Incubus Dreams - Laurell K. Hamilton [266]
Jean-Claude was moving from candle to candle with one of those long battery-operated lighters. I could never get them to light. He moved effortlessly, from candle to candle, the other hand holding the draping sleeve of his robe back out of reach of the flame.
Richard sat down on the corner of the bed. His blue jeans and the solid line of his black belt looked fine against the red sheets. His tanned upper body looked better, and as if he’d heard me think it, he lay back against the sheets, not flat, but propped on his elbows, so that the shimmering scarlet framed his muscular upper body. There were tiny folds in his stomach, like there are on real people, unless they have washboard abs, and Richard had better things to do with his time than do that many sit-ups. His stomach was flat and perfect, but perfect doesn’t mean perfectly flat. Lines are flat, people had curves and bumps and places to explore.
Richard turned his head and looked at me. His face wasn’t neutral anymore. His dark eyes held heat, and it wasn’t his beast, or at least not just that. It was a look I’d seen before, a look that said he knew exactly the effect he had on me, and enjoyed it. Of late, that look had been to tell me, I know you think I’m gorgeous, and you don’t get to touch this anymore. Now, I wasn’t sure what the look meant, but I didn’t like it.
Jean-Claude moved to the other side of the bed, his tall, black-robed figure breaking Richard’s and my stare. When Jean-Claude cleared the way, though, Richard had pulled himself farther onto the bed, so that his legs were no longer touching the floor. So that all six feet one of him was on the bed, framed by sheets the color of fresh blood, and the flickering light of candles.
My mouth was dry. Not good. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “You guys don’t need me, not really.” My voice sounded breathy.
Jean-Claude turned from lighting the last candle. He smoothed the sleeves of his robe down around his long-fingered hands, and stood looking at me. His eyes glittered like dark sapphires, catching the flickering light in a way that human eyes just didn’t. “Ah, but we do, ma petite. We most certainly do. You are the bridge between us. You are the third of our power. Does that sound like someone we do not really need?”
“I don’t mean like forever, just not now, not here. I mean, you can feed without me here. You can . . .” I was having trouble concentrating.
Richard rolled over onto his stomach, and he did a little head movement that showed me that his hair had grown out just enough to fall a little forward around his face. Not long, but thicker than I’d thought. The candlelight didn’t dance on his jeans, but Richard’s body in tight jeans didn’t need anything else, it was sort of self-explanatory.
“I’m going now. I’m leaving now. Yep, that’s what I’m doing.” I was babbling, and I couldn’t stop it. But I did start for the door, so many points for me that I can’t count that high.
Jean-Claude called, “Ma petite, do not go, please.”
I turned back, and I don’t know what I would have said, because he’d sat down on the bed, but he’d done something to the top of his robe, so that it gapped, and I could see almost his entire chest framed by the black fur of the lapels. The burn scar looked very black against the white of his skin and the shimmering black of the fur. His nipples were palest pink, and from that alone, I’d have known he hadn’t fed. His hand touched his chest, as if he knew where I was looking. The hand moved down, and so did my gaze, so that I looked at the flat line of his stomach, the line of dark hair that started just below his navel, and swept down to vanish into the shadow of the robe. I had an almost irresistible urge to go over there and rip open the sash and see his body pale and perfect against the dark of the robe and the crimson sheets. I knew just how he’d