Bitten by Desire. Marguerite Kaye

though there were no candles lit and the heavy damask drapes were drawn across the other two of the three tall windows. Coal-black hair, worn longer than was the custom now, fell sleekly back over his head, a stray strand flopping over his brow.

      She was cold, an icy cold which seemed to emanate from the man at the end of her bed. He had a pale face, with prominent cheekbones. A memorable face. Handsome but too austere for beauty, too…too…She couldn’t find the right word.

       Autocratic? Aristocratic? Intimidating?

      All of those. Other-worldly. A Roman emperor or an Egyptian pharaoh. A man accustomed to command.

       He looked so real.

      Too real. All of her senses felt stretched taut. Acute. Attenuated. The paralysis of her body that his appearance had cast eased the tiniest fraction. Enough for her to lick her lips, which felt dry and parched. Enough for her to grip the sheet, her knuckles white with the effort. She cleared her throat. “Who are you?” To her relief the words emerged, sounding hoarse.

      “Vaelen. I am Vaelen.”

      His voice was husky, smoky, like the remnants of a wood fire. Imogen found she could move. She shuffled up against the pillows, putting a few vital inches between them. His brow raised just a fraction, the corner of his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. She didn’t ask herself how it was that she could see every detail of his face when the gilded ormolu clock on her nightstand was a block of grey. She thought it must be the moon, shining directly on him. Or maybe it was the luminescence of his skin.

      “Vaelen.” She had never heard of such a name. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was breathless, tinged with strangeness and a presentment of something she did not know whether to run from, or towards.

      “You summoned me.”

      “I summoned you?” She was still frightened, but her fear was mingled with recklessness. She dreamt and knew she was dreaming. She’d wished on the moon and this—Vaelen—was the result. Is that what he meant? Longing washed seductively over her like warm honey. She wanted it to be true. That she had conjured him. Vaelen. The product of the moon’s magic and her own desires.

      As if released by her understanding, he moved towards her. She could see the perfection of his skin now, pale as the moonlight, oddly smooth like marble; his eyes which gleamed not bright but darkly, like strength or power would, if it could manifest itself. It sapped her will, that look, drew it from her like a blotting sheet, leaving her pliant when she should have been resistant. Oddly, satisfyingly helpless. Mesmerised.

      Vaelen surveyed the woman before him. Young, though not completely untouched, the unsatisfied yearning which had caused her to summon him shimmering around her, almost tangible. Her eyes were unusual, a curiously luminous blue, smoked with grey, alight with anticipation, darkened with trepidation. He could still smell the remnants of her fear, acrid wisps of it mingling with the muskier scent of her imminent arousal. A combination he was used to, but subtly different too—or his reaction was, for he was already hard. More hard than hungry, not a trace of his usual ennui. This woman was no ordinary feast. He would need to be careful.

      Her mouth was luscious—a burst of petal pink, sweetly curved, a generous mouth, though he could sense that she had not been smiling much recently. She was beautiful, though more in the fashion of fifty years ago than now. Curves, dips and swells, no sharp angles or jutting bone. The hair tumbling down her back was black as moonlight on deep water. The bosom rising and falling above the neckline of her nightgown was full. There were dimples on her arms, which were soft and round. There would be dimples on her thighs, soft and round too. Vaelen, who had lived through every possible definition of beauty, was surprised to find himself thinking her quite delectable.

      Succulent. A twisted smile tugged at his mouth. It was not like him to indulge such thoughts. He’d had them once, many lifetimes before, and had spent the lifetimes since avoiding them. He banished the memory before it surfaced, but was too late to stop the piercing sweetness of longing from twining itself around his insides, twisting into a tight knot in his gut.

      Vaelen cursed under his breath. Necessary as it was, he wished he had not responded to her call. There would be others. There were always others, so willing as to be tedious. He should go, but he was here now. She had summoned him to her chamber after all. Why leave without slaking his thirst?

      Her gaze, both clear and smouldering, was as ambivalent as he felt. He took a step towards her and his senses stretched and strained as they always did at this time, so acute as to be painful. Her smell, so sweetly female. Her skin, creamy soft. Her breath, warm and shallow. He could hear her heart beating and feel her pulses fluttering, strong and fast, driven by a mixture of excitement and fear. A fast-racing, heady mix. Vaelen’s own blood rushed too in response, but cold and sharp, like a melting glacier. “What is your name?” he whispered.

      “Imogen.”

      “Imogen.” Soft, like her body. He sat down beside her on the bed. She would not resist him. He already knew that, as he already knew it would be a mistake not to resist her. He reached out to touch her hair, running the flat of his palm down over the delicate shape of her head. Watery silk. “Lonely Imogen.”

      It was a statement, not a question. “How did you know?” she asked.

      “Why else would you summon such as me?”

      Vaelen watched her think about this. He enjoyed watching her, the way her expression softened as she pondered the truth of it, and her mouth, her luscious mouth, turned up into the trace of a smile as she nodded to herself.

      An aching hunger gnawed at him. The kind of hunger which would not be ignored, which he knew he could not resist, even though there was something about this one, something vulnerable that he didn’t want to damage.

      He wanted her. The realisation astounded him. It had been so long since wanting had been any part of him, so inured he thought he was to allowing only acts of necessity, lifetimes of reined-in passions which he handled like a team of bolting horses with the consummate skill of a charioteer.

      “Imogen.” Her name tasted sweet and soft. As she would. Her eyelids flickered and widened when he said it. Her tongue flicked pink and moist over her lips, the action connecting directly with his manhood, which hardened into immediate readiness. “Imogen,” he said again, aware of the rough edge of need in his voice now, waking like a wild beast from hibernation.

      And by the gods, she smiled at him and sealed her fate—a sleepy, uncertain smile, but an unmistakable invitation all the same. Did she know what she was asking? He wondered fleetingly who she was, what was her life, before he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers and ceased wondering, for the touch inflamed him as no other had, save once.