Blood Kiss - Ward J. R. (чтение книг .txt) 📗

He heard her come, which was what he’d been after, heard that common, nothing-fancy name of his erupt into the sex-scented air—and he wanted to stop so he could feel that rhythmic gripping of her core. He was too far gone, though. His balls were tucking up and going hot, his pelvis was doing that autonomic jerking shit that he was no more capable of reining in than he could stop his own heart, and his cock was that bizarre combination of numb and hypersensitive—

Butch came so hard he got a load of fireworks across his vision, and even as he started to ejaculate, he knew he wasn’t finished.

He kept riding her, shifting positions again, arching farther over her body until his weight was braced on the balls of his feet and his arms were supporting him so he didn’t crush her.

Even deeper. Which was amazing.

Not so hot for the bed, which started to migrate across the floor.

But again, there was no stopping. He just walked along with it—until the frame fit itself obligingly into a corner.

Talk about some leverage.

Fucking. Perfect.

Butch kept going at it, pounding her, his body doing an uncoiling of its own, the weeks—and maybe, if he was honest, months—of feeling somewhat separate from her disappearing like he was fucking that subtle distance out of existence.

Lot of orgasms. The fantastic ugly kind where your face screwed up hard, and you were going to be sore when you woke up, and shit got really, really messy down below.

When it was finally over, he collapsed on top of her. He meant to roll over, though, so she could breathe easier. He really did. Yup.

Rolling over would be good right now.

Uh-huh.

In three … two …

… one.

Except he couldn’t quite manage the effort: He felt like someone had parked a Hummer on his spinal cord.

Marissa ran her hands up and down his arms. “You are incredible.”

He tried to lift his head. Discovered that the same rat bastard with the Hummer had left a four-wheeler on the back of his skull.

“No, that’s you.” Or at least, that was what he’d meant to say. What came out of his mouth was a stroke victim’s speech.

“No … that’s you,” he repeated.

“What?”

All he could do was laugh, and suddenly she was laughing, too—and that was when he forced himself to get with the program and ease off the poor female. She followed with him, and then they were scooting around so they were lying on the bed properly. With their bodies still throwing off tremendous waves of heat, they were warm, warm, warm even without a blanket.

“I love you, Butch,” she said.

In the dense darkness, he knew she was looking at him, and he fucking loved it. He wanted her undivided attention, craved it, needed it to ground him on some pathetic, talk-about-castrated level. But he would never demand that kind of thing from her—and for an impatient SOB, he was very, very willing to wait for it. God, when given freely? Her love, her focus, was a gift that, like her, never grew old to him.

Closing his eyes, he felt how much she loved him—and it was funny, sometimes, when you were with a person for so long, married to them, living with them, moments like this were just as wondrous and magical as that incredible instant when I love you had been said for the first time.

“God, I love you, too.”

The kiss he gave her now was soft and gentle, and not because he was spent—because, actually, if she’d been up for another round, he was more than capable of going the distance. No, he kissed her with care because the emotional tie between them was at once strong as a steel cable and delicate as a blade of grass.

With a light touch, she ran her fingertips over his chest. “Do you ever wish I were different?”

“Not possible. You can’t improve on perfection. And no, I don’t.”

“You’re sweet.”

“That is one thing that has never been said about me.”

“Well, you’re sweet to me.” There was a pause. “May I ask you for some help?”

“I’d be pissed if you didn’t.”

Cue another long pause. To the point that he eased onto his side and propped his head on his hand. Now, he wished there was more illumination in the room other than that thin strip around the doorjamb. “What’s up?”

“Well, I know you’re busy with work and the training center—”

“Stop. Really?” He frowned at her even though she probably couldn’t see it. “You’re going to suggest anything is more important than you?”

The curse she let out was a kind of defeat. “Can you help me find out who killed that female? Who she was, what happened to her, who did it to her?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I will. It would be my honor.”

Her exhale of relief was another compliment the likes of which he would never stop relishing.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“I was going to offer, but I wanted to respect where you’re at.”

“I can’t leave her in an unmarked grave.”

“Not going to happen. I’ll take care of it.” He frowned again in the darkness. “You should know something, though.”

“What?’

“I’m not the type who’s going to let it go.”

“Oh, I know. You and I will dig until we find out everything.”

Butch shook his head. “Not what I mean. The vampire race doesn’t have a police force. There are no jails—”

“There’s a penal colony out west somewhere. At least, there used to be. I’m not sure what happened to it?”

“Which is my point. There’s no real procedure or consequences for crimes within the race. No way to punish the guilty or handle false accusations. Wrath doing the audiences again has helped with certain kinds of conflict, but he’s judge and jury all at once—which is fine until we get some capital murders and felonies into the system. And they will come. That’s a fact of society whether you have fangs or not.”

“So what are you saying?”

His voice lowered to a growl. “If I find out who did that to some innocent girl? I’m not going to be able to let that go without reprisals. Do you get my drift?”

Chapter Twenty-two

Raging. Hard-on.

The following nightfall, as Craeg resurfaced from the kind of sleep that was so dense it was practically a solid, he had a big-ass chubby straining at his hips: Laying on his side, having rolled over into his preferred position at some point, his hand was about three inches away from his cock—and on the backs of his closed lids, images of Paradise played like a slide show calculated to get him sprung and keep him that way until he got off.

Yeah, sure, his conscience put up a fight, but it was a battle doomed to be lost.

He wasn’t going to work himself out in the bed, though. The nurse was coming in to check on him every fifteen seconds, and knowing his luck, she’d pick just the right time to crack the door and make sure he was still breathing.

Bracing himself to sit up, he—

Had absolutely no problem moving. Shifting his legs off the bed. Getting to his feet. In fact, he felt as though he’d slept for a month.

Huh.

It was Paradise’s blood, of course. And that made him a little afraid of her for some reason.

One by one, he unhooked himself from the various machines and bags of fluid, and when an alarm sounded, he punched at the buttons of the monitor until the thing fell silent. Then he headed for the bathroom, cranked on the shower, and shut himself in, figuring the nurse who was no doubt going to run in like a fire truck to a house blaze would see for herself that he was up and at ’em.

Sure enough, there was a knock on the loo’s door just as he ditched the johnny and stepped under the spray.

“Craeg?” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Yup. Showering and ready to eat.”

“That’s good. Be careful, though—do you need help?”

He glanced down at the enormous erection sticking straight out in front of his hips. “No. I think I can handle things all on my own.”