A Hunger Like No Other (Immortals After Dark, #1)

by Kresley Cole

His questions over the last half hour were making her feel stupid, and for some reason it felt vital for him not to think that.

Even with her limited assistance, she could feel him learning, could perceive how intelligent he was. His questions indicated that he was reasoning out his own answers as he soaked up knowledge in a way she’d never imagined was possible.

Lachlain finally gave up fighting not to stare and openly studied her, finding it disturbingly pleasing. He told himself it was only because he lacked something else to occupy his mind.

“Werewolves like the blues. Who knew?”

She must have felt his gaze because she peeked over at him with that shy look, nibbling her lip before glancing away. He scowled to find that one look from this vampire made his heart speed up, like those laughable humans’ had.

Again he questioned fate, questioned his instincts. There was no way they could be together. Even as he thought this, his hand itched to touch her hair. Even as he thought this, he imagined what her smile would be like. He was like a randy lad, ogling her thighs encased in tight trews, eyes slowly following the raised clothing seam that ran between her legs.

What he wouldn’t give to toss her on the back bench in this car and take her thoroughly with his mouth, readying her, then pin her knees to her shoulders to receive him.

Would her vampire nature crave killing so badly that she wouldn’t be able to control it? And what would he do? Facilitate her? Protect her while she dragged down some unsuspecting human? Another . . . man?

Lothaire, the Enemy of Old, an ancient adversary, had traced into the shadows of the room, behind Ivo’s seat. Everything about Lothaire was unsettling, from his stark white-blond hair, to his gleaming red eyes, to his chillingly expressionless face.

He frowned to find his hand reaching out to stroke her hair, and jerked it back.

When she closed her eyes and shivered, he made the decision for her. Before she could even finish sputtering a protest, he’d stripped her to her underwear, then himself completely, and clasped her in his arms. He dropped them into the steaming oversize bathtub with her between his legs.

A second later a finger from his other hand traced the thong. “This pleases me,” he growled.

What no one knew about Emma was that she loved to be touched. Adored it. Even the more because contact was utterly rare.

Now Emma had a cruel but divinely handsome Lykae who couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her. She feared she’d be a sponge for his touch even as she hated him. She feared he could make her a beggar for it.

She moaned again and her head sank back against his chest. She sounded as if she’d never been touched like this. The utter surrender wasn’t sexual, but he thought she’d give anything for him to continue. She seemed starved for it.

Urges wracked him. She was wearing the silk that was little more than a string, and the sight of it was even better than his imaginings.

“Can I sleep in one of your shirts?” He stood back, clenching his fists, brows drawn. Why would she want to be dressed in his clothing? Why did he want it as well? He needed to be inside her so badly that he ached, and yet he was stalking to his bag.

Anger flared again. “No longer.” She slept with him from now on, and he would never accept that unnatural custom of his enemy. “I will no’ let the sun get you again, but you’ll break yourself of this.” “Why do you care?” she asked softly. Because you’ve been out of my bed for far too long.

“Where’s the rest of your blouse?” he snapped under his breath. The back was completely cut out and only a bow-tied string held it together.

“Why, I don’t know! You should send me outside to wait.” Lachlain glanced at the door, clearly debating leaving, and she couldn’t help her smug expression. He narrowed his eyes, then rasped in her ear, “All the better to feel their gazes on you,” while the back of his claw traced up her back.

Lachlain didn’t care what it was; she’d never wear that damned unfinished shirt in public again. The bow that swayed low across her slim back as she glided along was like a magnet for the gazes of every male in this place. Lachlain knew they were imagining untying it. Because he himself was. More than one man elbowed a friend and murmured that she was “hot,” earning a killing look from Lachlain.

Now it struck him that he would never share a meal with her, never drink wine with her. What would she do at functions within the clan—? He stopped himself. What was he thinking? He would never hurt them by bringing her to their gatherings.

Relief flooded him. The day turned just like that. “So you doona have one.” He liked the small sound of frustration she made, especially since it came instead of a denial. No current lover, no vampire bairn. Only him and her. And when he claimed her, he would do it so hard and so long that she wouldn’t be able to recall another before him.

“You want a lover though, do you no’? Your little body’s greedy for one.”

“I could satisfy you.” Reaching under the table, he snaked his hand under her long skirt, touching her inner thigh, making her jump back in her seat. He found it amusing that she could be shocked so easily when most immortals developed a blasé attitude about everything. She was right—he did enjoy embarrassing her.

“The next man I take into my bed will accept me for what I am and won’t look at me with disgust for the way I’m forced to survive. I want a man who goes out of his way to make me comfortable instead of the opposite. Which means you’ve disqualified yourself from the competition from night one.”

Fate had settled them like this. He was stuck with her. Which meant there’d be no other competitors for either of them ever again.

He dropped her shoulders before his fists clenched. She’d been hungry? His mate had suffered from fucking hunger while under his protection. He had no idea what he was doing. . . .

“You will drink from me for now on.”

“Then you’ve got to take from me. Because I just signed on to be your breakfast.”

Finally she dabbed the tip of her tongue at her lip, then licked there. Her eyes turned silver. To his shock, he went instantly hard.

With the first draw, her eyelids fluttered closed, and she moaned; he went dizzy with sexual pleasure, feeling on the verge of coming.

The pleasure he derived was indescribable, and her every draw intensified it. She clung to his arm so sweetly, holding it between her breasts. As if he’d ever take it away. Her nipple was so hard between his lips.

The lass had a smile such as he’d never known.

Every detail of this sordid act with her was erotic. Her face grew softer, her body fuller—gods help him—curvier. If possible, her hair shone more. He vowed she would drink him—only him—from then on. And, sweet Christ, she needed it every night.

“Lachlain,” she purred his name as he’d waited to hear for a millennium.

“You’re strong from my blood.” He wedged his hips between her legs. “I’m stronger just for drinking,” she snapped, which was true, but she also suspected his immortal blood, taken straight from his body, was seriously high octane.

He gave her a patronizing look. “Admit it. You like the way I taste.” She’d tasted power, tasted him, and lusted for more.

“You assume I’ll drink from you again?” With a sexy smirk and a rumbling voice, he said, “I’ll have to insist.”

“Now, doona hold back how you feel, lass,” he interrupted. When she glared at him, he smirked. “It pleases me that you’ve obviously given us a lot of thought. Working out all the angles.”

“Granted, with all your new curves”—he raked his gaze over her, then shook his head in that way men did, as if he was a goner—“I would no’ mind keeping you around as my mistress, but nothing so serious as my one mate.”

“What game do you play at, lass?” She stared at him, speechless. “You dress like this, when I can barely keep my hands from you now?”

“That’s the second thing.” His voice went low, and he cupped the side of her face. “I’ll be getting you into my bed.”

“You know what? I’m going to agree to continue. Mainly because I know you won’t let me out of my promise anyway. But I’m also going to clean out your stash. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He leaned forward, far too close for comfort, putting his face directly beside hers to say in a low voice, “And I’m going to have your legs wrapped around me and your cries in my ear before the week is out. Count yourself warned as well.”

When Lachlain had seen her tonight outside the hotel, looking curvy in a sinfully short skirt, with her hair shining and full, his heart had hammered in his chest for her. He’d seen her sexy little shoes and imagined the heels digging into his back when she wrapped her legs around him. Her eyes were bright, her skin glowing. He was stunned to realize that even the moon had never held his gaze so completely. And she was staying with him by choice, lured by jewelry. Which was already hers.

He glanced down at his arm, smirking at her wee fang marks, disbelieving his reaction to her bite. Knowing his beliefs and aware of how sick others would find it, he reasoned he must be depraved—because he’d reveled in it.

Though it should be a mark of shame to be hidden, he liked to look at her bite because it reminded him of this foreign, secret pleasure—and that she’d never drunk from another. Only to him had she delivered that dark kiss.

But he was her first and would be her only, and that made him proud.

Perhaps her vampire family had found her too sensitive or introspective and had been cruel to her. That thought made fury fire in him, made him relish the idea of killing anyone who’d treated her ill. Lachlain was aware of what was happening. He was siding with her, beginning to consider all things in terms of them. Somehow the bonding with his mate had begun with a bite.

“Like being your first.” Was he for real? Was he asking these questions not to embarrass her, but because he was being a . . . a male?