“Wait.” The word barely made it through the vise of her throat, so she tried again. “Sean, wait.”
He let her go, the release of the erotic suction making a soft pop. “No. Give me that mouth.”
She put her hands against his hot face. “I kiss you, you turn me loose.”
“No fucking way.” He shoved her hips down on him. “You feel that?”
“Kind of hard to miss.” She rested her forehead against his. “I know. Jesus. This is nuts.” She sucked in a breath of terrified delight as the ridge of his cock bumped into the folds over her clit. “A kiss for now.”
His eyes narrowed, and he shifted under her. “Where you gonna kiss me?”
Rowan’s head spun as she saw herself sliding from his lap, opening his pants, and taking him out. Her mouth watered as she imagined gripping the hard shaft and putting her tongue to the bulb of his cockhead. She could feel his hands in her hair, holding her, guiding her as he pushed between her lips, gliding over her tongue as she sucked . . .
He knew what she was thinking. “You like that, don’t you?” He dragged her hand down, pressed it over him.
“Oh, honey.” She rubbed him, blind with her own lust. “I’d love it.”
He pulled her close, whispered in her ear. “You gonna let me kiss you, too?” He licked the rim of her ear. “Because I want it. I want to kiss you and lick you. I’ll eat you all night, Cupcake.”
She was going to come, right like this, spread-eagled on his lap and shaking with need. And he knew it, because he started moving her back and forth, dragging her across him as his tongue did evil things to her ear, his breath harsh against it as he kept talking.
“I can feel it, all warm and wet for me, aren’t you?” He pushed against her, stroking her harder. “Yeah, I’m gonna spread those long legs and hold you down and kiss that sweet little pussy. Can you feel my tongue inside you? Fucking you nice and slow, in and out, until you beg for my cock?”
“Stop,” she groaned, but he only laughed and bit her earlobe, then pushed the tip of his tongue in her ear.
Rowan exploded, coming and coming again in waves that wouldn’t stop, until she thought she would lose her mind, her body twisting and fighting his hard grip and then shuddering over and over, convulsing from the force of it, and on some level she felt his arms tighten and heard the wrenching sound of his groan as he jerked under her, his hips slamming up once, twice, three times.
“God damn it.” He gathered her in and held her, his hands rough but reassuring as he stroked her arms and back. His chest heaved under her as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. “What the fuck was that?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she panted, still fighting for oxygen herself. “I think I’m bleeding from the ears.”
“You’re not. I already checked.” He tucked her head against his neck and sat back, holding her that way as they both cooled down. After a long time, he said, “I haven’t come in my pants since I was a kid.”
“Me, I usually take mine off.” She was too drained to lift her head. “I don’t know what that was.”
“You need a term?”
She offered up a weak chuckle. “No, I’m good.” Slowly she began the process of untangling her limbs from his, until he stopped her. She lifted her head, surprised to see the regret on his face. “Sean, that was the best orgasm I’ve had in years. Maybe ever. So if you give me shit about it, I’m punching you in the face.”
“Right.” He lifted her off him and set her on her feet before he surveyed the dark stain covering the crotch of his work pants. “What do I get if I say I didn’t mean to be so rough with you?”
“Kicked somewhere it hurts bad.” She pulled down her shirt. “I’d better go before I really have to whup your ass.”
She’d almost made it to the door when he caught her and turned her.
“I didn’t get my kiss.” He bent down, touched his mouth to hers, rubbing her lips with his in a sweet, soothing motion. “That was beautiful, watching you come for me.”
“That was primitive, animalistic, and fucking scary as hell.” She kissed him back with the same soft tenderness. “And beautiful, feeling you come under me.”
He rubbed a hand over her curls. “You tired?”
She’d never felt more awake or alive. “Why?”
“I want that kiss.” He stepped back and held out his hand. “Stay with me, Rowan.”
PART FOUR
Maison
September 29, 2004
Nice, France
The chef tested the fragment emulsion three times, lapping it from the wooden spoon with all the enthusiasm of a Pekingese being fed medication. He set down the implement, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly before looking up. “It is acceptable for the salmon tonight, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Chef.” After spending two years learning the hierarchy of the kitchen, over which Renaud Giusti ruled with an ungloved iron fist, Nathan Frame knew better than to smile. “Would you consider having Gisele prepare tarte à la crème vaudoise to finish?”
Few junior chefs had the nerve to suggest anything to Giusti, but the invocation of his daughter’s name pulled a small, sour smile from the old master’s face. “Ah, now I know. Giradet cooked for you when you were in Féchy. No one prepares saumon sauvage juste tiéde like the Pope of Crissier.”
“No one,” Nathan echoed dutifully. His was better, and they both knew it, but to say so would be the same as spitting on the retired chef, widely considered to be the grand master of traditional French cuisine.
Giusti frowned. “I am not sure. There is only so much wild salmon in the case.” He glared at Nathan. “You cannot make it with anything else, Anglais. It would be a crime against Nature.”
“Papa. Nathan.” Gisele stepped between her American husband and her French father and planted her hands on her hips. “Will you argue about fish and sauce until the bistro opens?”
“They are men,” her mother said from the chopping table, where she was packing split leeks with bouquet garni. “Of course they will.”
“What would you have me serve, Marie? Cassoulet and black peasant bread? Hmph.” Giusti’s black eyes softened as he rumpled her light brown hair with a big, callused hand. “Your husband must learn these things, ma douce, if he is to be a true French chef someday.”
“Someday?” Her dimples appeared. “Surely it will not take so long to teach him everything you know, Papa.”
Giusti grunted. “Once I thought it would be eternity. Now . . .” He shrugged before regarding his son- in-law. “Nathan, you will go to the market to buy more fennel tops for the salmon emulsion.” He hesitated. “Also I am thinking Gisele will need more unsalted butter for les tartes.”
“As you say, Chef.”
An hour later Nathan made his way through the crowded outdoor markets along the Cours Saleya. He didn’t bother to hurry; the locals and tourists crowding around the striped tents, cafés, and boutiques wouldn’t allow it. Coming to the market was an almost daily chore, one Giusti probably enjoyed sticking him with, but Nathan didn’t mind. If not for the handwritten signs and the voices chattering in French, he might have stepped through time to one of the turn-of-the-century open-air markets in old New York City.
Nathan had been careful since leaving Italy. He’d moved around for almost two years, assuming and discarding identities as he slowly erased all clues to his past. He’d known when he’d left the Order that his mentors would come after him; he’d been brought to Rome to finish his education and engage in their holy war against the maledicti, and he could not be allowed to roam freely with the knowledge he had. They had never anticipated his defection, of course; the Order had raised him from birth to serve them.
The day was warm; too warm for the long-sleeved shirt Nathan wore. He never went out bare armed in public, however. Someday soon he would have to have removed the twin dragon tattoos on his forearms. Whatever ability the double taijitu marked, it had never manifested. Now they were little more than slave brands his former masters could use to identify him.
Even now Nathan wasn’t sure why he’d turned his back on the men who had created and raised him to fight for their cause. Trained from birth to think of the Order as his only family, Nathan had felt the fire of conviction. Surrendering himself to his masters’ will had not caused him a moment of doubt. He had been convinced he was one of the Brethren up until his final test, when he had been pitted against one of the captive demons so that he would know the reality of their cause.
The Darkyn male had been deliberately weakened, both by starvation and torture, and had offered little resistance. Toward the end he had seemed almost happy to be delivered to his death. But when the time came to make the killing blow, all of the fire and hatred had drained out of Nathan. He found himself standing over the pathetic remains of his opponent, his blade hanging at his side, his eyes locked on the ruin of the once-beautiful face.
The evil one had smiled up at him. “I forgive you, boy. I forgive you.”
Nathan had backed out of the cell, suddenly awake as if after a lifetime of sleepwalking, completely horrified. He had been whipped for his cowardice, and sent back to training, where he had been beaten and tormented for his failure. Something changed inside him as he endured the pain and deprivation. He had done everything they asked of him, waiting, watching, and when the chance came, he had slipped silently out of the catacombs and through the city, not knowing where he would go, only that he would die before he returned.
He did not deserve his life, or Gisele, but now they were his. He would never spend another night praying on his knees to a God who permitted things like the Order and the maledicti to exist among the innocent. If that damned him to hell, he would gladly burn for it for all eternity.
“Nathan.” A heavy hand pounded his shoulder from behind, making Nathan jump, and he turned to see a short, bald man holding a brace of rascasse in his hand. “You are early today, good. Jacques just came with a fresh shipment from Lympia. You see?” He shook the scorpion fish in emphasis. “Beautiful, no?”
