Cravings by Laurell K. Hamilton, Eileen Wilks, REBECCA YORK, MaryJanice Davidson Page B

was a
challenge. He knew I wouldn't like the thought of strangers coming into the
house, much less facing a strange woman that he'd simply brought home to fuck,
first thing in the morning.
    I had a tiny spurt of anger, and that helped me think. Helped push back that
need to touch him, that had nothing to do with the ardeur, and everything to do
with power. "I know you had a room at the Circus. Maybe we could arrange
something with Jean-Claude, so you could take lovers back there."
    "My home is here, with you. You are my master now."
    I cringed a little at the master part. "I know that, Damian."
    "Do you?" He pushed away from the island, and came to stand just in front of
me. This close the power shivered between us. It made him close his eyes, and
when he opened them they were still drowning emerald pools. "If you are my
master, then touch me."
    My pulse was jumping in my throat like a trapped thing. I didn't want to
touch him, because I wanted to touch him so badly. In a way, this was part of
the attraction between Jean-Claude and me, as well. What I'd taken for lust and
new love was also partly vampire trickery. A trick to bind the servant to the
master, and the master to the servant, so that both served the other willingly,
joyfully. It had bothered me when I first realized that part of what I felt for
Jean-Claude was somehow tainted with vampire mind games, though it wasn't on
purpose from Jean-Claude's point of view. He couldn't help how it worked on me
any more than I could help how it worked on Damian.
    He was standing so close I had to crane my neck backward to see his face
clearly. "I want to touch you, Damian, but you're acting awfully funny tonight."
    "Funny," he said. He moved in so close that the edges of his coat, the poofy
satin of his pants brushed the thick cloth of my tuxedo pants. "Funny, I don't
feel funny, Anita." He leaned his face close to mine, and whispered his next
words, "I feel half-crazed. All those women touching me, rubbing themselves
against me, pressing their warm," he leaned in so that his hair brushed my
cheek, "soft," his breath felt hot against my skin, "wet," his lips touched my
cheek, and I shuddered, "bodies, against me."
    My breath shook on its way out, and my pulse was suddenly loud in my ears. It
was hard to concentrate on anything but the feel of his lips against my cheek,
though all his lips were doing were resting lightly against my skin. I swallowed
hard enough that it hurt, and said, "You could have gone with any one of them."
    He laid his cheek against mine, but it meant he had to bend over more, which
moved his body farther from mine. Compromise. "And could I trust that their
windows were proof against sunlight?" He stood up, and put a hand on either side
of the cabinet behind me, so that I was trapped between his arms. "Could I trust
that they would not harm me, once the sun rose and I lay helpless?"
    I tried to think of something to say, something helpful, something that would
help me to think about something other than how much I wanted to touch him. When
in doubt be bitchy. "I'm getting a crick in my neck with you standing this
close." My voice was only a little breathy when I said it. Good.
    Damian put his hands around my waist, and just the solid feel of his hands
around me stopped whatever else I meant to say. It stopped him for a moment,
too. Made him bend his head down, eyes closed, as if he were trying to
concentrate, or clear his mind. Then he lifted me, suddenly, and sat me on the
edge of the counter. It caught me off guard, and he had put his hips between my
knees before I could react. We weren't pressed together, except for his hands on
my waist, but we were one step away from it.
    "There," he said, voice hoarse, "now you can see me better."
    He was right, but it hadn't been what I meant him to do. I wanted breathing
space, and instead my hands were free, and he was a hard thought away. My hands
came to rest on his arms,