Immortals After Dark 12 - Lothaire

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    She blocked images of Lothaire’s chiseled torso from her mind, telling herself she was just getting reacquainted with her body.
    When she cupped one breast, a shaky breath escaped her. Damn, but she missed being caressed, missed masculine sounds of appreciation as she’d touched in turn.
    Ellie had enjoyed men, had been an incurable flirt all her life. She’d fogged up so many truck cab windows that she’d gotten a reputation.
    That was Ellie, the easy virgin—who was up for naughty talk, petting, grinding . As long as her jeans stayed zipped.
    But then she’d been sent away, banished from flirting and laughing and touching.
    In prison, she’d longed to feel the roughness of boys’ hands on her breasts, to hear their desperate moans in her ear. “Let me have you, Ellie. . . . I’ll only put the tip in, I swear.”
    She rested her forearm on the marble shower wall as her free hand descended down her belly and lower. Since she was now bare between her legs, Ellie perceived every different sensation—water drops running along her flesh, the rasp of one of her long nails. . . .
    She was slick inside, so tempted to do more than explore. She bit her lip and glanced around, half-afraid Lothaire would trace into the room and catch her.
    What would he do?
    When he’d snatched her against his body yesterday, she’d felt the unyielding power of his muscles, had felt his impossibly large erection.
    Her sex clenched at the memory of that hardness.
    A spray of water misted over the graze on her neck, making her shiver. The vampire had sampled her there, had seemed to relish her taste, groaning as he took.
    For some reason, the idea of that was so . . . erotic to her—as if he’d wanted her so much, he had to take a part of her into himself.
    Her breath shuddered out.
    What would’ve happened if Saroya hadn’t risen? Would the vampire have cupped Ellie’s breasts? She remembered how they’d ached. At that moment, she couldn’t have stopped him, had been in a sensual stupor from his mouth.
    Would he have trailed his kisses lower . . . and lower? She pictured those firm lips closing around one of her nipples, his blond brows drawn with pleasure as his pale hands kneaded—
    No! What was wrong with her? She detested the vampire, yet she was fantasizing about him? She dropped her hands at once, turning off the water. Leaning back against the wall, she caught her breath, getting control of her need.
    Vampires were always portrayed as hypnotically attractive in the movies. Surely he had some kind of uncanny sway over her—some supernatural quality about him.
    Although the more likely explanation was that she was simply hard-up after her long prison stay.
    After drying off, she padded to the closet, staggered anew at all the selections. She could spend hours mixing and matching. She’d never followed fashion in women’s magazines because she’d known she would never possess enough choices to create outfits, to have a “personal style.”
    In fact, she’d vaguely resented the women who had the resources—and the time—to spend on fashion.
    Still don’t have the time. Reminding herself that she had only a month at the most, she quickly chose a pair of beige slacks and a blue sweater with a low cowl neck. The outfit looked silly without shoes, so she slipped on a pair of tobacco-colored pumps.
    Would the vampire be up yet? Would they have another conversation—
or confrontation? She wondered if the fluttery feeling in her belly was hunger. Or nerves.
    She quickly braided the crown of her hair, leaving the rest to curl past her shoulders. After debating makeup, she opted for a light sheen of lip gloss—
    A thunderous bellow sounded from his room. Followed by another, and another. Louder, louder . . .
    Then quiet.

16
    W hen Lothaire awakened, he lay in a bank of snow. Though it was surely still day in New York, the moon’s yellow light streamed down over him.
    Sleep-tracing. Again. Where the hell am I now? Was it to happen every time he slept?
    He darted his gaze around, recognizing his whereabouts—because it was a property he returned to often, one he now owned.
    The field where his mother had died.
    How distinctly he recalled Ivana’s death and the night that followed. On a still eve just like this one, he’d finally been able to rise from his snowy cocoon. . . .
    The sun had barely set when he began clawing himself out of the snow. The humans had long since gone, but Lothaire had been forced to