Limerence II by Claire C Riley Page A

cupping the back of my head and bringing us closer together until my breasts are against his hard chest, and the need to have him undressed is frustrating. I grab at his clothes but he clasps my hands in his, so I grind against him more, receiving a frustrated growl from him.
    He stops kissing me abruptly, his hands releasing mine and clasping my hips, stilling me in place. He presses his forehead against mine and closes his eyes, a low rumble deep in his chest.
    “Mia, I can’t . . .” His voice is deep and gravelly, and I know I’m close to getting what I want, what she wants—hell, what he wants, if we’re going to be completely truthful. But I respect him enough to stop, and I can hear her going crazy inside of me, her fangs flashing as she hurls a tirade of abuse at me.
    I move my hand up to stroke his face, moving along his rough jaw, my thumb rubbing along his lower lip, which he kisses.
    “It’s okay. We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
    His finger touches my lips, silencing me on my words, and he tsks. “It’s not a matter of not wanting to, Little Mia. Of course I want to, what man wouldn’t?” He smiles at me.
    “So it’s her?”
    “Our queen.” He frowns. “Yes.”
    I roll my eyes, feeling irritated once more that the woman is controlling my life, that once more someone else is controlling my life. My inner vampire rolls her eyes back at me as if saying that’s what it’s like for her, and for the first time, I feel sorry for her.
    “Don’t,” he says darkly.
    I look at him, questioning his words.
    “Don’t feel sorry for her, not ever. If she could destroy you and live, she would.”
    How the hell did he know what I was thinking?
    I stare at him in confusion, cogs starting to click into place before he adds: “Not unlike our queen, I guess.” He looks sad and guilty as he says it, but then something stirs inside him and he looks into my face, indecision warring within him. I know that I’m on to something; I’ve stumbled upon Pandora’s Box and I only need the key to open it up and figure out the complexity of this man. I need to. Because my feelings for him are growing daily; and yes, it’s partly to do with my vampirism, but it’s also to do with him: the fact that he cares for me—though he fights against it, the fact that he’s trying to do the right thing . . . whatever that may be. The fact that he has saved me from myself—from her—on more than one occasion, and I know that he will always look after me. I want to know him, both good and bad. More than this hard exterior that he puts out. More than the warrior, the slave, and the trainer, I want to know who he is: the vampire man within the vampire servant.
    Before I can think another thing, he presses his lips to mine again, destroying all rational thought. He may not take things further today, but one day he will be mine; one day I will have him and he will have me. My thoughts tumble over themselves as he kisses me deeper, biting down on my lip gently and making me gasp.
    And like that, my thoughts are stolen away.
     

Eight.
     
    I stand back from the canvas and push a tendril of black hair away from my face, poking it back into the loose bun at the base of my neck and feeling the smudge of green paint across my cheek.
    My eyes go wide as I take in my painting, and joy fills my chest. It’s perfect, just as I had hoped it would be. The painting of our coven and its surrounding areas—from what I have seen of it, anyway—are vivid, and without a doubt an accurate interpretation of the world as I see it. That doesn’t mean it’s beautiful in the traditional sense of the word, but it is accurate.
    Deep greens and greys with light brush strokes of vivid colours intermingling between the trees and stone walls. The auras of so many vampires, each feeling something different. Anger, lust, hunger—every colour holding a different meaning. Our world immortalized in a painting. She’ll both love it and hate it.