Read Online Dark Desire by Christine Feehan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christine Feehan
Ads: Link
towel, pulled on her mint-green robe, and stumbled out to check on her patient. Switching off the generator, she made her way to the bed. The glass was still sitting on the nightstand. Full. Shea sighed. Very gently she touched his hair. "Please do what I ask and drink the blood. I can't go to sleep until you do, and I'm so tired. Just this once, please listen to me."
His fingertips traced the delicate bones of her face as if memorizing her shape, the satin softness of her lips. His palm spanned her throat, fingers curling around her neck. He pulled her toward him slowly, relentlessly.
"No." The single word was more moan than protest. He increased the pressure almost tenderly until he had pulled her small form onto the bed beside him. His thumb found the pulse beating frantically in her neck. Shea knew she should struggle, but she was beyond caring, lying helplessly in his arms. She felt his mouth move over her bare skin, a whisper of movement, an enticement. His tongue stroked gently. She closed her eyes against the waves beating in her head. He was there. In her mind. Feeling her emotions, sharing her thoughts. Heat coiled in her as his mouth moved over her pulse again. His teeth scraped, nipped; his tongue caressed. The sensation was curiously erotic. Searing pain gave way to warmth and drowsiness. Shea relaxed against him, gave herself up to him. He could decide life or death. She was simply too tired to care.
Reluctantly he lifted his head, sweeping his tongue carefully to close the wound. He savored the taste of her—hot, exotic, the promise of passion. There was something terribly wrong with him; he understood that. Part of him was locked away so that he had no past. Fragments of memory seemed like shards of glass piercing his skull, so he tried not to allow them in. She was his world. Somehow he knew she was his only sanity, his only path out of his dark prison of pain and madness.
Why hadn't she come to him right away, when he had first called her? He had been so aware of her presence in the world. He had bent his will and commanded her obedience, but she had waited. Jacques had had every intention of punishing her for forcing him to endure madness and pain. Now, none of it made any sense. She had suffered much for him. Had there been some reason she had resisted his call? Perhaps the betrayer or the assassins had been following her. Whatever the reason, she had suffered greatly at his hands already. It didn't make sense that she had deserted him deliberately, prolonged his agony. He could read compassion in her. He felt her willingness to trade her own life for his. When he touched her mind, he felt only light and goodness. It did not add up to the cruel, treacherous woman he had perceived her to be.
Jacques was weak, vulnerable in his present state, unable to protect either of them. Shea was small and fragile. He had been so alone. Without light or color. He had spent an eternity alone, and he would never go back to that ugly, dark world. He slashed a wound in his chest, cradled her head to him, and commanded her to drink. Binding her to him was as natural as breathing. He could not bear to let her out of his sight. Shea belonged to him, and right at this moment she needed blood every bit as much as he did. The blood exchange had been made. Their mental bond was strong. When his body was healed he would complete the ritual, and she would be irrevocably bound to him for all eternity. It was instinct as old as time itself. He knew what to do and that he must do it.
As small as she was, Shea felt right in his arms, a part of his insides. None of it made sense, but in his narrow world, it didn't matter. Even as she fed, her mouth soft and sensuous against his torn flesh, he lifted the glass and carelessly emptied the contents down his throat. When he had sensed her sleeping as she bathed, he had awakened her, fearful of the separation. Now she would sleep beside him where she belonged, where he might have a
His fingertips traced the delicate bones of her face as if memorizing her shape, the satin softness of her lips. His palm spanned her throat, fingers curling around her neck. He pulled her toward him slowly, relentlessly.
"No." The single word was more moan than protest. He increased the pressure almost tenderly until he had pulled her small form onto the bed beside him. His thumb found the pulse beating frantically in her neck. Shea knew she should struggle, but she was beyond caring, lying helplessly in his arms. She felt his mouth move over her bare skin, a whisper of movement, an enticement. His tongue stroked gently. She closed her eyes against the waves beating in her head. He was there. In her mind. Feeling her emotions, sharing her thoughts. Heat coiled in her as his mouth moved over her pulse again. His teeth scraped, nipped; his tongue caressed. The sensation was curiously erotic. Searing pain gave way to warmth and drowsiness. Shea relaxed against him, gave herself up to him. He could decide life or death. She was simply too tired to care.
Reluctantly he lifted his head, sweeping his tongue carefully to close the wound. He savored the taste of her—hot, exotic, the promise of passion. There was something terribly wrong with him; he understood that. Part of him was locked away so that he had no past. Fragments of memory seemed like shards of glass piercing his skull, so he tried not to allow them in. She was his world. Somehow he knew she was his only sanity, his only path out of his dark prison of pain and madness.
Why hadn't she come to him right away, when he had first called her? He had been so aware of her presence in the world. He had bent his will and commanded her obedience, but she had waited. Jacques had had every intention of punishing her for forcing him to endure madness and pain. Now, none of it made any sense. She had suffered much for him. Had there been some reason she had resisted his call? Perhaps the betrayer or the assassins had been following her. Whatever the reason, she had suffered greatly at his hands already. It didn't make sense that she had deserted him deliberately, prolonged his agony. He could read compassion in her. He felt her willingness to trade her own life for his. When he touched her mind, he felt only light and goodness. It did not add up to the cruel, treacherous woman he had perceived her to be.
Jacques was weak, vulnerable in his present state, unable to protect either of them. Shea was small and fragile. He had been so alone. Without light or color. He had spent an eternity alone, and he would never go back to that ugly, dark world. He slashed a wound in his chest, cradled her head to him, and commanded her to drink. Binding her to him was as natural as breathing. He could not bear to let her out of his sight. Shea belonged to him, and right at this moment she needed blood every bit as much as he did. The blood exchange had been made. Their mental bond was strong. When his body was healed he would complete the ritual, and she would be irrevocably bound to him for all eternity. It was instinct as old as time itself. He knew what to do and that he must do it.
As small as she was, Shea felt right in his arms, a part of his insides. None of it made sense, but in his narrow world, it didn't matter. Even as she fed, her mouth soft and sensuous against his torn flesh, he lifted the glass and carelessly emptied the contents down his throat. When he had sensed her sleeping as she bathed, he had awakened her, fearful of the separation. Now she would sleep beside him where she belonged, where he might have a
Similar Books
