, but close enough. Waking in an empty cottage, in the middle of the afternoon, wishing for coffee, food and a shower. And no Roman.

I halted. Daylight of course! Roman and Viktor would be somewhere underground, sleeping the sleep of the undead in their coffins, or whatever it was that vampires did during dayligh
t hours. Then I remembered both ‘men’ had been out and about yesterday afternoon, and hadn’t shown the slightest sign of frying in the sunlight. Admittedly, it had been pale winter sun and late afternoon, but it had been sunlight all the same.

So that
scotched that particular theory, I decided, then wondered if perhaps there was some odd vampire rule that said they could walk in daylight on every fourth Sunday, or when Jupiter and Saturn were aligned, or some other strange reason.

The fire was still smouldering and a blackened
kettle filled with water had been placed on the hearth, with a small bowl of crushed leaves nearby. I strongly suspected this might be the medieval version of PG Tips and I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Then I spied what was on the table. Food! Lots of it. Saliva flooded my mouth as I studied the spread in delight: slices of cake, almond-topped pastries, shelled nuts, apples, pears, plums, a loaf of bread, a pitcher of milk, cheeses (two kinds), thinly sliced meat, a jar of – was that honey? were all laid out, along with a plate and a small dagger-like knife. I did a little jig of pure joy. Food!

I wasn’
t sure how long I sat at the scarred table, but I was there long enough to wade my way through most of what was on it. Even when I thought I couldn’t force any more in, I managed another one of those fabulously flaky pastries. Finally, though, I simply couldn’t eat another mouthful without risking being sick, and I slaked my thirst with the milk, drinking it straight from the jug as there was no glass or beaker I could use. It tasted like the milk of my childhood, rich and creamy, before semi-skimmed had come to rule the dairy world.

I leaned back, stomach bulging slightly and felt more or less human
again. I could have used an aspirin or two, but I wasn’t in too much discomfort. So, having no other choice, I ignored my various aches and pains.

Next: the bathroom, a cold but
not too unpleasant experience and with bodily needs taken care of, I turned my attention to more ephemeral matters, as I trudged back through the snow after my visit to the privy, calf-length leather boots on my feet. They had been waiting for me by the door, along with a fur-lined cloak complete with hood. I would normally object to wearing fur, but from what I had seen over the past few days, no one was being particularly PC about it in this here and now. I decided to go with the flow and risk being stoned by any lurking animal rights campaigners, rather than freeze to death. I would have given my soul to have had this cloak during our mad flight through the storm last night.

Last night…
I grew all warm and fuzzy as an image of Roman staring deep into my eyes flashed across my inner vision, and I remembered the feel of his hands on my body, and that particular part of my body responded with a flood of heat and need that made me gasp. Ok, so perhaps not all of my bodily needs had been taken care of. Looks like I had one more that could do with some attention.

It w
as then the enormity of what I had done hit me. If my theory was correct, I had just had sex (the most fabulous, fulfilling sex I had ever had) with a vampire and he had bitten me. Not for the first time, either. Oh dear God – did that mean I was going to become a fully paid up member of the undead? I scoured my brain for what I knew about vampires, but the only thing I could remember was from the ancient Hammer House of Horror reruns that my dad loved to watch on Sky. He said he used to watch them with his father. And some of them were that old they were in black and white. Left to my own devices I tended to be more of a car chase and disaster movie kind of girl, than supernatural and horror.

I had the horrible idea, though, that everything I remembered about vampires pointed in one dire
ction: if they drank your blood you would eventually end up wishing for factor five hundred sunscreen and avoiding sharp pointy bits of wood.

Joking aside, I was
becoming rather worried. I had read Bram Stoker’s Dracula as part of my GCSE English Lit course, and I clearly remembered that Dracula had a hold over Lucy because he drank her blood. I was well aware Roman had an unmistakeable hold over me: I had had sex with him for God’s sake! (beautiful, earth-shattering sex) and I probably would again if he asked me nicely. In fact, he wouldn’t need to ask: I had a horrible feeling I would possibly throw myself at him at the first sight of those midnight eyes and that gorgeous chest. Did I mention his scrummy butt?

I couldn’t seem to keep a hold of the fear that jabbed
at me every now and again, then dissipated as swiftly as mist on a hot summer’s day. I was aware I should be terrified, but terror was being elusive right now.

I had a sudden heart-wrenching need to go home.
Home, where the only complication in my life was a tumour that was inexorably killing me, but at least it was something I could understand. Something real and physical, not something supernatural, outside the realms of possibility. I had to get out from here, get as far away from the cottage and the two men (beings) who ‘lived’ in it. Distance may help me gain a better perspective, and with that thought in my mind I ran for the door.

The stables were warm and dry. Both horses had blankets over their backs and half full hay boxes. Either Roman or Viktor had tended to them last night, drying them off and feeding and watering them. Both sets of jaws chewed contentedly and the stalls were filled with the comforting noise of horses at rest. A hoof stamped, followed by the swish of a tail and the rustle of dried grass as more hay was pulled free. The gelding whuffled at me, a mixture of greeting and contentment.

He was a liver chestnut with a white blaze and four white socks, and was as fluffy as
a teddy bear. I guessed in summer his coat would shine a bright auburn, but in the depths of winter it was thick and shaggy, a deep burnished black-red. His flaxen mane and tail made him look pretty, and I told him so. He pricked his neat ears at me and studied me with calm interest. He didn’t appear to hold it against me that I had dragged him out into the storm last night, and had then fallen off him.

The stallion did. Standing at least two hands taller than the gelding, he was a massive eighteen or so hands high
. This was what I always imagined a war horse to look like, an animal robust enough to carry a knight into battle. His hooves were huge and he scraped one grumpily through the thick bed of straw beneath his feet. His ears were twisted back and his eyes rolled. He was meanness personified, in spite of his impressive grey dappled colouring and black tipped mane and tail. A typical stallion then: all attitude and testosterone.

I doubted I could handle him
, and to tell the truth I wouldn’t want to try. He would be very strong and, I suspected, in spite of his huge size he would be very quick on his feet. He had the height of a shire, but not the build: his legs were longer and leaner and without the lush feathering. His face was more dish-shaped than a shire and he had a fine head, and a neck arching with muscle and pride.

The gelding whuffled at me again and I wished I had thought to bring him one of the apples left on the table. I stroked his soft nose, reaching up to him. This was no donkey, either. He was a big horse, too, and if I had seen him on his own, without standing next to the stallion, I would have been
impressed at the size of him. He had the build of a hunter and a sweet temperament. He nuzzled me with his soft lips.