Page 18 of Thirst
Now I didn’t know what to believe.
Doubt crawled up my nape. Had anything between us been real, or had it all been one massive mind-fuck orchestrated by her Machiavelli of a sire?
Somebody flipped a switch and a 45 dropped into place on the jukebox turntable. The opening bars of “Heartbreak Hotel” slithered through the air, all smoke and sorrow.
Right on cue, Nyx appeared. She paused, framed in the doorway, golden skin shimmering in that cobweb of a dress. And like in the art gallery, heads turned, every vampire in the speakeasy—male or female—eyeing her tight little body.
She sauntered inside, hips swaying in time with Elvis’s soulful cry. Manny followed, a few feet behind.
Something primitive awoke in me. My chest tightened with an unfamiliar, unwelcome possessiveness. Mixed with the anger and doubt, it was a potent brew.
In the gallery, my first sight of Nyx had been from behind. Her thong had been visible through the fishnet, a narrow black line that bisected her ass, showcasing two plump cheeks. I’d wanted to drop to my knees and take a bite of that firm flesh. Forbidden fruit, like the apples me and Talon swiped from a neighbor’s orchard when we were kids. They’d tasted even sweeter because they were stolen.
So I knew exactly what those hot-eyed vampires were thinking.
My hand fisted around the glass. I stared down at my white-knuckled fingers and forced them to ease. Slowly, deliberately.
I didn’t get jealous over women. I controlled them, like I controlled everything else in my life.
Manny muttered something in Nyx’s ear, then joined a couple of QCS vampires at a marble-top table. She drifted deeper into the speakeasy, pausing here and there to chat. Her gaze skimmed over me, snagging on the steel pin on my lapel. Her lashes flickered, a tell I caught only because I was looking for it, and then she turned back to the asshole she was flirting with.
Five minutes later, she was at my side. “A blood-cognac, please,” she told the bartender.
I remained where I was, my back against the bar, as she slid a look in my direction. When I didn’t react, she slid her hands under her mane of curly hair, lifting it off her neck. The dress rode up, gliding over her round ass, tightening across her high, firm tits.
My breath hissed in. She flashed a sly gotcha smile—and released her hair. It tumbled over her shoulders in thick red waves.
“Your cognac,” the bartender murmured, his gaze on her tits.
Finishing my whiskey, I put the glass on the bar and relieved the man of the bowl-shaped snifter. “Allons-y,” I suggested. “Before I decide you’ve insulted the lady.”
He took a hurried step back, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I beg your pardon, M’sieur. Madame.”
Nyx took the cognac from me. “And you are?” she asked with a sex-kitten of a grin.
“Henry,” I said, unsmiling.
“And what brings you to Paris, Henry?”
My fangs tingled, itching to drop. Hearing her call me by another man’s name, especially in those fuck-me tones, amped up the murky, prowling possessiveness.
“Business.” I caught her fingers and lifted them to my mouth. A casual touch, one even Manny couldn’t object to, but I made sure she felt the tips of my fangs before releasing her hand.
Reminding her who was the alpha vampire here.
Her eyes darkened, and her heartbeat sped up. The primal thing liked that, liked knowing how I affected her.
That much, at least, wasn’t a lie. I relaxed a bit.
I released her fingers and she rotated the snifter between her palms, warming the cognac. “What do you want?” she asked under cover of the music emanating from the jukebox.
“Two hours,” I said, matching her low tone. “You and me—alone. I booked a room on the third floor.”
“And if I come, will it make a difference?”
I shrugged. “I’m not making any promises.”
“Then no.”
