Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [53]
“There was a doctor only a few years ago, who thought that most of the scarring was in the foreskin, and it was.”
Jean-Claude laid his head on Asher’s shoulder, lost in that golden hair, and he wept, and cried. “All this time . . . all this time, and I thought it was my fault, you were ruined, and it was my fault.”
Asher reached back and stroked Jean-Claude’s hair. “It was never your fault, mon ami. If you had been with us when we were taken, they would have done to you what they did to me, and that I could not have borne. If you had not been free to save me, I would be dead now, along with our Julianna.”
They held each other and cried, and laughed, and healed, and I was suddenly superfluous, kneeling on the bed in my lingerie. And for once, I didn’t mind in the least.
13
JEAN- CLAUDE RELEASED THE ardeur with less than an hour to go, before they would die. I did not want to be trapped underneath anyone when that happened. But the ardeur had been denied longer than I’d ever denied it, and it was like a force of nature, a storm that broke over us, washed away Jean-Claude’s clothes and what was left of mine.
I took Asher into my mouth and explored the perfection of him, found the one thin scar that trailed down his scrotum. I sucked the ridge of scar tissue into my mouth and made him cry out above me.
It was chance more than planning that put Jean-Claude underneath me, inside me, with Asher at my back, his weight beating into both of us, but without an opening to claim. Or without an opening I was willing to share. I could feel the length of Asher pressed along my back. Every time Jean-Claude pushed himself up inside me, Asher pushed himself against my back, wedged between the cheeks of my buttocks. They echoed each other perfectly. When one moved, the other moved. Until somewhere in the middle of it all, I begged, Asher to enter me, take me.
Jean-Claude’s voice came as if from a great distance, “Non, mon chardonneret, we have done no preparation. She has never had it done before.”
Dimly I realized what I’d asked and was happy someone could think well enough to stop me from letting others hurt me. But part of me was angry, the ardeur wanted Asher inside, wanted to drink him in.
I rode Jean-Claude’s body, while Asher’s body rode mine. Jean-Claude’s hands were on my waist, holding me in place, steadying me, directing me, the way you lead a dance partner. One of Asher’s hands propped him up on the bed but the other had spilled up to cup my breast, his hand kneading, pulling, just this side of pain.
I felt the building pressure inside me, that feeling that preceded the explosion, and I didn’t want it yet, not yet. I wanted Asher, the way I wanted Jean-Claude. I wanted, needed him to pierce my body. “Please, Asher, please, be inside me, please!”
He drew my hair to one side and bared my neck. The ardeur flared through me. “Yes, Asher, yes.”
That warm deep well was filling up, up inside me, there were only seconds to have him join us. I wanted his release with ours. I wanted him with us.
There seemed like there was something else I should have been remembering but it was lost in the pounding of Jean-Claude’s body, the rhythm of my hips, the feel of his hands on my waist, Asher’s hand on my breast, tight enough for pain now, the feel of him so solid, so wet from his own body, so that he moved in a channel of his own moisture, yet I knew he had not come.
He raised the hand from the bed and cupped my head to one side, holding it, straining my neck in a long, clean line.
It was as if they knew, they both knew what my body was about to do, as if they could smell it, or hear it, or taste it. At the moment that that warmth spilled over the edge, as the first drop of it spilled over my skin, tightened my body; Asher struck. There was one moment of sharp pain, and the pain fed into the pleasure, and I remembered what I had forgotten. Asher’s bite was pleasure.