"This isn't about your job," Art said, his fingers tracing the trails he wanted his lips to follow, but there was a strict policy against bloodletting in the tower. She could tease and flirt, drive him crazy, let him drive her to the brink, but no blood. Until later.
"It's about putting your time in," he continued, and Ivy shivered when his lips touched her neck. God help her, he'd found an old scar. Pulse hard and fast, she pushed him away and around again so he was between her and the wall. He let her do it.
"I am putting my time in." Ivy put a hand to his shoulder and shoved him back. He hit the wall with a thump, black eyes glinting from behind his black curls. "What is my evaluation going to say, Mr. Artie?" She leaned into his neck, taking a fold of skin between her lips and tugging. Her eyes closed, and as her own bloodlust pulsed through her, she forgot that they were standing in the elevator hallway, deep underground, amid the hum of circulation fans and electric-lit black.
Art rode the feeling she knew she was instilling in him, letting it grow. He had been dead long enough to have gained the restraint to string the foreplay out to their limits. "You're argumentative, closed, and refuse to work in a team environment," he said, his voice husky.
"Oh . . ." She pouted, gripping the hair at the base of his scalp hard enough to hurt. "I'm not bad, Mr. Artie. I'm a good little girl . . . when properly motivated."
Her voice had an artful lilt, playful yet domineering, and he responded with a low sound. The bound heat in it hit her, and her fingers released. She had found his limit.
He moved so quickly, she sensed more than saw the motion. His hand abruptly covered hers, forcing her fingers back among the black ringlets at his neck and making them close about them again. "Your evaluation is subjective," he said, his eyes stopping her breath as time balanced. "I decide if you're promoted. Piscary said you'd be a worthwhile hunt, pull me up in the I.S. hierarchy as you resisted, but that you'd give in and I'd have a better job and a taste of you."
At that, Ivy paused, jealousy clouding her. Art was conceited enough to believe Piscary was giving her to him when the truth was Piscary was using Art to manipulate her. It was a compliment in a backward way, and she despised herself for loving Piscary all the more, craving the master vampire's attention and favor even as she hated him for it.
"I am giving in," she said, anger joining her bloodlust. It was a potent mix most vamps craved. And here she was, giving it to him. The only thing they liked more was the taste of fear.
But Art's domineering smile surprised her. "No," he admonished, using his undead strength to force her back to the elevators. Her back hit hard, and she inhaled to catch her breath. "It's not that easy anymore," he said. "Six months ago, you could have gotten away with a nip and a new scar I could brag about, but not now. I want to know why Piscary indulges you beyond belief the way he does. I want everything, Ivy. I want your blood and your body. Or you don't move from that shitty little office without dragging me with you."
Fear, unusual and shocking, trickled through her and gripped her heart. Art sensed it, and he sucked in air. "God yes," he moaned, his fingers jerking in a spasm. "Give this to me . . ."
Ivy felt her face go cold, and she tried to push Art off her, failing. Blood she could give, but her blood and body both? She had flirted with insanity the year Piscary had called her to him, breaking her, lifting her to glorious heights of passion her young body could scarcely contain before dropping her soul to the basest of levels to pay for it, to make her kneel for more and do anything to please him. She knew it had been a studied manipulation, one practiced on her mother, and her grandmother, and her great-grandmother before that until he was so good at it that the victim wept for the abuse. But that didn't stop her from wanting it.
True to his word, she got as good as she gave. And she almost killed herself from the highs and lows as Piscary carefully built within her an addiction to the euphoria of sharing blood, warping it, mixing it with her need for love and her craving for acceptance. He had molded her into a savagely passionate blood partner, rich in the exotic tastes that evolve in mixing the deeper emotions of love and guilt with something that, at its basest, was a savage act. That he had done it only to make her blood sweeter didn't matter. It was who she was, and a guilty part of herself gloried in the abandonment she allowed herself there that she denied herself everywhere else.
She had survived by creating the lie that sharing blood was meaningless unless mixed with sex, whereupon it became a way to show someone you loved him or her. She knew that the two were so mixed up in her mind she couldn't separate them, but she had always been in a position to choose who she would share herself with, avoiding the realization that her sanity hung on a lie. But now?
Her eyes fixed on Art's black orbs, taking in his mocking satisfaction and checked bloodlust. He would be an exquisite rush, both beautiful and skilled. He would let her burn, make her weep for his pull upon her, and in return she would give him everything he craved to find and more-and she would wake alone and used, not cradled among sheltering arms that forgave her for her warped needs, even if that forgiveness was born in yet more manipulation.
Jaw clenching, she shoved Art away and moved to get her back from the wall. He fell back a step, surprised.
She did not want to do this. She had protected herself with the lie that blood was just blood, and had been prepared for the mental pain of whoring that much of herself. But Art wanted to mix blood with her body. It would touch too closely to the truth to keep the lie that held her intact. She couldn't do it.
Art's lust shifted to anger, an emotion that crossed into death where compassion couldn't. "Why don't you like me?" he questioned bitterly, jerking her to him. "I'm not enough?"
Ivy's pulse hammered as they stood before the elevators, and she cursed herself for her lack of control. He was enough. He was more than enough to satisfy her hunger, but she had a soul to satisfy, too. "You have no ambition," she whispered, instincts pulling her into his warmth even as her mind screamed no. Art's jaw trembled, and his heady scent sang through her, starting a war within her. What if she couldn't find a way past this? She had always been able to avoid a test between her instinct and willpower by walking away, but here that wasn't an option.
"Then you aren't looking deep enough." Art gripped her shoulder until it hurt. "Either I get a taste of why Piscary indulges you, or you take me up with you, promotion by promotion. I don't care, Ivy girl."