Blood Red. Sharon Page

our dreams, Althea? What do you want me to do to you?

      Yes, she’d done all these things in dreams. But she couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t say such things.

      His tongue dipped into the valley between her breasts. Did you enjoy my mouth on your nipples?

      “My lord, I—”

      “Yannick.”

      He was speaking aloud, not communicating in her mind, and she felt strangely relieved. She clung to the safer topic of conversation—his Christian name. “It’s French, isn’t it?”

      “You want a French kiss?”

      He was teasing, she knew, but she couldn’t imagine what a French kiss would be. “Your name is French.”

      “My mother was French, love, with an English marriage to save her from Madame la Guillotine. And de Wynter goes back to the Conqueror.” His lord—Yannick’s leg lowered but he scooped her into his arms before her slippers touched the floor. “And I believe you would enjoy a French kiss.”

      Only when he laid her on her bed, when he slid the long skirt of her nightgown up to the tops of her thighs, when he bent and touched his lips to her nether curls, did Althea realize what a French kiss was.

      This they had never done in dreams. He had touched her intimately with his fingers, with his…his cock, but not with his mouth.

      “You can’t kiss my…there.”

      “Your sweet cunny. Oh yes, I can. And I will. I never did this for you in your dreams?”

      She frowned. “Don’t you know? Didn’t you have the dreams too?”

      “I don’t know if we had the same dreams, sweet angel.” To her shock, he breathed deeply. Drank in her scent. Smiled. “I was most remiss if I never kissed your delicious cunny.”

      “That’s what you call it? That crude word?”

      Yannick was on his knees on the floor now, gazing up at her from between her thighs. His pale blond hair spilled over his brow, dusted across his darkly lashed eyes. His fingers stroked her inner thighs and Althea could barely think.

      His brow quirked. “What would you prefer, then, love? Quim? Pussy? Velvet glove? Pleasure passage? Silken sheath? Grotto of love?”

      “Grotto of—?” She stared down at him in disbelief, then dissolved into giggles.

      He flashed a playful frown, screened by her auburn curls. She caught her breath at the intimacy of their teasing. How could she be joking with a man—an earl and a vampire!—who had her most private places exposed to him?

      He gave an audacious wink. “Women do not generally laugh when I do this.”

      He traced the tip of his tongue over her curls. Her hands clenched into fists. She almost shot up right off the bed. His hot breath breezed over a terribly sensitive place and she quivered.

      Do you wish me to stop?

      “Y—Yes.”

      “Are you certain?” He blew across her nether lips and she knew he would not stop. In dreams, he knew to make her melt until she could refuse nothing.

      And he was a peer after all. Accustomed to having his own way.

      Althea tried to say “yes” once more but her mouth would not cooperate. She truly did not want him to stop. Slowly, she shook her head. Willed the word no at him. Gasped in shock as he pressed his mouth tight to her mound.

      Oh yes. Yes. She cried it in her head.

      As you command, love. He suckled.

      She screamed.

      3

      Ravished

      Her cry of pleasure echoed in the small room, igniting his lust, calling forth Yannick’s fangs. They extended, lengthening like his cock, until they lapped his lower lip.

      With the greatest care, mindful of the sharpness of his curved canines, Yannick flicked out his tongue to brush the very tip of her clit.

      “Oooh!” Althea arched beneath him, as though struck by an electric charge.

      A knock sounded on the wall, followed by O’Leary’s concerned Irish lilt. “Miss Yates?”

      She stared down at Yannick, obviously horrified. With his face buried against her wet pussy, he feigned a look of innocence. Then flicked out his tongue and made her scream again.

      “Miss Yates?” The rap was sharper, the voice more insistent. Yannick hoped O’Leary wasn’t ready to burst into Althea’s room.

      Althea found her voice. “So sorry, Mr. O’Leary,” she croaked. “I am fine. It was only a bad dream.”

      Oh, am I?

      Yannick tangled his fingers in Althea’s crisp curls, stroking the satin-soft skin beneath them. Gently, he laid a kiss at the very peak of her vulva, tasting the droplets gathering there. Her quim shone with her moisture, soaked, swollen and ready for him. And her scent…his head swam with it. Lush, sweet, ripe.

      He slid his tongue down, down until he brushed her clit once more. But this time she was prepared. She fisted her hands in her wrinkled sheets, sank her teeth into her lips, and rode through the explosion of sensation with nary a whimper.

      She was adorable. Delightful.

      He felt like a devil, stroking the top of her pearl, where it would be far too sensitive for her. Her clit had never been touched and he should concentrate on drawing his tongue along the sides. She was too tense to come this way but he couldn’t resist teasing her.

      Yannick loved to watch her arch up with each light brush of his tongue. Loved to see her hair rippling about her like a pool of flame. Loved the long, white curve of her neck and the way her tempting throat moved with each whimpered moan.

      Magically, with Althea, he could control the urge to bite.

      He circled with his tongue and her fingers sank into his hair. As she gripped his head tight.

      “Oh, no…please, stop.”

      He sucked once more, lightly.

      Her hips launched up at him and with the surge, she tried to break free of his grip. She fought to scramble back, to push away, but he held her thighs and spread her wide.

      Althea’s eyes went wide, too. Startled. Almost frightened. “You mustn’t. It’s too much. I can’t bear it.”

      “I’ll be gentle with your clit, angel. I promise.” Guilt shot through him. He shouldn’t have teased. As the man to introduce her to pleasure, he had certain responsibilities.

      This time he laved her clit gently, until her tension dissolved and she relaxed into the bed with a throaty groan. For a few glides of his tongue, she lay, passive, lids shrouding her lovely green eyes. Her bosom rose and fell and he heard the softest sighs tumble from her pursed lips, his name carried to him on one.

      Her hands covered her breasts. Not in modesty. She fondled herself, gripping and kneading the lush mounds through the bodice of her nightgown.

      His fangs and cock throbbed as he watched her through her thick nest of curls.

      He could love her this way for hours—until dawn at least.

      But soon, she lifted her hips, rocking them against his face. Tentative, as though she didn’t understand quite why she needed to move to him. She was so sweet, so new. Was it possible this was her first orgasm, other than those in her dreams? Yannick couldn’t remember his first, but imagined it must have been searing. Life-changing.

      It was his duty to ensure she received no less.

      Her hips became more demanding and pumped harder against his face. He matched her natural rhythm, the flat of his tongue sliding around her hard,