While she rode back and forth on him, she took off her shirt and pushed her bra's cups to the side so that they molded her up and out. There was a mighty creak as V strained against the binds. If he'd been free, she was quite sure he would have had her on her back underneath him in the work of a moment.

"Watch me take you," she said, running one of her hands up to her neck. When her fingers coasted over the remnants of his bite mark, V's lips pulled back from the ball gag and his fangs elongated, digging into the red latex as he growled.

She kept touching herself where he'd bitten her while she rose on her knees and stood up his arousal. She sat on him good and hard, and he orgasmed as soon as he entered her, kicking deep inside, flooding her. He was still fully erect afterward, even as he stopped twitching.

Jane had never felt more sexual in her life as she began to grind on top of him. She loved that he was smeared with wax and the result of his orgasms, that his skin was gleaming with sweat and flaming red in places, that there was going to be a mess to clean up. She had done the whole of it to him, and he adored her for what had happened, and that was why it felt right.

As her own release came barreling in, she looked into his wide, wild eyes.

She wished she didn't ever have to leave him.

Chapter Thirty

As Fritz pulled the Mercedes into the short driveway of a condo and put it in park, V looked out through the front windshield.

"Nice place," he said to Jane.

"Thank you."

He fell quiet, getting lost in what had gone down back at his penthouse for the last two hours. The things she'd done to him… Christ, nothing had ever been that erotic. And nothing had been so sweet as the aftermath. When the session was finished, she'd released him and taken him into the shower. Under the spray of the water his come had rinsed away and the wax had flaked off, but the cleansing had really been on the inside.

He wished the red marks she'd left on his body would stay. He wanted them in his skin permanently.

God, he couldn't stand to let her go.

"So how long have you been here?" he asked.

"Since my residency. So, ten years."

"Good area for you. Close to the hospital. How're the neighbors?" Such nice cocktail, blah-blah conversation. Meanwhile, the house the party was in was on fire.

"Half of the people are young professionals and the other half are old. Joke is that you leave either because you get married or you go into a nursing home." She nodded to the unit next to hers on the left. "Mr. Hancock pulled out two weeks ago into assisted living. The new neighbor, whoever-it-is, will probably be just like him, because the one-floor units tend to go to the elderly. By the way, I'm rambling."

And he was stalling. "Like I said, I love your voice, so feel free."

"I don't do it except around you."

"Which makes me lucky." He glanced at his watch. Shit, time was draining out like water from a bath, leaving a whole lot of cold in its absence. "So can I have a tour?"

"Absolutely."

He got out first and scanned the area before stepping aside and letting her stand up. He told Fritz to take off, as he'd just dematerialize back home, and while the doggen pulled out of the driveway, V let her lead up the walkway.

Jane opened the door with nothing but a single key and a twist of the knob. No security system. Only one lock. And on the inside no dead bolt or chain. Even though she didn't have enemies like he did, this was not safe enough. He was going to-

No, he wasn't going to remedy it. Because in another few minutes he was going to be a stranger.

To keep from losing it, he looked around. Her furniture didn't make sense. Against the ivory walls of the condo, all the mahogany and the oil paintings made the place feel like a museum. From the Eisenhower era.

"Your furniture…"

"Was my parents'," she said as she put down her coat and duffel. "After they died, I moved what could fit here from the house in Greenwich. It was a mistake-I feel like I'm living in a museum."

"Um… I can see your point."

He walked around her living room, checking out the kind of stuff that belonged in a doctor's Colonial house in a Bruce Wayne part of town. The shit dwarfed the condo's lines, choking rooms that might otherwise have been airy.

"Don't know why I'm keeping it all, really. I didn't like living with it when I was growing up." She took a little spin, then stalled out.

Shit, he didn't know what to say, either.

He knew what to do, though. "So… your kitchen is that way, true?"

She walked over to the right. "It's not much."

But it was nice, V thought as he walked in. Like the rest of the condo, the kitchen was white and cream, but at least here you didn't feel like you needed a docent: The table and chairs in the breakfast nook were pale pine and the right size for the space. The granite countertops were sleek. The appliances were stainless steel.

"I did it over last year."

There was more cocktail blah-blahing as they both ignored the fact that game over was flashing on their screen.

V went over to the stove and taking a chance, he opened the upper cupboard to the left. Bingo. The hot chocolate mix was right there.

He snagged it, put it on the counter, then went to the refrigerator.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You got a mug? Pan?" He grabbed a container of milk from the icebox, cracked the top, and gave it a sniff.

As he walked back to the stove, she told him the where's-what in a low voice, like she was suddenly having trouble holding it together. He was ashamed to admit it, but he was glad she was upset. Made him feel less pathetic and alone in the midst of this hellacious goodbye.

Man, he was an asshole.

He took out an enameled saucepan and a thick diner-style mug, then popped up a low flame on the stove. As the milk heated, he stared at the assembled crap on the counter and felt his brain go on a little vacation: The setup looked like a commercial for Nestle, the kind of thing where Suburban Mom was holding down the fort while the Kids played in the snow until they got red noses and cold hands. He could just picture it: the chilly crew would come screaming in just as the self-satisfied mominator put out the kind of warm-up spread capable of cranking Norman Rockwell into a saccharine submission hold.

He could just hear the voice-over: Nestle serves the very best.

Yeah, well, no kids or mom here. No happy hearth either, though the condo was nice enough. This was real-life cocoa. The kind you gave someone you loved because you couldn't think of anything else to do and both of you were a mess. It was the kind you stirred while your gut was knotted and your mouth was dry and you were thinking seriously of crying, but you were too much of a male for that kind of display.

It was the kind you made with all the love you hadn't expressed and might well not have the voice or the chance to speak of.

"I won't remember anything?" she asked roughly.

He added a little more powder and circled the spoon, watching the swirl of chocolate get absorbed in the milk. He couldn't reply, just couldn't say it.

"Nothing?" she prompted.

"From what I understand, you might get feelings once in a while that are triggered by an object or a scent, but you won't be able to place them." He stuck his forefinger in to test for temperature, sucked it clean, and kept stirring. "You're more likely to have vague dreams, though, because your mind is so strong."

"What about the missing weekend?"

"You won't feel as if you missed it at all."

"How's that possible?"

"Because I'm going to give you a weekend to replace it."

When she didn't say anything further, he glanced over his shoulder. She was standing against the refrigerator, arms wrapped around herself, eyes shimmering.