From Afar Read online

  It felt as though the sun suddenly shone from within, its warm rays vanquishing the last thirty-six years of loneliness and emptiness.

  Strong hands gripped the back of his head and hauled him closer, deepening the light kiss and jerking Raphael to the present. He opened his mouth, lips sliding over Aleric’s. The other man’s tongue thrust inside; determined, persistent, demanding. Lust flared beneath his skin. His kiss turned harsh and aggressive, matching the need behind Aleric’s.

  It had been ages since he kissed another, since he’d shared such an intimacy. The drought so long his senses greedily soaked up every brush of Aleric’s hot tongue as if it were the last one he would ever receive.

  Those hands moved to the collar of his shirt and yanked. Fabric tore, the sound renting the air. Aleric shoved the shirt off his shoulders. Reluctantly breaking the kiss, Raphael leaned back enough to shake the sleeves from his wrists. Before he could press his lips back to Aleric’s, hands closed around his ribs and flung him. Air whizzed past his ears and he landed near the foot of the bed, on his back. Aleric pounced on top of him, lips pulled back, fangs bared and panting for breath as he tore at the placket of Raphael’s breeches.

  A flurry of movement later and his breeches were flung aside. Aleric settled between his thighs, covering him, and slanted his mouth over his. Linen rubbed against his hard cock. A rough caress that could be so much more. He dragged his hands down the man’s back to his waist, his skin hot and smooth as crushed velvet beneath his palms. The thin linen of Aleric’s drawers was no match for Raphael. The fabric ripped and fell away. Aleric’s cock sprung free, slapping against Raphael’s belly.

  Grabbing Aleric’s arse, he tilted his hips up, rubbing the base of the man’s erection along the crease of his own arse, teasing his hole, and over his ballocks. Tempting Aleric. Aleric trembled, shook, gasped into his mouth.

  Aleric tore his lips from his. “Must have you. Now.”

  With a quick nod, Raphael spit into his palm and grabbed Aleric’s thick prick, slicking the length. Oil would serve him better, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d move away from Aleric to grab the bottle from his bedside table drawer. He positioned the crown at his entrance and Aleric pushed inside. One long stroke, stretching him beyond wide.

  A moan rumbled his chest. The most delicious flush of heat rolled through him. His arse burned, throbbed. A sweet, heady ache that made him impatient for more. Before the pleas could tumble past his lips, Aleric picked up a rhythm of hard, driving strokes, slamming into him. Aleric’s ballocks slapped against him. The potent scents of sweat and of Aleric’s aroused body filled his every breath, heightening the lust consuming his senses and shifting it to an unstoppable urge to dominate.

  Growling low, he pushed Aleric off, and then sprang to his knees and tackled him. Crouched over Aleric, he spit into his palm once again, using it to slick his own cock. The need to possess drummed hard and insistent through his veins, but he held back long enough to quickly suck on his fingers. Aleric pulled his knees up to his chest and tipped his head back, exposing his neck—the very picture of willing submission.

  Raphael pushed two digits past the puckered skin and into smooth, clinging heat. His cock twitched in anticipation. The release gathered within, pressure building in his ballocks.

  He crooked his fingers, desperately searching for…

  “Yes, yes,” Aleric panted, his eyelids fluttering, as Raphael rubbed his sweet spot.

  A drop of fluid leaked from the tip of Aleric’s prick, wetting his abdomen. His muscles relaxed just enough so Raphael’s fingers slid smoothly as he thrust, gently stretching, preparing him. He knew he wouldn’t cause Aleric physical harm if he skipped the preliminaries and simply shoved his cock inside, just as Aleric himself had done. His body could now take it and more. What once would have been stark, unadulterated pain would now be spiked with a heavy dose of pleasure. He’d discovered that fact many years ago when desperation had pushed him to lay with another of his kind. But he didn’t want to frighten Aleric, or to give cause for the man to think him uncaring.

  Instead, he waited until Aleric tugged on his shoulders, begged for more. And then he lined up his cock with that sweet, tight hole and pushed inside.

  Aleric grunted. The wince flickering across his face quickly shifted to amazement as Raphael sank to the hilt. The most profound pleasure washed over Raphael, briefly stole the breath from his chest. So perfect to be buried inside Aleric, intimately joined with him. Hands planted on either side of Aleric’s broad shoulders, he pressed his lips to Aleric’s, needing his kiss. Then he eased back and drove into him.

  Aleric pulled him down further, burrowed his face against his neck. Smooth lips dragged across to his shoulder. Raphael shifted, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, trying to peg the man’s gland with each stroke. Aleric shuddered, gasped, and then pain pierced Raphael’s shoulder.

  Startled by the bite, he tried to rear back, but Aleric clung to him. Rocking his hips, bumping against him, seeking more.

  The orgasm rushed upon him. A primitive need to mark Aleric with his scent, to brand him as his own, gripped hold. An urge he could not suppress. He quickly pulled out and grabbed his cock. Come shot from the head, landing on Aleric’s abdomen and flawless chest in rhythm to the chant repeating in his head.

  Mine. Mine. Mine.

  The echo of that powerful release still racking his muscles, he closed his fist around Aleric’s erection. Within two strokes, the length hardened even further, like a blazing iron rod in his hand. When he felt the thick vein beneath pulse, he pointed the crown to his own chest. On a roar, Aleric came.

  Raphael dragged his fingers through the pearly white seed, rubbing it into his skin. Aleric bared his teeth, growled his approval, and passed his hand over his own chest, smearing the remnants of Raphael’s climax. A smile tipped Raphael’s lips, the most profound satisfaction coursing through his veins.

  Aleric’s heavy pants filled the room. Raphael watched as his fangs receded. The raw lust in his silver-blue eyes banked, the aggression slipping from his features. His gaze focused on Raphael’s face, as if really seeing him for the first time.

  Tension knotted Raphael’s stomach, held it in a vise-like grip. Shock, confusion, accusation—everything he had feared, he saw reflected in Aleric’s eyes.

  Aleric’s dark brows knit together. “Who the hell are you?”

  Chapter Four

  The man ducked his head. It would have been a mere tip of acknowledgement, except he stayed hidden beneath the curtain of his long golden hair. Shoulders rounded, he eased back from between Aleric’s spread thighs. “My apologies, Lord Aleric, for the lack of a proper introduction. I am Raphael Laurent.”

  Aleric had more acquaintances than he could count in London, but he didn’t recognize the man’s name. And he certainly would have remembered him if they’d ever crossed paths. Had he gotten foxed tonight? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d awoken without a stitch of clothing on and in a bed not his own.

  He took a quick mental inventory. No, not foxed. At least he didn’t feel like he’d overindulged on brandy. Quite the opposite, actually.

  Confused and disoriented, he pushed up to a seated position and glanced about, searching for a clue, something to explain the situation. He was on a large four-poster bed in a bedchamber. The furnishings all held a distinct air of opulence. The silver and light blue silk brocade upholstery on the two chairs, the delicate cabriole legs of the desk, the intricate gilded scrollwork on the mahogany bow front dresser. Dark velvet drapes covered the two windows on the far wall. Gilt-framed paintings lined the other walls: a tranquil country landscape featuring a great expanse of lush green grass, a garden with flowers in full bloom soaking up the sun’s rays, and a sunrise breaking across a wheat field. The gray marble fireplace was dark, the room only lit by a candle on the bedside table. Yet…

  He glanced about again. The corners of the room should be shrouded in shadows. He was aware the single candle provided
little light, yet he could make out every detail of the space, even every nuance in color, down to the rich, brilliant red of the roses in one of the paintings by the windows.

  He gave his head a quick shake, and the events of the evening crystallized with startling clarity in his mind. Hannah, the walk home, the three thieves in that alley, the dagger sinking into his chest, and awaking with the overriding need to bury his cock deep within Laurent, to claim the man as his own. He shifted, acutely aware of exactly where Laurent’s cock had just been.

  Hell. He’d been buggered tonight and even…begged for it. The knowledge should have startled him, at least on some level. Those urges had been ever present since he’d reached adolescence, but never indulged unless a woman—Hannah, to be specific—was also present. Her presence somehow kept away the fears that he was, in fact, a sodomite, even when he was the one on his knees. But strangely, the fact he’d just lain with another man, and only a man, didn’t cause even a twitch of self-disgust. He had more pressing matters on his mind. “I thought I was dead.”

  “No. At least I don’t believe so.”

  “How can you not be certain?”

  Still avoiding Aleric’s gaze, Laurent lifted one shoulder in a distinctly uncomfortable half-shrug. “I’ve never turned another before. Wasn’t certain if I did it correctly. It’s not a terribly complicated process, but there was a small delay that caused a bit of concern.”

  “Turned?” He swallowed hard, fighting down the rising anxiety. He couldn’t explain it, but he somehow knew the answer to the question. Knew why his vision now rivaled that of a cat, why the sweet, metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. And he knew without even looking why his chest did hold not one mark from the thief’s blade.

  “Yes. You are now a vampire.” Laurent peeked at him through a break in the disheveled waves shielding his face. “Like myself.”

  “Oh.” Brilliant. He sounded like a simpleton, but it was the only thing he could think to say. His mind too cluttered, too stunned to form a coherent sentence.

  Laurent reached out, his elegant hand hovering over Aleric’s ankle before he snatched it back. In one fluid movement, he got off the bed. His back to him, he grabbed a white shirt from the wooden floor, its torn sleeve hanging by a few threads. “You were dying, Aleric. It was the only way to save you.”

  He pressed a hand to his neck, felt his pulse skittering beneath his fingertips. “But I have a heartbeat. I thought vampires were dead.”

  “No. Not exactly.” From the pile of clothing on the floor, Laurent grabbed another shirt and tossed both of them into a bin beside the washstand. “The correct term is undead.”

  “But how—?”

  Laurent turned and held up a hand. “It just is. Accept it, or you’ll drive yourself to Bedlam.”

  “All right.” He nodded, a slow bob of his head. A difficult concept to wrap his mind around, but the calm certainty in the vampire’s tone offered a welcome measure of comfort. “But could you define undead?”

  Laurent crossed to the bow front dresser and the next instant he was seated on top of it. He pulled one foot up, resting his heel on the edge, his other leg dangling over the ornate front of the dresser. Chin almost grazing his knee, he contemplated Aleric.

  Nothing about him fit whatever vague notion Aleric had about how a vampire should appear. He was the very picture of youth and vitality. The candlelight just reached the dresser, its flickering rays highlighting the rich amber and pale wheat strands mixed in with the guinea-gold waves of his hair. His bare skin, still kissed by the slight flush of exertion, molded smoothly over sleek muscles and solid bones. A good few inches shorter than himself, the man’s slighter frame didn’t announce his strength. Yet Aleric could vividly recall how easily Laurent had thrown him halfway across the bed.

  At first glance, Laurent looked like a healthy young man, likely not much older than twenty years of age. But there was something about him, in the effortless way he moved, in the sheer perfection of his physical beauty, and the thoughtful regard in those silver eyes, that declared he wasn’t quite as he appeared.

  “What would you like to know?” the man asked.

  “Everything.”

  Laurent tucked his hair behind one ear, revealing the smooth, clean line of his jaw. “I can only tell you what I know. Most important, you need to avoid the sun.” Arms draped around his shin, he passed one hand over the back of the other, fingertips absently lingering over his knuckles. “It burns, even when hidden by the clouds.”

  Aleric nodded. He’d assumed as much. Vampires were not referred to as creatures of the night for nothing. Given that he’d been keeping ton hours since he’d arrived in London three years ago, he would only need to push the start of his day…well, now night…a few hours later than usual.

  “You won’t physically age another day and you can heal yourself, but you’re not immortal. You can be killed. A stake to the heart, starvation, and don’t let anyone sever your head from your body.”

  Three things he’d avoided all his life. Again, nothing that should be too difficult to accomplish. A small portion of his mind marveled at his ability to remain so clinical and objective in such a situation. But instead of pausing to examine why he wasn’t more unsettled by the conversation, he focused his full attention on the beautiful man perched on the dresser.

  His casual posture seemed more out of habit than out of any attempt to shield his nudity. Aleric could clearly see the limp prick resting over his ballocks behind the forearm crossed over his groin. Even though every line in his body was slouched in comfortable ease, Aleric couldn’t ignore the resemblance to a predator, patiently waiting for the right moment to spring into action.

  “Your stomach will reject food. A rather unpleasant experience. Best not to even take a bite of anything remotely solid. Liquids are fine. They’ve never caused me any ill effect. Brandy will still taste like brandy, but it won’t get you foxed no matter how much you drink.”

  Aleric frowned. While he didn’t drink himself into oblivion on a regular occasion, he wasn’t pleased to learn the possibility would no longer be there. Some days called for a stiff drink or two or more for a reason. Tonight, for example.

  A hint of amusement lit Laurent’s eyes. “You are more than welcome to try, of course. But even throwing back a bottle of brandy will only leave you with a need to use the chamber pot…and not to cast up your accounts.”

  Aleric raised one eyebrow, not amused by Laurent’s attempt at humor at his own expense. In any case, he hadn’t overindulged to that point in well over a year. Leaving his supper on the walkway outside a gambling hell had taught him to keep a more careful eye on his limits. “If I can’t eat, then how will I keep from starving?”

  “You now have these…” Laurent’s long lashes drifted down and he slowly opened his mouth, lips pulling back to reveal two sets of pointed teeth descending from his gums. Then he dropped his head, forehead almost grazing his knee, once again hiding behind the curtain of his hair. “You’ll drink from another.”

  “Their blood?”

  “Not to worry.” Laurent looked up. How could one look from the man calm Aleric so? Just vanquish the tendrils of alarm leeching into his gut as if they had never existed. “The experience isn’t as…disquieting as it sounds. You won’t need to do it often. Every few nights or so. You’ll know when you’re hungry. Take only what you need. Don’t drain them and you won’t harm them. Nor will they remember it, if you leave them unconscious.”

  At least his very survival wouldn’t mean death for another. That was something to take comfort in.

  “It would be best if you cut all ties to your friends and family. Even a brief visit could prompt uncomfortable questions. They may notice the change in you.”

  He’d never dwelled on it before, but now that he thought about it, he realized he hadn’t a true friend in all of London. Acquaintances, fellows who joined him for a night of revelry and women who joined him in his bed, but no one who would bat a
n eye at his sudden disappearance. Fortunate, given his new circumstances, but still, not a very good indicator of the type of life he had chosen for himself. In his quest to soothe that constant itch under his skin for adventure and excitement, for something more than bland routine, he had gotten himself nothing but a very empty, lonely life, and in the process destroyed his relationship with the only people who had ever remotely cared for him.

  He heaved a sigh. “I doubt my acquaintances will miss me, and I haven’t spoken to my father or my brothers in three years.”

  Brow furrowed, Laurent leaned forward, easily balancing on the edge of the dresser. “Why not?” he asked, intense curiosity written all over his face.

  Aleric was a bit taken aback by the question. Everyone who was anyone knew the answer. But given Laurent’s nature, he obviously did not move about Society. It had been the talk of the ton for a while there—how the Duke of Haverton had turned his back on his youngest son. Aleric’s response to the gossip had been to throw himself into the life of a dissolute rogue with aplomb, or so he had thought.

  “First sons are heirs. Second sons spares. Third sons go into the church,” he informed Laurent. “To my father’s extreme displeasure, I chose not to take the living at Barton Hall.” Extreme was putting it lightly. As a powerful and wealthy duke, there were few who dared to go against the man’s wishes. Aleric had dared, and then some. Days of arguing with his father had ended with Aleric walking out the door of the family’s country estate. He hadn’t returned since.

  Laurent lifted a skeptical brow. “A vicar?”

  “Indeed,” he replied with a tip of his head. “And since I did not fall into line, do the expected, my father cut me off. Hence why I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

  “And why not your brothers?”

  “They are dutiful sons who willingly follow in my father’s footsteps. Quite unlike myself.” He didn’t bother to mask the sarcasm in his tone.

  He shifted on the bed, pulling one knee up, mimicking Laurent’s posture, and picked at a stray thread on the silk coverlet. He’d thought his options limited a few hours ago. Not a shilling to his name, the heavy threat of creditors knocking on his door, and with the distinct possibility of soon finding himself without a home hanging over his head. Yes, he had grown more than tired of the City, but…the realization he could never return to the life he knew slowly sank in. Everything familiar was now gone. And where before he held secure in the knowledge that with enough begging, with sufficient contrition, with a bow of his head and a promise to fall into line, his father would take him back, now that was gone as well.