Let Them Speak (Vampire Assassin League #13) by Jackie Ivie Page A

eight bathrooms. All added through the decades as plumbing technology advanced. That made eight bedroom suites. There were two in this wing alone – one in the room directly above where they hovered. That one was furnished with a massive four-poster bed. Canopied. Specially made and ordered. King-sized. Engraved with the Castillion family crest, carved into each post, the headboard, footboard, and canopy as well. Even the bedding had the Castillion crest woven into it.
    And it was way too far to go.
    He dropped them onto the couch he’d placed her on earlier, swiveling to take the brunt of their landing on his back. This piece was almost perfect, and proved it could take a sound blow. That was probably due to the horsehair stuffing the manufacturer had so meticulously sewn into place with each button that now bit into him. Their arrival made the piece shudder and creak somewhere in the frame, and then it accepted their combined weight. But nothing gave. It didn’t even bounce.
    And his mate was becoming a wild thing . Devereaux’s hands were shoved off as she gyrated her way out of her jacket, tossed it somewhere behind her. It was followed by her top as she yanked it over her head. That move disturbed the clip she’d been using, sending waves of red-tinted brown hair past her shoulders. Her hair framed her face, displaying her beauty. Devereaux kept his eyes locked to hers as his hands ran up her toned midriff, his flingers slid beneath her brassiere, and then…
    Oh . Sweetness!
    They came completely off the sofa when his body arched, while his throat felt like it tore with the strength of his groan. Devereaux filled his hands with her flesh; his fingers cupping and molding and adoring while his thumbs massaged her nipples into tight nubs. He never moved his eyes from her, watching the pupils of her eyes enlarge and darken, even as his palm flesh ignited with awareness. Everything vibrated. Revved. And the uproar of sensation just kept coming, radiating outward from his palms.
    Because he could actually feel them!
    He dropped . The sofa creaked beneath them. He barely registered that it held. Realization that he was actually there – on the precipice of actual physical pleasure – ratcheted his muscles into complete tautness. Devereaux fought harder for control. Struggled to maintain. Begged the fates to give him stamina. Strength. Something that could mute the absolute need to rip the rest of her clothing off, find her softness, and fill it. Get buried. Sheathed. Caressed. Stroked. Anything. Because rocket flares were shooting right to his cock, making the zipper a barrier that felt like it cut.
    “Oh my. Oh Love. Oh Sydney. Oh… sweet ! ”
    Every word accompanied a shove against her . Against the barrier of cloth. Her jeans. His trousers. Her mouth snagged his, stopping the litany of words. And then she bit him.
    Oh merde .
    He’ d been mistaken. The feel of her lips suctioned to his while she gulped and licked sent full-on fireworks through his head. Bright. Sizzling. Incredible.
    Devereaux moved an arm, and shoved at the back of the sofa until it split, slamming limply into the wall . Good. He’d created a surface the size of a double bed.  
    “You…broke… the settee.”  She panted the words between kisses that stung, caressed, and then oozed absolute nirvana.
    “I’ll replace it.”  His voice was guttural . Barely recognizable. He was actually surprised his throat worked.
    “But— that…was an antique.”
    “Don’t care.”
    He rolled, placing her beneath him, and with only a smattering of wood groaning and a bit of give, the back of the couch held. And then he was working to get these damn trousers off. And her hands were helping. At first.
    The moment he’d shimmied the pants to his hips, she grabbed him, launching Devereaux nearly airborne again. At the touch. The feel. The sensation of her fingers wrapped about him. Encasing him. Sliding along his length. And back to the tip. Again. Only