Sins of the Flesh

She didn’t know his reasons, only her own. Her kind, blooded Daughters of Aset, fed from the prana—the life force—of others. For most of her kind, that meant taking blood. In the early days, Calliope had had no choice. Despite the personal horror she experienced each time she fed, she had been forced to ingest blood in order to sip the life force of another. In the beginning, there had been no way to separate the two.

She’d never gotten used to it, never gotten past the horrific memories that act stirred.

But her instinct for self-preservation had trumped her repugnance, and so she had done what she must.

Now, she was old enough and adept enough that she could sip the life force without the blood.

A choice.

With a price.

Because she fed on pure prana without a physical conduit, she craved a release for the power she took. Sexual release.

Sex or blood. She needed to take one or the other, and she’d pushed herself about as long and as far as she could without taking either one.

So tonight she would deal with the problem the most logical way she could. With sex. With a man who would feel neither remorse nor regret.

She tried to draw her hand from his then, but he tightened his grip. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, and he spun her the rest of the way, backing her up against the wall.

His mouth shaped a close-lipped smile.

Awareness uncoiled in the pit of her belly, petals in the sun, and she shivered, hungering for him and the pleasure he promised.

Then he let go of her hand and skimmed the backs of his fingers up her arm, along the curve of her collarbone and finally the swell of her breast above the neckline of her dress. Her pulse edged up. Her breathing became faster, shallower. Just from that small touch.

She’d chosen well.

He traced the tip of his index finger up her neck, pausing for an instant at her pulse, then along her jaw, her cheek, her brow. His smile widened, wolfish.

“Dark eyebrows. Dark eyelashes. Not a natural redhead?” he asked.

Her breath caught. In this light, how could he tell that her brows were dark? Then she looked at his face, really looked at it, and realized that despite the gloom, she could make out his coloring. Dark hair. Light eyes. Dark lashes and brows.

Of course he could see the same.

This was exactly why she usually chose dull men with no interest other than a quick fuck. A smart man could notice details she had no wish to reveal. But no matter. She didn’t answer, neither affirming nor denying his observation. Better he know as little about her as possible.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” he murmured, dipping his head so he spoke close to her ear, his breath fanning her cheek. “Mine’s—”

“Don’t tell me,” she whispered. Because it went both ways; she also wanted to know as little about him as possible.

“Anonymity—” he glanced at the storeroom door “—and the possibility of discovery. Aren’t you an adventurous girl?”

“Complaining?”

He laughed, low and sexy. “Not in a million years. More like thanking my lucky, lucky stars.”

Yes, she thought, he was a man to have exactly that reaction.

With a small smile, she pulled his shirt from his slacks and slid the buttons free. He nuzzled her neck as she pushed his shirt open and laid one palm on the swell of his chest. Hot skin. Hard man. Not an ounce of fat.

“Damn, you smell good.” He pressed his lips to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, and he inhaled. She felt his tongue on her skin, his teeth.

Letting her head fall to the side, she drank in the sensation as he dragged his lips along her jaw, toward her mouth.

She didn’t want to cede even that much control, didn’t want to let him lead her into a kiss.

Arching off the wall, she pressed against his naked chest. She cast him a look through her lashes and walked him backward until his thighs hit the lone chair that stood apart from the stack.

Then she pushed a little harder, and he sat.

She bent forward to trace her tongue along the swell of his pectoral, tasting salt and man.

“Let me do this my way,” she said, her teeth grazing his skin. The temptation was there to reach for his life force, to drink of it and take his prana into the stream of her own.

“Go right ahead.” There was a smile in his voice.

For a split second she imagined he invited her to drink of him, and then she realized he meant he was happy to let her take the lead.

She supposed he found it a titillating game, her wanting to be the aggressor.

The scent of his skin was intoxicating. She breathed him in and licked his chest again, letting her mouth open over his flesh, biting him just a little.

She dragged his shirt down his arms but didn’t pull it free of his hands. Instead, she left the cuffs buttoned at his wrists and the rest of the shirt looped around the back of the chair. Not that she had a second’s doubt about his ability to pull free. But, for the moment at least, he seemed accepting of—perhaps even aroused by—the illusion of his bondage.

Sinking to her knees before him, she kissed and licked and bit her way down his chest, his belly. His body was art, beautifully muscled, long lean lines and smooth, hot skin.