Page 51 of Besieger
“Yes. I want your mouth full of me. My name. My cock.” He pushed Silvio’s head back down, and kept him there for an agonizing second, his hips still, enjoying the view.
When Silvio was allowed to re-emerge, his eyes were clouded from pleasure, his hair a mess, lips wet and bruised. He climbed on the bed and mounted Emerick. A sheen of sweat ran down his face and chest, but Emerick’s attention was on the trail of scented oil oozing down the inside of Silvio’s thighs. His breath caught, and his mouth curved in a wicked smile.
“What has theMarquisprepared for me?”
“You kept me waiting for too long—I took some liberties while I waited. I hope I have not ruined your plans for the evening.” Silvio tried to sound apologetic and failed. The look on his face was devilish, carnal.
He pressed down on Emerick’s erection, slowly, eyes locked on his lover as he did it, breath catching the more of the length disappeared, filling him. A starved, desperate moan broke from Emerick as he watched. He loved being ravaged and giving in to Silvio’s appetites, his hunger only for him. Idolised the shamelessness and abandon of the act.
“Rico—”
Silvio’s voice was low and sultry, utterly enthralled. His eyes kept darting down to where their bodies joined, his own erection betraying how near he was to ruin. He spread his hands across Emerick’s chest and started to move. First slowly, easing into the sensation, his rhythm steady, the movements of his body prolonged and desperate with need.
What a glorious sight he made, riding Emerick in the gloom of the bedchamber, responding to every touch, every kiss. Each breath cut short with a moan ofyesandplease.
Hunger incarnate, Emerick chuckled and pressed his fingers into his lover’s mouth, stifling the tide of groans. His knuckles pushed and tore against the fangs, blood beaded down Silvio’s eager tongue and his master moaned, lapping at it.
Later, when the sun set, they went down to wash and bathe. Not having nearly enough, Emerick mounted Silvio over a bench in thetepidariumand teased him anew. His fingers pushed, spread, and pumped, his mouth and teeth left marks all over Silvio’s chest, biting at the hard nipples, riding his thighs raw. He bit his tongue and made Silvio beg, blood running down Emerick’s chin, until theMarquiswas allowed to lick him clean. They rode the bloodlust submerged in the hot water, the steam caught in their breath, giddy with laughter, erratic but finally, equally, sated for the night.
“You are back early,” TheComteobserved. He looked up from the table at the human. “You were granted a full week.”
“There was nothing left to do. I could not stay in the city longer, had I wished to. There is nothing for me there, my lord.”
Time had not been kind to René. Once the hall boy who served for the vampires’ amusement in his youth, he had become a man of fifty, burdened by the consequences of mortality. His curly hair, once jet-black, had turned almost completely white, and when he wore a beard it made him look older, frail and tired. He had recently shaved for the sake of appearances, a black armband the only indication he was in mourning. His body had lost its quick reflexes and vigour, something which Emerick had insisted a butler did not need. As long as the house was properly tended, it did not matter how fast René would climb the stairs to answer the door.
“Let a footman do it. Or a maid,” Emerick shrugged, dismissing René’s quiet protests that it was not right. There were rules, and his predecessor, Alexandre, would have demanded that they be observed.
At that, Emerick had asked who the master was—him or dear old, dead Alexandre. René had scoffed and continued to oversee every dinner, every delivery brought to the house. He made sure all the properties were well maintained; fresh horses ready at a moment’s notice; the guest chambers left undisturbed in the daytime. Perhaps Emerick had been too indulgent when René was young, confiding in him, even taking him to bed. There had been evenings when the three of them would wake together, Silvio making a careless remark how a hall boy’s place was in the hall, not his master’s bed.
Yet both of them fed on René, lavished gifts upon him, revealed their true nature and their abnormality. René aged yearby year, ascending the household hierarchy, while Emerick remained unchanged, young and beautiful.
René had served in the tower of wonders for over three decades, eloping with one of the cooks. The girl had left theMarquis’ employment when she fell pregnant with their first child. She wanted to live in the city, with her parents. The tower was no place to raise a child, she had told her husband, who remained in service, coming to work day in and day out. A carriage would pick up René from his home at dusk and deliver him back at dawn.
René’s brother had fallen at the Battle of Mont Saint-Jean[12], leaving his wife a widow. They had kept a small house in Montpellier, which René sold as his sister-in-law had followed her husband to the grave not a month later.
“Have you eaten?” Emerick looked down at the parchment spread on the table, and left his pen in a glass full of murky water.
It was a champagne flute, he observed, smiling at his own carelessness, unable to find the inkwell. On waking tonight, he had been eager to begin work on a map. Word had reached him that the Imperial Russian Navy had discovered a peninsula of ice in the Southern Ocean—the Antarctic—and Emerick was desperate to learn more of this expedition. He imagined the ships’ routes across the globe, their struggle against the ice, the strange creatures they might have encountered.
Ah, to have been born in this age of man, and explore the world. To seize with both hands the riches of the earth and scatter them across the continents. To be immortalised in books and atlases; statues of men erected in city squares and pillars dragged from deserts.
Looking away from the map and his amateur attempt at preparing a sea-chart, Emerick turned to his butler. René had clearly made the tower his first stop on the way back home. He appeared dishevelled, his boots were dusty, his gloves still on his hands.
“Sit down. I will ring for the kitchen to bring something up.” TheComtenodded towards a chair and pulled the bell.
The butler muttered in protest, “It is not proper, my lord,” but Emerick ignored him. He found a clean glass and poured the man some wine. There was always wine in the house, they could fill the pool in thethermaewith wine and still have enough left to sell at a profit. The vineyard had flourished and expanded over the years. Humans went to wars and perished, and the wine kept flowing.
The door opened and Michel entered with a tray. He was a man a little over thirty, with dark curly hair and bright, clever eyes. A quick learner, with a sense of humour so dry, Emerick often wondered how they tolerated the man in the kitchens. As first footman and René favourite, Michel would one day take on the role of butler.
And that day might come sooner than expected, Emerick observed, narrowing his eyes at the older man.
“Bouillon and bread, as you have asked, my lord.” Michel left the tray on the table. As he said the words, he frowned, wondering how he knew what food his lord desired without having spoken with him. He bowed and withdrew, leaving them alone.
Emerick’s smile twitched. He was doing it again, getting inside his servants’ minds and ordering them, impatient to have them go up the stairs for orders and return. It had worked fine with René, but it might not have the same result with Michel. After all, Michel was not in love with him, nor would he overlook his master being a vampire.
“I am not hungry.” René pushed the plate away and made to stand from the chair.
“Nonsense.” Emerick appeared next to him, laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. “Shall I feed you?”
