Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(39)

Until he spun, snarling.

“Sorry,” a deep voice said, and the door shut again.

He drew in air he didn’t need, his lips glossy and a little swollen. I thought of how they had gotten that way and met his eyes. “If you stop now, I will kill you,” I told him distinctly.

The threat had no apparent effect, but a shiver went through him when I suddenly grasped evidence that he hadn’t been entirely playacting, either. “Dorina . . .” The tone was a warning, but I was way past caring.

I tugged him a little, sending a shiver through that strong frame. “Louis-Cesare. It’s good to finally have you in hand.”

He winced, either at the pun or the sensation, and his right hand tightened on my thigh. His left was occupied with the duffel, which he’d snatched from under the desk as soon as the door closed. I found that pretty telling, considering that he hadn’t even bothered to pull his pants up first. “You don’t.”

“More or less.” He was a big boy. Everywhere. “Although I’m a little fuzzy on why you stole my duffel bag.”

“It seemed the easiest way to get you off the floor without a fight.”

I stared at him incredulously. Louis-Cesare was the dueling champion of the European Senate. He didn’t walk away from fights; he relished them. I guess it’s true what they say about only being able to think with one head at a time.

“Then why’s your hand still on it?” I asked sweetly.

“I’m not the only one who is acting possessive.” He stared down at my own hand, blue eyes gleaming. “Are you planning to do anything with that?”

“I’m debating it. Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“That is not your concern.”

I stared at him, half in awe, half in exasperation. Louis-Cesare had been born the son of a king, and none of the centuries that had passed since had diminished his arrogance one iota. I had his dick in my hand, and he was still acting like he was the one in control.

“Okay.” I gave him an experimental stroke. It was a new interrogation technique, but I thought it had possibilities. “How about a trade? Give me back my property and I’ll return yours—in good working order.”

He didn’t look too impressed. So I varied my technique and was rewarded with a shift of hips and a heavy weight pressing into my palm. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and when they opened again, they were darker. But he wasn’t about to admit that I was getting to him.

Stubborn vampire. The evidence was rather . . . outstanding . . . in my favor. I picked up the pace, wondering if I should gentle him along to make this last longer or stroke him harder just to see how crazy I could make him. I felt a reaction ripple through his body and heard a hiss through tightly clenched teeth.

An answer if I’d ever gotten one.

But a second later, my wrist was caught in a grip of steel. “The vampire does not belong to you.”

I shrugged. “Give me back the Senate’s property then. And while you’re at it, you could explain why everyone is suddenly so interested in a loser like Ray.”

“Hey!” A protest drifted up from the duffel.

But the only answer I got from Louis-Cesare was a callused fingertip tracing a swollen lump on my cheek-bone. It was a minor wound, collected who knew where, and his touch was unexpectedly gentle. But something about it made me tremble. My skin felt too sensitive suddenly, enough that I didn’t know whether the barely there touch hurt or felt good. But it felt.

Not too long ago, I’d thought that was something I’d forgotten how to do. Lately, people kept reminding me, with Louis-Cesare’s name at the top of the list. I still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

His eyes dropped to my nipples, which had pebbled in the cool air. He grasped one of my breasts, firmly and without hesitation, like he had some kind of claim on it. It filled his hand, as I’ve never been small that way, at least. He seemed to approve, based on the squeezing that was going on. And God that felt . . . pretty amazing, actually.

He ducked his head, silky hair tickling my skin, and ran a wet and raspy tongue over the peaked tip. The small contact was shockingly arousing. Fresh sweat broke out all over my body, and my legs wrapped around his thighs, clenching when the hot, wet suction started. It made my eyes want to close, made me want to stop wasting time with questions, made me want to—

“I need him, Dorina,” he murmured against my skin.

Okay, now I was sure.

I moved my thumb an inch, just brushing across the sensitive tip of him. “Don’t try that shit on me,” I said evenly. And the next second I was on my back on the desk again, lengthways this time, so he had room to crawl up my body.

He trapped my hands over my head, eyes burning. “And what ‘shit’ would that be? The kind your father sent you to stir up?”

“What are you talking about?”

A laugh huffed out of him, or more accurately a breath of air, because there was no amusement in it. “Do you think I’m stupid? You rail against him, threaten him, swear you hate him, but when he snaps his fingers, you go running!”

“Bullshit! Mircea has enough yes types around him; it’s part of what’s wrong with him. But I’m not one, as you damn well know.”

Sapphire eyes searched my face. In the right light, they could look anything from cobalt to aquamarine; but they were always guarded. My fantasies tended to forget that.