So in the precious few moments before he colored her world, she paused—leaving her hand resting over his heart—and thought.
Why had she come to him?
It had been automatic. The quick flash of anger had frozen her on the waterfront when he turned her away. By the time she’d processed his rejection¸ he had been gone. After catching the familiar profile of his driver—for surely that distinctive chin could only belong to one of Murphy’s kin—Anne traveled to the one place that had remained his refuge in life and in eternity. And she’d found him.
Now what do you plan to do with him? a tiny voice in her mind nagged.
She had no idea.
Anne was so hungry. For blood. For him. She wanted to bite. Wanted to sink her teeth into his neck, his groin. Bite any hint of gentleness in his hard body and take.
“I won’t be polite.”
A part of her didn’t want him to be. Anne knew the urbane, sophisticated vampire lord of Dublin would not wake beside her. She’d sought him in the wild and found him. Her mate, as he admitted, was no settled man. He never had been. He simply knew how to wear the right clothes.
Anne could hear the distant voices of humans outside, smell the roses that grew on the edge of the meadow, and hear the trickling stream that ran behind the old-style wooden caravan. She took a deep breath and calmed her hunger. She let her eyes drift around the wagon as low lights switched on, preparing for the gathering dark.
A vampire vardo, of course. Lightproof. Secure. The curtain surrounding the bed was made of Venetian velvet, the bed beneath them eiderdown layered with silk sheets. Brass fixtures gleamed against mahogany cabinets and shelves.
Only Murphy.
Books and old records sat on the shelves. A few scattered pictures hung on the walls. Peeking into the wagon showed a picture of Murphy’s soul. A man who loved his luxuries but valued his people and memories above all else.
She felt him stir. Not his body, but his blood came to life within her.
Anne watched in anticipation. His eyes flew open and his chest rose. Murphy gasped; his first breath upon waking had always reminded Anne of a diver surfacing from the deep. He turned to her with bared fangs and hungry eyes.
Without a word, he was on her.
He framed her face with both hands, crouched over her like a feral thing, leaning down to put his face at the curve of her throat. He drew a deep breath, as if inhaling her into himself along with the night air and the scent of freshwater. He muttered something in Gaelic, his voice rough from day rest. Anne let her head fall back, submitting to the wild in him. His fangs scraped up her throat.
“No blood,” she whispered.
He snarled at her but replaced his teeth with sucking kisses and long licks. His hands clutched her hair, and his body pressed into hers.
Anne let out a reluctant groan. Not much had changed about Murphy when he woke.
She drew her knees up and let him rock into the softness of her body, arching back when she felt his arousal. Corded arms banded around her as he drew her closer. She heard her camisole rip at the shoulder.
“Don’t bite my clothes,” she panted. “I didn’t bring a change.”
“Then you shouldn’t have worn them to sleep.”
Anne’s jaw ached. Her throat burned. The desire to take his blood—take everything he was offering, was almost overwhelming. He braced himself over her, anger and desire and longing warring in his eyes. It was a hard face. A desperate one.
“Patrick—”
“You’re here. You wake before me and you stayed. I told you”—he pressed into the heat between her legs, cocking one knee under her thigh to hold her in place—“I told you I wouldn’t be polite.”
“I haven’t said yes,” she said, and he froze. “Yet.”
His face softened. The warm brown eyes melted. His fangs didn’t fall back, but the corners of his mouth tipped up and he lowered himself, pressing his hard chest into her breasts. She inhaled sharply, the feel of him a drug to her senses.
“Say yes,” he whispered, kissing the arch of her cheekbone. “Say yes, my Áine.”
His lips traveled over her face, fluttered over the corner of her mouth, her eyes, the tender line of her jaw.
“Say yes.”
“I came to talk to you.”
“We’ll talk after.”
“Patrick—”
“Bloody hell, Anne.” He groaned, rolling to the side and covering his face with an arm. “Why did you come here? Why?”
“I told you, I came to talk.”
“Really?” His eyes were fierce when he rolled toward her again. He propped himself up on one elbow and ran a hand up the inside of her leg, his amnis flooding her skin. He paused a few inches above her knee. “And if I keep going? Does your body want to talk as well? Or is it just your damned common sense?”
“You’re acting like a spoiled child.”
He bared his fangs again; his fingers dug into her inner thigh. “Admit it. You want me. I’m the only one who makes—”
“You’re the only one,” she said calmly, trying to maintain her composure as her heart cracked open. “I haven’t taken a lover in years. You know that. You’re the only one I want. The only one I ever really wanted from the night we met.”
The desperate light returned to his eyes. “Then why?”
“We are more than our desires, Patrick. And it’s not fair for me to bed you—”
“Fuck fair. I want you.”