Home > The Raven (The Florentine #1)(7)

The Raven (The Florentine #1)(7)
Author: Sylvain Reynard

He busied himself with his socks. “I interfere when it’s in my interest.”

Aoibhe rolled onto her stomach, exposing her beautiful back and backside. She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“It wasn’t in your interest to dismember the men in an alley and leave the pieces to rot.”

The Prince’s gaze flew to hers. “Gregor disposed of the corpses.”

“You could have frightened them away or used mind control.” She gazed at him curiously. “Max isn’t the only one who found your actions peculiar. There’s been talk among the Consilium members.”

He leveled cold eyes on her, his expression menacing. “If Maximilian wishes to talk, he knows where to find me. He won’t like how that conversation ends.”

She shivered and looked away. “I spoke in your favor, of course. I would have done whatever it took to secure the girl, even if it meant dispatching the men. She was exquisite. And they were going to waste it.”

The Prince said nothing but stood, removing his leather belt with a resounding snap.

Aoibhe toyed with the sheet, watching him. “How did it taste?”

He coiled the belt in his hand before placing it carefully on the wardrobe shelf. “My appetite is never quenched.”

Once again, Aoibhe laughed. “You need to take a lover—a human pet to fulfill your needs, day and night. There are beautiful women and men at Teatro. You’d have your choice.”

He hid his grimace by closing the wardrobe door.

The muscles of his naked chest and arms rippled with every movement, and Aoibhe admired them, wetting her lips with her tongue.

“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never had a woman for an extended period of time. Why?”

He turned his head minutely, spearing her with his gaze. “Humans aren’t meant to be enjoyed for an extended period. They lack resilience. Besides, I had you.”

“Our coupling has not been frequent.”

The Prince pressed a fist to the wardrobe door and clenched his teeth. “You took a new human lover less than a month ago. Where is he this morning? Dusting your palace on his knees, naked?”

She rolled to her back, breasts exposed, staring up at the ornate canopy overhead. “Human lovers lack stamina. I nearly killed him within a week. And he has to sleep, on occasion.”

“Ah, yes. Humans have to sleep.” The Prince removed his black trousers and tossed them over the chair. “So you’ve enjoyed his body for the evening and now arrive to enjoy mine for the day. How flattering.”

She turned her face toward him. “Nothing compares to our kind. And you’ve always been . . . attentive.” Her dark eyes lingered on his muscled, lean frame before resting on the firmness of his backside. “I’m sure you were never in want of female company when you were human. There must have been a legion of sweet young virgins outside your home, begging to be seduced.”

The Prince turned so quickly the movement was a blur, his eyes darkening and almost pinning her to the bed. “Cave, Aoibhe,” he growled.

She lifted her hands in apology. “I beg pardon. I forgot you were a priest.”

“I was no priest,” he spat out. He crossed the room, planting his fists on the mattress and leaning over her. “I was a novice. Do you intend to talk all day or did you plant yourself in my bed for some other purpose?”

She reached out a hand and wrapped it around his wrist, her touch soft and sensuous. “You’ve been in Florence so much longer than the rest of us and you’ve guarded your past securely. Can you blame me for a lapse in memory? I know so little about you.”

He gave her a heated look. “You know enough, it would seem, in order to bed me. You’ve entered my home, you’ve taken off your clothes, and you’ve deposited yourself between my sheets. Shall we get on with it?”

“Just a moment, my prince.” She gave him a patient smile. “You served the Church. You lived in an age in which women were supposed to remain virgins until they married. Perhaps that’s all you can countenance. Tell me, is that why you haven’t chosen a consort?”

The Prince disentangled himself from her grasp.

“Precious few of our kind survive the change with virginity intact.”

“I was a virgin once.” Her tone was almost wistful. “Before my father insulted one of the English lords. My maker had a surprise when he took me. He favored virgins, too, but misread my scent.”

“I’m sure you had other virtues that more than made up for it.”

Aoibhe squinted, trying to read his expression. She shook her head.

“No human lover, no assignations at Teatro, and no consort. Of course you’re angry and in need of release. Man cannot live by blood alone.”

“If you’re so concerned about my sexual needs, then you’d best do something about them.” He spoke sharply. “I’m going to put something in your mouth to silence you if you don’t stop talking.”

“I’m trying to help. We are friends, are we not? After so many years?” She smiled prettily, sliding over so there was room beside her.

He stood naked and proud, his erection straining toward her. His hands clasped into fists at his sides and the tendons in his arms rippled.

“Friends? No. But you’ve certainly been a welcome ally.” His gaze traveled the length of her body and up again, resting on her breasts.

She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I suppose that’s the most I can hope for from an Englishman. It’s a good thing I gave up killing your countrymen in the nineteenth century.”

“Enough.” He moved quickly, stretching his body over hers.

“Finally,” she whispered, pressing her red lips to his neck.

His hands moved up and down her sides, digging into her perfect skin.

She purred like a cat at his touch and lifted her right breast to his open and eager mouth.

He licked it, encircling the nipple several times before drawing it between his teeth. She arched off the bed at the sensation, lifting her other breast for his attention.

He repeated the movement before closing his mouth and sucking.

Aoibhe moaned, thrashing her head from side to side. He raised her thigh, pulling her leg around his hip before entering her. She groaned heavily as he began to move.

Their coupling was active and frenetic, as was typical of their kind. The Prince’s strength was such that he could hold himself over her with one arm, while he drove into her again and again.

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