breathing.
“See what I mean about anticipation?” he
whispered, lifting his mouth and blowing again
until she arched her spine, silently begging for
more. Byrnes let his fingers drift higher, back and
forth, back and forth—
Until Ingrid grabbed his hand and slid it into
her drawers.
“Demanding wench.” He laughed softly, but
he complied with her directive, brushed his thumb
against her quivering clitoris.
Ingrid cried out, turning her head to the side.
It was becoming harder to breathe himself, his
body aching for its own release, but this… this
was a moment to be savored.
"Wet," he whispered, tracing small circles
there.
Ingrid whimpered, tossing her head to the
side. "Byrnes—"
"Byrnes, you are an absolute master in bed,"
he whispered, sliding the tip of his finger inside
her. "Say it."
She arched her spine as he stroked her deep
inside, reaching up to grip the sheets with her
hands. "Oh God. I'm not going to say that!"
"Aren't you?" He smiled, withdrew his
fingers from her warm heat, and traced slick
circles around her clitoris, just never quite close
enough to scratch that itch.
Ingrid's body wilted. "Damn you, Byrnes. You
are...."
"The handsomest, strongest, most intelligent
and daring man you've ever met?" Reaching up
with his hand, he licked his fingers as she watched
him.
A hand slid down his bare chest, her finger
tangling in the soft curl of dark hair just above his
belt. Two could clearly play at this game. He
smothered a grunt, but his hips flexed against her,
his cock hard and demanding.
"You are," Ingrid whispered, her fingers
tugging at the buttons on his breeches, "the most
handsome rogue I've ever met." She bit her lip on a
laugh, but it gleamed in her eyes. "You're the most
dashing and daring blue blood I've ever had the
fortune to get my hands on."
That hand slid between the gaping slit of his
breeches and found him. Another growl echoed in
his throat as she curled hard fingers around his
cock, and gave way to a groan instead. "You're so
big, and strong, and this"—her hand gave a slow
thrust, thumb coming up to tease the slit of him
—"makes me so wet."
Minx. Always a challenge, she was. "And I
have the most wicked tongue," he told her as he
breathed into the soft curls at her temple.
"Do you?" She dared him with her gaze. "I
wouldn't know."
"Then I've been terribly remiss, my love."
Byrnes slid down her body, his lips skating over
the smooth curve of her abdomen. It ached to pull
his cock away from that hand, but he had other
plans. And if he were being honest, he was
dangerously close to the edge himself. "Perhaps I'd
best show you?"
"Perhaps." She let him slide his hands up the
inside of her thighs and splay them wide.
Byrnes pressed a kiss to the inside of one
thigh. Then the other. All the time, he stroked his
hands up and down, up and down, teasing her.
Making her writhe. Ingrid was panting by the time
he tugged her drawers down.
"Byrnes!" A fist curled in his hair.
"Yes, love?"
"Kiss me," she gasped. "Please."
That was what he wanted to hear. Rearing up,
he pressed his face under the hem of her chemise
and found the slick heart of her.
The first taste was divine. Byrnes tortured her
sweetly, using his hands and tongue until she was
begging him. Gasping out the words.
"Byrnes... Oh, Byrnes... Please, please—"
He loved the sound of it.
She was nearing the edge, her hips bucking
beneath him, her fist curling in his hair as she
tossed her head back. And suddenly he didn't want
her to go over that edge alone. He rose over her,
taking his erection in his hand and pressing it
against her wet sleekness, grinding the swollen
head of his cock against her sweet clit, riding her
until they were both gasping for breath.
“Yes!” she pleaded, spreading wide beneath
him until his cock breached her opening.
He could have taken her. Could have thrust
his way home. A vein throbbed in his jaw as he
held himself back. Instead he used his body to push
her over the edge, watching as her eyes widened
and her head and throat arched back as pleasure
rolled through her.
Then he couldn’t contain himself any longer.
Thrusting high above her, he came with a hoarse
cry on the smooth planes of her stomach. Nails
sank into his upper arms, fire flashing through his
cock and balls, leaving him utterly spent.
Byrnes collapsed upon her, the slickness of
his pleasure pressed between them as he slowly
came back to himself. He felt amazing. She felt
amazing beneath him.
And more than that, he had this intense urge to
sink his teeth into her throat right now and mark
her.
Fighting against it, he buried his face against
her throat, feeling the tremor work its way through
her.
Ingrid caressed the back of his neck, making a
contented growling sound in her throat. “You
know,” she admitted in a conspiratorial tone, “you
just might be as good as you say you are.”
Byrnes smiled as he stroked the bare thigh
that cradled his hips. “You haven’t even seen the
best of me yet.” He glanced down between them.
“Sorry. I’ve made quite the mess.”
Ingrid nuzzled into his throat in a move that
left him utterly exposed. He blinked and looked
down at her, at the way she curled around him. It
felt strangely right. He wanted to nuzzle into her
himself.
“It’s quite all right,” she told him sleepily,
then whipped her chemise off and used it to clean
herself up. “Here,” she demanded, reaching out to
him.
Byrnes scrubbed himself clean then tossed her
chemise aside. “Move over," he told her, swatting
her lightly on the backside.
"I don't recall this being part of the service,"
Ingrid replied, bemusement in her voice.
Byrnes slid in behind her, dragging her back
into the curve of his arms. The bed was too small,
not built for two large people. But she fit just right
as she molded against him, and wasn't that a
bloody thought?
"That was an excellent gift, Byrnes," Ingrid
murmured sleepily. "But you still haven't won your
second challenge."
"No," he murmured, snuggling his face into
the back of her neck, and brushing a kiss there.
"Not yet."
But he would.
EIGHTEEN
BYRNES STRODE into Lynch's dining room the
fo
llowing day, handing his hat and coat to the
butler. He was tired of meetings, tired of talking
about whether to arrest Ulbricht or not, and this
note had arrived at a fortuitous moment. He’d taken
two steps inside the room when Ingrid's scent
assailed him. The hunger within him flooded
upwards like a tide, his vision flashing to black
and white before he swallowed and brought
himself under control.
Ingrid looked up from the end of the ducal
table, bouncing a chubby baby on her lap. Surprise
gleamed in her bronze eyes, and her full lips parted
slightly as she caught sight of him.
Ambushed.
"Byrnes," Garrett Reed, the Master of the
Nighthawks, greeted, and Byrnes realized they
were not alone. Garrett's wife, Perry, gently rocked
one of her twin daughters at the end of the table,
but the sight of Ingrid had shocked him enough to
overlook them.
"What a surprise," he replied, meaning it, as
he crossed to kiss Perry on the cheek.
"Buck up," Perry murmured in his ear, which
was one of the reasons he liked her so much.
"Rosa's on the warpath."
"Thanks," he replied dryly. "I hadn't guessed."
As Lynch rose and strode forward to shake
his hand, Byrnes realized his old guild master was
entirely complicit in this deception. After all, the
invite had come from him.
"Anything I should be aware of?"
Those canny gray eyes gleamed with
amusement. "Rosa's not entirely certain what to
think of this entire affair. If she picks up her knife,
I'd duck for cover if I were you."
"I always duck for cover when Rosa's giving
me that look," Byrnes replied, accepting a glass of
blud-wein from the butler.
It still felt strange to be invited into Lynch's
inner sanctum here. Lynch had taken him off the
streets when Byrnes's infection with the craving
virus bloomed and given him a place in the world,
but he'd never thought of the man as a father, like
Garrett did. No, Lynch had been a mentor, one of
the few people that Byrnes truly respected. They
took dinner every now and then, and Byrnes knew
he could go to the duke with a vexing case when he
wanted insight, but Lynch's life had drifted away
from the course of his own over the past few years.
Though once reluctant to step into the duchy's
shoes, now Lynch thrived on his involvement in
politics and his busy little family's affairs.
"Byrnes," Ingrid greeted.
"Miller," he replied, his tone devoid of any
emotion, as he circled the table and took a seat
across from her. Being so clearly on display had
his guard up, which wasn't entirely fair to her,
especially not after last night. His tone softened, "I
didn't realize we were both attending tonight. Else
I'd have offered you a ride."
"Likewise," she drawled, and turned her
attention to the baby. Dinner was to be an informal
affair then, if young Phillip was around.
Byrnes held little truck with children—until
now, they'd never truly entered his life—but he
was struck by how warm Ingrid's expression was
as she burbled something to the baby, who
promptly stuck her pearls in his mouth. She'd
relaxed in a way that he'd rarely seen, and it
troubled him.
Perhaps it was her confession the other day;
she'd lost her own family as a little girl, and Rosa
and her brothers were all she had. He'd known
this. But the reality of the situation hadn't struck
him until now.
Ingrid wanted children. She wanted a husband
and a family of her own, and this was precisely
why Rosa had wanted him to be here. To see it.
He met the duchess's dark eyes and felt like
he wanted to be ill.
"So," Lynch said, leaning back in his chair, as
if Byrnes hadn't just been struck by a revelation
that made him want to bolt from the table. "Tell me
about these Rising Sons. Just how dangerous do
you think they are?"
It was easy to answer, to string sentences
together, and put cold hard facts out for the duke's
perusal, but a part of Byrnes remained aware of
Ingrid, who was playing some sort of game with
Phillip involving spoons. The baby was laughing.
A cold clammy hand gripped the back of his
neck.
"Vampires," Garrett murmured, leaning back
to rest his arm along the back of Perry's chair.
"That bodes ill. How many do you think there
are?"
"We killed one at Ulbricht's garden party, so
there's at least three left."
Garrett and Perry shared a look.
"No," Perry replied firmly. "Don't even think
it. I'm not leaving you here in the city to face a
vampire alone. Or three."
"If trouble comes," Rosa chipped in, to
prevent an argument and perhaps forestall Lynch on
the topic, "then Perry and I will take the children
out of London. But not yet, I think."
"Malloryn's passed along his findings to the
Council of Dukes," Lynch said, looking at Byrnes,
"but I wanted your take on matters first. The queen
is uncertain whether to declare martial law upon
the city, and if we're forced to take a vote on the
matter... well, I'd like the facts, at least."
Martial law would send the Nighthawks out
onto the street in force, which might be good for
the case but would also cause panic among the
citizens and lead to potential riots and outbursts in
the streets. The revolution was still too raw in
people's minds.
"I'd... wait," Byrnes said slowly. "So far these
vampires seem to be under the control of Ulbricht's
mistress. They're not rampaging through the
streets."
"And by voting for martial law," Ingrid
pointed out, "we're playing directly into the hands
of whoever is behind all of this. Each event so far
has been to provoke some sort of response in the
populace. These people want the crowd to fear the
queen, they want them to start thinking about what
happened three years ago, and the second that
starts, I suspect these events will increase in
intensity. Right now there's a lot of behind-the-
scenes work going on. Ulbricht and his crew are
building up to something, but they're not there yet."
"You have the full cooperation of the
Nighthawks," Garrett told Byrnes, which made
something inside him spread its wings.
He'd been overlooked for the job of guild
master when Lynch resigned, and had slowly come
to terms with it. Garrett did a much better job than
he ever would have. But it was nice to realize that
his opinion was respected enough for Garrett to
offer them to him without objections.
"Thanks," Byrnes said, just as the first course
arrived. "We may just need it
."
THE DUCHESS of Bleight was not as easygoing
as her husband, Lynch.
Byrnes heard the swish of fabric a moment
before Rosa swept into view, bearing down upon
him like a Dreadnought, its cannons raised. In that
moment, he had a brief sensation of what the
French might have thought at Trafalgar. Oh, shit.
Just when he'd thought he'd escaped. Pausing in the
entry, in the act of tugging his gloves on, he gave
her a raised-brow look.
"A moment, Byrnes,” she said, and her voice
was deceptively casual. Her dark eyes, however,
flashed fire. One might not think it to look at her in
all of those green ruffles and pretty pearls, but
Byrnes would rather face Lynch over weapons than
Rosa. Anyday.
"Something the matter, Your Grace?”
"Don’t you ‘Your Grace’ me. What are your
intentions toward Ingrid?”
Byrnes’s eyes narrowed. "None of your
business, I believe."
She snorted, and a gloved finger stabbed into
his chest like a chisel. "Ingrid belongs to me, and I
don't like this at all. You're the last man I'd ever
throw her to."
"Ingrid belongs to herself," he told her firmly.
"Not you. Not me. As such she can make her own
choices in life, regardless of what you think of
me."
"I'll concede that point, Byrnes, and I mean no
offense, but we all know what type of man you are.
You're not the sort to dally with a woman past your
interest in her. You don't have marriage written in
your future, or children, or all of the things that
Ingrid secretly craves."
No, he hadn't been that man. Ever. But last
night something had shifted in his perception of
what was happening between them. He just wasn't
entirely certain what it was.
And he clearly wasn't hiding it well enough,
for Rosa's eyes narrowed as she watched him.
"What was that?"
"What?"
"That look," she said suspiciously.
"Dinner disagreeing with me perhaps." He
turned toward the door, conversation over.
Rosa darted in front of him, and Byrnes
stopped short just before he ploughed into her.
They both looked down. He had his hands up as if
to stop himself and they rested but an inch from a
certain area of her anatomy that Byrnes generally
pretended Rosa didn't have.
He jerked them out of range before someone
shot him.
"That look," she said, highly amused by his
panic, "wasn't just dinner disagreeing with you.
You were considering something. What was it?"