Incubus Dreams - Laurell K. Hamilton [283]
My voice came out strained, breathless, “Please.”
“Please, what?” Richard’s voice from the other end of the bed.
“Ma petite has a penchant for men when they are soft. Until I feed, she could indulge this . . . desire.”
“And you’re keeping it just out of her reach,” Richard said, his voice dropped an octave lower so that it was almost painfully low, his voice just before it began to growl.
“Oui.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Is that not the game that you wish to play?”
A thin line of growl trickled from Richard’s throat. “Yes, yes, it is.” He was up on all fours, too, but unlike Jean-Claude he was thick and heavy against the front of his body. “But I don’t want it to be you she’s begging for, I want it to be me.”
“Why can it not be both of us?” Jean-Claude asked.
The two men stared at each other, and I had a moment to feel their, not power, but almost as if their wills were suddenly power. I could feel the strength of their wills aimed at each other. “You chose not to let me feed,” Jean-Claude said, “deliberately. You thought she would not have a use for me until I could be erect.” He smiled. “You underestimate ma petite’s love of the male body. She loves us in all our many forms.” That last held some note, some jab, that I didn’t understand. I should have, but the feel of their hands on my body, and the view of both of them nude had me distracted. I never seemed to think as clearly around them when they were naked, embarrassing, but true.
Richard’s face darkened with anger, and the first trickle of his power slipped past his so tight shielding. It danced along my legs like a breeze off the plains of hell. Hot, so hot. It raised goosebumps in a shivering line down my body. Me, shivering brought their attention back to me. Jean-Claude’s face was pleasantly neutral, hiding. Richard looked down at me, and the anger was still there, but underneath that was something else. It held sex, but it also held something darker. Something that promised things beyond sex, beyond anything safe and sane. A moment to glimpse in his eyes things he probably didn’t want to see in any mirror, before he turned away, so I couldn’t see his face. As if he knew what I’d seen.
“If you’re going to fight, get off of me,” I said. It was a little tough to put much authority in my voice when I was naked and they were holding me down, but I managed. My voice was suddenly mine again, not breathy, not sexy, just mine.
“That is not up to me, ma petite,” Jean-Claude said. “Are we going to fight, Richard?”
That hot, hot wind eased out from his body again. A line of heat to trail like something solid and reaching across my skin. It was like fingers, fingers made of heat climbing up my skin, touching places Richard had very deliberately avoided. When that seeking heat caressed between my legs, I gasped, and managed to say, “Stop it, whatever it is, stop it.” The heat climbed higher, using my body like a fleshy ladder.
“Does it hurt?” Richard asked, but he was looking at Jean-Claude, not me.
“No,” and the power caressed my breasts as if some great monster had breathed their breath hot across them. I shuddered under that touch, eyes closing, neck bowing.
I opened my eyes staring up into Jean-Claude’s face. His face was still pleasant, unreadable, hidden. “Are you well, ma petite?”
I nodded. I might have said something else, but Richard’s power caressed my throat, flowed over my lips, so that my mouth felt hot, as if some hot, thick liquid lay on my tongue. I looked up into Jean-Claude’s midnight blue eyes, and whispered, “Richard.”
Jean-Claude lowered his face over mine, more of his weight pressing in his hands, against my wrists, so