The Blade Chaser's Son, Page 2

  But the call to sex was almost more than he could bear. How long had it been for him? He bit back a groan at the combination of Melaina popping the first two buttons on his jeans and his calculation that it had been two and a half weeks. She started massaging the aching head, popping a third button in the process, her fingers circling on the sensitive veins beneath the cap.

  A week without a fight and two and a half without sex? It was a damned miracle that he wasn’t stark raving mad. If there was one thing he needed as much as the physical test of fists, it was the feeling of a woman’s body pulsing around his length.

  His first woman had been when he was fifteen, a fact that hadn’t surprised his mother in the least. In fact, she’d given him condoms on his birthday and started extending the mantra about self-control to include the women she knew he would start bedding. Mom was definitely a strange bird all the way around. She always had been. His mother...

  Scott pushed away the disturbing question of how much she told him was fact and not fantasy, concentrating instead on Melaina’s body for a moment, using her skin to skin contact with him to his fullest advantage, sighing in relief that she was on some sort of hormone suppression of her periods. The last thing he needed was a woman pulling the same crap on him that his mother had pulled on Matt and Jordan.

  His jaw tightened in anger at that, not quite the fury he’d felt when he moved out but the residual anger at the games she’d played with all of their lives. Still, Scott would never have known he had the power to avoid a similar trap had she not told him he could read a woman’s body just by touching her and concentrating on it. Like the accelerated healing and the ability to make himself inconspicuous, it was something not every man could do. They were, she said, gifts from his father.

  His musings about what that meant were cut off by some rather purposeful stroking a la Melaina. Scott gave up and groaned in pleasure. He made the last turn, cruising past the old farmhouse, over the hill and stopping next to the smaller house as she’d instructed. Silence fell around them as he shut off the cycle.

  Without missing a beat, Melaina slid off of the seat, her skirt still hiked halfway up her thighs. She met his eyes with a coy little smile, brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them with a look of pleasure.

  “Here or inside?” he asked simply. There was no use beating around the bush. They wanted each other, and if she intended to back out, that was her cue.

  “Ever done it on a swing?” she asked.

  He didn’t crack a smile. “Playground, porch or erotic?” He’d done each several times. An erotic swing was his favorite by far, though a playground swing could be manipulated for height and was more comfortable than an old-fashioned porch swing.

  “Sofa glider.”

  “Can’t say as I have. Sounds interesting.”

  She purred and turned, stripping as she walked. Scott could take a hint as well as the next guy. His shirt landed over her skirt, about halfway to the door. He unbuckled his boots and dropped them on the porch, followed by his socks and jeans, with only a pit stop to snag a few condoms from the pocket on the way.

  Melaina scanned his body with a look of appreciation. He’d seen looks like it on the faces of women since he’d been fifteen—and looked twenty. In fact, his first woman had been twenty. He strode through the door, closing the distance between them in two long strides.

  The urge to have her beat at him, drowning out conscious thought. His arms circled her waist, and he lifted her to meet his mouth, carrying her toward the sofa as her lips parted beneath his. She matched his fervor, seemingly committed to going where he wished to go. That was good; Scott had no patience for games tonight.

  She pulled back, running one hand through the close-cropped hair at the back of his head. “Why don’t you sit down on the sofa,” she suggested, pulling at his length with the other in promise.

  “I intend to end up inside you,” he warned, making his needs as clear as he could without demanding. His mother had always instructed that, with his sheer size and power, demanding anything with a woman would be setting himself up for repercussions.

  “Oh, yeah,” she breathed.

  He set her on her feet, nodding as he settled on the soft cushions, spreading his legs to give her room to stand between them.

  Melaina wasted no time. She sank to her knees, taking the head into the warmth of her mouth. Scott groaned, wrapping both fists in her hair, gliding the piece of furniture forward so that more of him slid into her mouth. It slid back, and she sucked hard at the tip.

  God, but this game was good. He rocked the glider back and forth, forcing himself as deep as it would allow over and over. Still, it wasn’t enough. Scott wanted to drag her closer, but that was something he’d always avoided. Any semblance of force was bad news. Any sign that he’d lost control was even worse than that.

  “Deeper,” he grumbled.

  For one timeless moment, she buried her face in his body, taking his full length down. He didn’t breathe. His heart hardly seemed to beat. Scott held back the urge to pour his load down her throat. If he wasted it that way, and she didn’t give him another shot at her tonight, he’d be nearly as bad off as if he’d stroked it out himself.

  Then she retreated, and he let out his breath in a harsh cry. His balls pulled tight to his body. He wasn’t going to last if she did that again.

  “Up,” he ordered. “I want to be inside you.” I need to be there.

  Melaina looked up at him in surprise, but she rose. Too late, he realized that he’d barked it at her. Scott pulled her into his lap, kissing her, reassuring her with his actions that he wasn’t out of control. She whimpered as he slid one finger inside her, rocking against him as if begging for more. He added another finger, and she gasped.

  “That’s right,” he whispered. “You want all of me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then kneel on the sofa, facing the back, hands braced.”

  She scanned his full height again as if doing the mental math of whether or not he could make that work. Curiosity overcame her indecision, and she slid off of him, doing what he asked as he stood behind her.

  A fine tremor raced through her body as he ripped the condom open and rolled it down his length. Scott gripped her hips, smiling at her wide-spread legs and the curve of her ass pushed up to welcome him. He slid deep, closing his eyes for a moment to find his center as she whimpered again.

  “Are you ready for me?” he asked. “Are you ready for the wildest ride of your life?”

  Melaina nodded, gasping out her permission, begging for it.

  “Just what I wanted to hear.” He braced his hands next to hers, pushing the glider further away, sucking in his breath slowly as he slid nearly out of her. He held it there, savoring the moment of anticipation.

  “Scott—”

  “Don’t move,” he requested.

  She held herself rigidly still save the mild quaking that announced her hunger for more. Just when she started to look over her shoulder to question him, he released the back, letting it rock toward him fully, driving him deeper than the first time. He caught it, stopping it again, the curve of her buttocks nestled to his hips.

  “Scott,” she pleaded, wriggling against him.

  “I did promise you a wild ride,” he noted.

  Melaina nodded fiercely.

  “Then I better deliver.”

  He pushed the glider out and pulled it back, rocking his hips in time with it, meeting her deeper and deeper until he gently brushed the os at every forward thrust. She cried out harshly at that, grinding against him every time their bodies joined tightly together. This was what he wanted, what he needed. She’d seek out the stimulation she needed to come hard, milking him over with her.

  Scott ground his teeth. He needed that soon, or he’d come without it, and it was never as good when he didn’t feel the woman come for him...with him. He moved one hand from the back of the glider to her stomach, sliding down until he was circling her
clit in time with his continuing thrusts.

  “Oh God, Scott.” It wasn’t quite a shout, breathless, begging, a rough statement of pure need.

  She was close. He could almost taste how close she was. Melaina just needed a little incentive to fire the mental side of the equation. “Come for me in the next thirty seconds, and I will show you every way I know to use this glider.”

  Her body clenched around him. She groaned deeply, her hips circling more purposefully.

  “One wild ride after another, Melaina. Twenty seconds.”

  He held his breath, spurting precome into the condom as weak contractions of her muscles taunted him, holding the promise of what he needed.

  “Ten. I’m going to enjoy eating you...”

  One more clench, tighter than the last.

  “Five. And watching you ride my cock—”

  He roared as she gave him what he wanted, coming hard, pressing tight to him, screaming out in ecstasy. Scott joined her, his cock giving up wave after wave of repressed release into the condom between them. He rocked her slowly, sliding in and out of her still-spasming body.

  “That was spectacular,” he whispered, his body and mind at peace as it always was when he came with so willing a partner.

  Melaina shivered. “You’re not backing out now, are you?” she asked seriously.

  Scott chuckled. “I never break my word.”

  She slid off of his cock and turned, planting her ass on the edge of the glider and her heels close to her body. “Good. I believe this was what you promised next.”

  He dropped to his knees, blowing a gust of air over her sensitized body as he closed on her. “A woman’s body tastes so good just after she comes.” He buried his tongue inside her, smiling as her contractions started almost immediately.

  * * * *

  Adam watched the motorcycle intently, noting the make, color and finally license plate number that marked it as Scott Danvers’. The young man had the look of a Warrior, though no Warrior Adam knew had blonde tips bleached onto the spiked hair on top of his head or tattoos decorating his muscular arms. Though many of the young Warriors adopted extreme personal appearances, this went beyond what any sane Warrior did; it was too easy to identify someone who stood out so markedly from the norm they kept. Nothing visible save hair styles was the rule of the houses.

  He continued his perusal. Like most Warriors, he wore jeans and armored boots, though Scott’s weren’t in the Warrior style. They were a stunt cyclist’s boots but functionally similar. His T-shirt was navy blue instead of the typical black, and he wore no button-down shirt or leather jacket over it. It wasn’t unusual for a Warrior to forego one of the two shirts on a warm night, but what Warrior didn’t wear a leather jacket after nightfall? None he knew of besides Mikel of Crossbearer-König.

  It didn’t surprise Adam that Scott didn’t wear a helmet or protective clothing for riding. That reckless disregard was typical of their pups. But, the weapon at his back confused him more than the conflicted whole so far combined. He had no sacred weapon. The blade at his back was a SEAL knife, no less deadly to a human but nearly useless against a high-level beast.

  Scott parked and kicked over his cycle, ambling toward the door with the look of a man completely at ease. Adam considered that a Warrior who’d had successful battle—and from the smell of him, good sex—would be at the height of relaxation. It was Nirvana to the unmated man of their ranks.

  No. I need to go into this with an unbiased eye. He may not be a Warrior. That thought was banished only a moment later.

  Scott caught sight of Adam lounging next to the door and tensed, Blutjagd burning lightly in his skin. The reaction was so unexpected that Adam found himself forcing back the urge to pull one of his weapons, to exact punishment as judge for his obvious lack of control.

  “Which one are you?” the pup growled.

  Again, his responses were off kilter. There was no recognition, no familiar address, not even a sign of respect for a house lord. “Who do you think I am?” Though there was no Warrior alive who could be mistaken for Adam, this youth was obviously having some difficulty.

  “If you’re here, I imagine you’re either Matt or Jordan. I suppose you’ve come to fuck up my life a little more.” There was a bite of sarcasm in that.

  Armens. Though the last close Maher-Armen friendship was his grandfather Kord and James Armen, he’d met all of Tyler Lord Armen’s sons, and none of them could be mistaken for Adam. No Armen could.

  Scott’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened; his Blutjagd stepping up another notch. “I see. I’m not in Armen—territory or whatever the hell that beast called it. Your name would probably be Maher, right?”

  Dear Gods! The boy didn’t even know what range he was in? Was he insane? Or maybe suffering some sort of head injury? Whatever the case may be, it was immaterial. Whether a Warrior was AWOL or otherwise misplaced, the other houses would need to know it.

  “Hellooooo,” Scott called out in apparent annoyance. “Look, if you’re just going to stare at me all night, I have better things to do.”

  “I think we need to talk,” Adam forced out. He had to find out what was going on here. Whatever it was, it didn’t bode well for Armen.

  Scott seemed surprised by the suggestion. It was a full thirty seconds before he answered, his brow furrowed, his fists unclenching and his Blutjagd flickering then dying slowly. “Sure. Come on in and have a beer.”

  Adam followed him inside the entryway then into a large efficiency. It was roughly what he’d expect of a young Warrior alone: a stereo system, sleeper sofa, bureau, laptop, exercise mats, weights, a stationary bag, a kitchenette and an apartment-style washer-dryer unit crammed into the main room with a three-quarter bath beyond. >From the looks of it, his wheels were the most expensive thing he owned.

  “Want one?” Scott called out from the kitchen area.

  “A beer? No alcohol, thanks.” Was this kid insane or clueless?

  “After the night I’ve had? It’s a Beam night.”

  “The beast?” he prompted.

  Scott turned, an open, half-empty bottle of Jim Beam in his hand, shrugging as he took a swallow and headed for the sofa. “Well, finding out my mother isn’t quite as nuts as the state of North Dakota thinks she is probably didn’t help.” He flopped down on the threadbare piece of furniture, taking a long drag on the bottle that probably amounted to two full shots.

  “Your—” An impossible scenario settled in his mind. Adam tried to reject it, but it stuck with him. “Your mother is in an asylum?” Gods! No house would allow it. The stone wouldn’t allow it. How would her mate survive? Or was he already dead?

  He closed his eyes, a wry smile twisting his lips. “They call them institutions now. Well, when you believe some mysterious beasts are out to kill you and your son...” He laughed harshly. “Crazy bitch was right about that one. Stranger things have happened, I guess.” He brought the bottle to his mouth again, his hand shaking lightly.

  Adam stamped down the urge to leave scars for calling his mother such a foul thing. The rest filtered in slowly. Scott had encountered his first beast tonight. He hadn’t even known they really existed until he saw one. He was never trained and first nighted? Gods, he didn’t even own a sacred weapon! “Where is your father?” Your grandfather? Your uncles? Who is responsible for this pup, and how could this happen?

  Scott opened his eyes, murder in his expression though only the slightest edge of Blutjagd showed in him. “Why don’t you tell me?” he challenged.

  “What?” Oh, this sounded worse and worse with every exchange.

  “I don’t want it. I don’t want these...damned gifts I’ve been given.”

  “And, killing your father is going to do what, precisely?” How unstable was this kid? And, how in the name of Ani could a Warrior walk away from his child? If Scott hadn’t insinuated that the man was still alive somewhere, Adam would be back to the idea that he was dead.

  He raised the bottle again, breat
hing his answer into the neck before he tipped it up. “Nothing.” His Blutjagd faded. Scott swallowed the mouthful slowly. “Nothing at all. Forget it. I don’t want to know where he is. I never did.”

  The birth certificate on file danced in Adam’s mind. No father was named. What if it were true? No, this wasn’t possible. “Lynne never told him,” he guessed, his stomach clenching at the idea of a young Warrior outside the framework of his house and family. How could he survive without going insane?

  He downed the rest of the bottle and dropped the empty to the floor. For a moment, he was silent. “She didn’t even know which one it was. No. A Goddamn beast had to confirm which one was my father for me.” Scott rubbed his eyes.

  Her name was Lynne. The birth certificate was real. “Matt or Jordan?” he managed stiffly. Scott had assumed he was either Matt or Jordan. Those were the only names he knew. They must have been the names Lynne gave him for his ‘fathers.’

  “What does it matter? Think I want to ruin some poor schmuck’s life? He probably has a wife and kids. Think he really wants to deal with this?”

  Matt did have a mate and two sons, but either way, this wasn’t something Adam could hide from them. Scott was a Warrior-born son, a Warrior himself, Gods help him! Any Warrior would want to know about a child. What Lynne had done was criminal in their world, cruel to both the Warrior who’d sired her son and the son born of the union. Thank Ani that the child hadn’t been female, or Lorian might have stolen her for his own use rather than pursuing Erin and meeting his end at Mikel’s hands.

  Scott was a Warrior. That meant he had a duty. More importantly, they had a duty to him; the entire Warrior world did. “He has a duty to—”

  “I’m no one’s duty!” Scott took a calming breath. “I don’t need him, and I won’t do this to him.”

  Adam recognized the lie for what it was. Scott needed his father more than any Warrior he’d ever met. He needed the knowledge and training that would make him sane and safe. He was simply afraid that he wouldn’t be welcome for some reason. “He’ll want to know.”