Fury of Desire (-4 Page 6

  Jamison, though, ran contrary to the rule. And like it or not, Wick wanted to know why.

  “So…” Flexing his hands, Venom cracked his knuckles. The move smacked of impatience. “We getting to it or what?”

  Wick nodded. It was now or never. And since never wasn’t an option with Venom glued to his six, Wick forced himself to move. Picking up his feet, he strode toward the inevitable. The throb behind his temples picked up the pace, making Wick’s head ache. He shoved the discomfort aside, his gaze searching the VIP section and…

  Bingo. Mac at three o’clock.

  Cloaked by magic, invisible to human eyes, Mac stood in the shadows near the end of the bar, shoulder blades pressed to the wall, eyes moving over the crowd, and a pained look on his face. Wick could relate. He didn’t want to be here either, but necessity was a motherfucker and finding a female he could stomach, an absolute must.

  Dragging his attention away from his comrade, Wick scanned the back bar. High-backed chairs lined its length, elevating those seated into visual inference. A wide-faced mirror winked beyond them, colorful bottles reflecting in the dim light. Acute dragon senses picking up trace energy, he assessed each human. Nah, no decent candidates there. He needed a female with strong energy, powerful enough to feed both him and Venom at the same time.

  He skimmed over a corner booth.

  His gaze snapped right back. Hmm, that looked promising. Or rather, she did. Perfect. Dark-skinned and pretty. She was right up Venom’s alley. His friend preferred African American females and… yeah. She fit the bill with her dark eyes and silky shoulder-length hair. The barely there white dress didn’t hurt either. The fabric clung to her skin, accentuating her breasts and the healthy glow of vitality.

  Wick’s mouth curved. Excellent. No way Venom would be able to resist her.

  Pausing mid-stride, Wick glanced over his shoulder.

  Venom tipped his chin. “Decide yet?”

  “Back corner booth.”

  “Goddamn… get a load of her.” Venom’s words rasped beneath a throb of hard-core bass. Wick heard it just the same, registering the interest in his friend’s sudden shift. Jackpot. They had liftoff. Venom glanced his way. Simmering ruby-red eyes met his. “You ever gonna pick a female you’re attracted to?”

  He shrugged, avoiding the question. The answer to which was… no chance in hell. It wasn’t that he didn’t like females. He got off on a long pair of legs as much as the next male, but a big divide lay between looking and touching. The first he did a lot, studying the opposite sex, appreciating a female for what she was: beautiful and soft, arousing with all that smooth skin on display. Contact, though—anything hands-on—he avoided like a face full of acid.

  “You want her or not?”

  Venom growled. “No question.”

  “Then move it.” Shoving his sleeve up, Wick tapped the face of his watch. “Fifty-seven minutes and counting.”

  “Hell,” his friend muttered, but didn’t waste a second.

  Boot treads brushing over stained concrete floor, he followed Venom across the lounge. His attention narrowed on the female. Laughing at something her companion said, she took a sip of her drink. Her gaze met his over the rim of her glass. She paused, stiffening as her hand stalled in midair. Locked onto her aura, he registered the spike in her energy. Her eyes went wide. A moment later, alarm picked up her pulse.

  Same story. Different night.

  Never sure of him, most women shied at first. A normal reaction. One Wick understood, even as regret rose. It wasn’t as if he did it on purpose. Given half a chance, he would have assumed a soothing vibe, not the predatory one he knew he wore, but… hell. He didn’t know how. A hunter through and through, he sent most males running, never mind members of the fairer sex. Even so, he tried to do his part and forced his lips to curve. Maybe a smile would help smooth the way, make her more receptive, help Venom—

  His friend stopped in front of her table.

  The female blinked and switched focus. The second her gaze landed on Venom, she blew out a pent-up breath, her fear sliding into interest. Tipping her chin up, she gave Venom the once-over, eyes roaming downward, then turned and did the same to him. Wick tensed. She smiled and settled back, relaxing into the seat cushions, her ample charms on display as she made eye contact.

  “Well, hello there.”

  Wick froze as she continued to hold his gaze. Holy shit. Talk about a switch-up. Strange with an extra helping of fucked up too. Usually Venom got all the attention, but as she bit her bottom lip, Wick got the message. Sexual energy was easy to read. So was feminine arousal, and as her pupils dilated and her lips parted, Wick swallowed. She was 100 percent into him, encouraging him to take the lead. To initiate contact, slide in next to her, and coax her to enter the sexual arena.

  Which screwed with his chi. Not to mention his mind.

  Jesus help him. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  Coming to the rescue, Venom turned her attention. “Hello, beautiful. Mind if I join you?”

  She gestured with her hand, inviting his friend into the booth.

  “Mervais, talmina,” Venom said in Dragonese, his tone low as he acknowledged her acceptance in the way of their kind.

  Wielding a mental whip, Wick ousted the guy next to her. As the human skedaddled, moving as though his life depended on it, Venom settled next to her, taking up a sizable chunk of the real estate inside the booth. Per usual, Wick stood stone-still, setting up shop outside the alcove… with the pair, but not really. Awkward much? Absolutely, but he didn’t know what else do. Two options presented themselves. The first said stay put. The second required walking around the table edge to bookend her on the other side. Seemed like a good move. For a normal male. Too bad he wasn’t normal. He couldn’t make himself move. Shitkickers rooted to the floor, he was stuck in neutral, brain fried, muscles locked, and panic rising. All because she wanted him… was throwing him come-hither looks from beneath her lashes.

  Slinging his arm along the back of the banquette, Venom got up close and personal with the female. He whispered something in her ear. She tipped her chin, asking for a kiss. His friend gave it to her, pressing his mouth to the corner of hers, then leaned back to meet her gaze. Fingertips playing in her hair, he brushed the dark strands away from the side of her neck. “What’s your name, talmina?”

  “Iesha.”

  “Pretty name.” She murmured a “thanks” and Venom got to the point. “So, Iesha… you up for a bit of fun?”

  “What kind?” Nibbling on her bottom lip, she glanced in Wick’s direction. Interest and desire sparked, making her aura glow bright orange. “A threesome?”

  “All right.” The tease in his tone unmistakable, Venom’s hand dipped beneath the table. She sucked in a quick breath and shifted in her seat. As she tipped her head back, his friend took advantage, uncrossing her legs, spreading her thighs, nuzzling the side of her throat. “You’ve convinced me.”

  Her laugh turned into a gasp. “You taking turns?”

  “One at a time.”

  “Here? Or in the bath—”

  “Right here.”

  Wick nearly balked. Here? Right fucking here? In full view of the club? Bugger him. Trust Venom to grow impatient and neglect the safe side of decency. Gritting his teeth, Wick unleashed his magic, whipping up a cloaking spell. Shadow enveloped them, hiding their happy little trio from human eyes. Venom murmured something naughty against the female’s collarbone. Wick cursed under his breath.

  “Okay.” Her breath hitched as Venom delved deep between her thighs. Lips parted, breasts rising and falling, her eyelashes flickered. As she shuddered in pleasure, the female plugged Wick with a heated look. He went on high alert, then grimaced when she moaned, “I want your friend first.”

  Wick stayed silent, knowing what was coming.

  “No.” Nipping her bare shoulder, Venom shook his head. A quick shift put the female in his lap. Some nifty maneuvering later, she sat astride his friend, th
e fabric of her dress up around her hips. Widening his stance to shield the couple, Wick looked away. Venom groaned, the sound cresting a bliss-filled wave. “I ride first.”

  Busy settling on what Venom fed her, she didn’t argue. Neither did Wick. Particularly since he wouldn’t be riding. Not her or any other female. He couldn’t bring himself into close enough contact. The handful of times he’d tried had ended in disaster, telling him clearer than words sex wasn’t his thing.

  But as Venom ramped up, getting hot and heavy, working the female hard, Wick wished for something different. For something that didn’t begin and end with him standing in a club watching his friend have sex. Not that it was Venom’s fault. The male was simply looking after him, doing what Wick couldn’t do for himself… ramping a female into an orgasmic frenzy. Elevating her energy levels high enough to feed both of them. Forcing him to tap into the Meridian’s electrostatic stream to draw the nourishment all Dragonkind males needed to stay healthy and strong.

  The fact Wick couldn’t feed himself shamed him. Made sorrow rise and disgust circle.

  After all this time, he ought to be strong enough to do it on his own. Instead, the idea gave him a raging case of indigestion. A shiver rolled up his spine. Wick shut it down, holding himself steady as the urge to run nudged him again. A mere matter of moments, a few seconds, that’s all it would take, and he’d be—

  “Wick.”

  His head snapped back toward his friend.

  “Now,” Venom said. “She’s ready.”

  Cursing under his breath, Wick cringed. Logic told him to move. Uncertainty wouldn’t let him. Stupidity to the next power. The quicker he started, the sooner it would be over, but…

  He didn’t want to touch her. Would prefer to go hungry if given a choice. He’d done it before. Had gone months without nourishment and never succumbed to energy-greed. But as he met Venom’s gaze over the top of her head, Wick knew tonight wouldn’t be one of those times. If he turned tail and ran, his friend would come after him. Be right on his heels. Drag him back and force him to feed, so…

  No. There wouldn’t be any free passes tonight. No way out either. Just full-on commitment.

  “Do it, Wick… right now.” Venom raised his head, ruby eyes aglow, and mind-spoke, “And you don’t stop until I tell you to. She’s prime… able to handle us both. No flaking out this time. You feed until you’re full, or I’ll kick your ass.”

  The bossiness should’ve pissed Wick off. It barely registered. Threat, no threat, it didn’t matter. He was too nervous to do anything other than obey. Being told what to do helped. Clear. Concise. No room for error or misinterpretation. Which, oddly enough, gave him courage to move toward the female instead of away.

  With a quick flick, Wick shoved the table aside and stepped in behind the female. His leather jacket brushed her shoulder blades. His chest touched down next. She moaned, welcoming his heat, undulating into another thrust, her hips moving in concert with Venom’s. Tainted by alcohol, her breath washed into his face. Wick clenched his teeth, but didn’t stop. Now or never. Quick in. Faster out. He could do this. Could ride the wave, stay the course, all while making Venom proud.

  The thought twisted the screw tighter.

  Courage made him reach out and cup her throat. As his hand settled against her skin, she moaned and tipped her chin up, giving him more room. Terrible. Without mercy. Voracious. The beast inside him rose on a greedy growl, begging for sustenance. Driven by instinct, he obliged, and pressing his hand to her lower back, lowered his head. She keened, pleading for pleasure as his mouth brushed the nape of her neck.

  Energy surged.

  The Meridian opened, blasting him with white-hot energy.

  Unable to deny his need, Wick drank deep, pulling the electrostatic current through her into his core as Venom picked up the pace. An erotic switch flipped, powering into orgasm. As the female screamed in bliss, Wick fought a tidal wave of nausea and swallowed another mouthful. Venom growled, encouraging him to take more. He did, drinking hard, feeding fast, taking one pull after another.

  But as he fed and his stomach cramped, he faced the awful truth.

  He was irredeemable. A bastard beyond redemption for his shortcomings. An honorable male wouldn’t need his best friend present when he fed. A normal male would be able to please a female on his own. A dutiful male wouldn’t humiliate himself in such ways. And as the female came again, hammering him with another round, shame came calling. Fate had done him a bad turn and twisted his path. Now he lay beyond help. Fucked up in ways that couldn’t be reversed, never mind cured.

  5

  Waiting wasn’t Ivar’s strong suit. He’d never acquired the skill. Had never needed to either. As leader of the Razorbacks, no one ever made him wait. His word was law. The commands he issued absolute. The only voice that mattered in a pack accustomed to taking orders, regardless of the outcome. But as the elevator’s smooth ascent took him out of the underground lair, toward street level and the rundown firehouse he now called home, he marveled at the irony.

  Hamersveld was late.

  All right, not by much. Still the slight bothered Ivar more than he liked. He inhaled long and exhaled smooth, tightening the screws on his temper. No one was ever late. Not when meeting with him. Then again, Hamersveld wasn’t just anyone. He was a breed apart, a water dragon with a brutal nature, a keen mind, and the wherewithal to use both. A fantastic combo, one Ivar not only admired, but coveted, wanting the male’s intellect—along with his propensity for violence—for himself.

  And the Razorback pack.

  The problem? Accepting Hamersveld put him in the middle of uncharted territory. The male was a true gamble. Powerful. Pissy. And unpredictable. The descriptions fit Hamersveld to a T. So did “severe aversion to authority.” The water dragon wore the badge with pride, and by all accounts? Preferred his own company. With a snort, Ivar shoved his hands into the front pockets of his favorite jeans and leaned back. As his shoulder blades touched the mirrored surface of the wall, he ran through the possibilities.

  After a moment, he shook his head. Jesus. Talk about an understatement. The male elevated dangerous to whole new levels. Excellent in some respects. Dicey in others. Good thing Ivar had never been averse to underdog odds. Long shots were his specialty. Sometimes playing both ends against the middle worked to his advantage. And Hamersveld? Ivar was betting all he owned, laying it all on the line in the hopes of bringing the lethal SOB onside and into the fold.

  Huge risk. Big payoff… if he could swing it.

  And if he couldn’t? Well, death was always an option.

  Ivar grimaced, preferring option A over B. He wanted Hamersveld in his corner, kicking Nightfury ass, not spread like fertilizer across his new backyard. But necessity—bitch that it was—demanded a certain amount of practicality. Neither hesitation nor sentiment belonged in the equation. Either the male committed to the Razorback cause or he died. Simple as that. No middle ground. No in between. No going back, changing his mind or the game plan.

  All or nothing. Yippee-ki-yay.

  The elevator hummed, leveling to a smooth stop, making his heart dip. As it rebounded, settling into a steady rhythm, he stared at his reflection in the steel panels, waiting for the doors to open. It was now or never. Taking a calming breath, Ivar pushed out of his slouch. He checked the contents of his back pocket one last time.

  The pads of his fingertips touched hard plastic.

  Good. The syringe was still there, safely tucked away, waiting for him to palm it. Filled with powerful neural toxins, the drug was a lethal cocktail, packing enough punch to down three dragons, never mind one. Overkill? Probably, but Ivar wanted to be sure. Nothing could be left to chance, not with a male as powerful as Hamersveld coming to dinner.

  He’d sent Hamersveld directions to 28 Walton Street—his new lair—earlier in the day. Which cranked his shit the wrong way. The second he’d connected through mind-speak and relayed the information, apprehension had taken hold. Even
now, it poked at him, making his stomach churn. Ivar swallowed, combating a truckload of uncertainty. Had he made the right decision? Was trusting Hamersveld the smart thing to do?

  The questions circled, fraying his nerves, filling him with doubt, making him want a do over. A take back… whatever. Too bad backing out now wasn’t an option. He lay exposed, and no matter how much that chafed him, he must see it through to the end. Bastian and his merry band of bastards had a water dragon in the fold. A young, inexperienced one, sure, but powerful nonetheless. Which… fuck a duck… qualified as a huge advantage in the war he fought with the Nightfury pack. Ivar needed a male to counteract Bastian’s power play, and like it or not Hamersveld was it.

  His only means to the end. Still, revealing the secret location of his lair didn’t sit well.

  And no wonder. Even though he commanded a large pack, three-quarters of his soldiers didn’t have a clue where he lived. Where he laid his head down each day and flew away from every night. It was safer that way. A tactical advantage he needed to thwart Bastian’s efforts to find him. Beyond ruthless, the Nightfury assholes weren’t above torturing the males under his command to acquire the information, so…

  Right. No doubt. The less his soldiers knew, the better. Although, to be honest, keeping his location on the down low served another purpose too: insulation from the larger Razorback population meant privacy. All he needed, and a commodity he never took for granted. What little quiet time he managed to get was precious. As leader of the Razorback nation, he had too many demands on his time and not enough hours in the day.

  Beyond frustrating, but normal, he guessed. Especially since he was now going it alone.

  Lothair—his best friend and former XO—had helped lighten the load, taking on half the responsibly, allowing Ivar to spend time in his laboratory. Something he loved, and an environment in which he thrived. Test tubes and microscopes. Air locks and playing with viral loads. Right up his alley. Scientific experimentation enlivened his mind and fed his soul, challenging his skills, all while furthering his cause.