Клуб фанаток JZB или Иерихона Бэрронса (18+)

1. "Если ты не можешь трахать это, съесть это или использовать это как оружие - убей это".
~Лор.
2. "Это "Честер", Мак. Я даю ей то, что она хочет. Я даю им все, что они хотят. Я не несу ответственности за то, как хреново-бездушны их желания."
~Риодан.
3. "Играя с огнем, Дэни, ты знаешь, что может произойти..."
~Риодан.
4. "Только полный идиот может счесть редкое предложение дружбы Темного Короля слабостью. И он скорее всего, будет К`вракнут".
5. "— Мисс Лейн.
Голос Бэрронса низкий, затрагивает этим странным акцентом Старого Света и слегка раздраженный. Иерихон Бэрронс часто «слегка» раздражен. Думаю, он таким выполз из болота или раздражается до такого состояния и выходит из него, или, возможно, это просто общая часть массы несовершенства, с которым он сталкивается в обоих случаях. Он самый сдержанный, самый могущественный мужчина, из всех, кого я знала.
После всего того, через что мы вместе прошли, он по-прежнему зовет меня мисс Лейн, за одним исключением: когда нахожусь в его постели… или на полу или в любом другом месте, где я временно теряю рассудок и убеждаюсь, что не могу дышать, если он немедленно не окажется во мне. Тогда-то он и называет меня по-разному, но никак не официально.
— Бэрронс, — возвращаю я ему. За то время, что мы провели вместе, я уяснила несколько вещей. Расстояние — часто единственная близость, которую он потерпит. Меня это устраивает. У самой полно собственных демонов. Кроме того, я не верю, что хорошие отношения строятся из живущих в кармане друг у друга. Думаю, из-за этого и происходят разводы.
Я восхищаюсь животным изяществом, с которым он входит в комнату и движется ко мне. Бэрронс предпочитает темные цвета, потому что так лучше скользить в ночи и из нее, или в комнате, оставаясь незаметным, за исключением того, что он оставляет после себя, что вы можете или не можете порой обнаружить, как, скажем, татуировку у основания черепа.
— Чем занимаетесь?
— Читаю, — беспечно отвечаю я, потирая татуировку у основания моего черепа. Я опускаю том, чтобы ему было не видно обложку. Если увидит, что я читаю, то поймет, что я что-то ищу. Если он поймет, насколько плох мой замысел и что я задумала сделать, то попытается меня остановить.
Он заходит мне за спину и через плечо смотрит на толстый пергамент древней рукописи.
— На языке Изначальной Речи?
— Что, серьезно? — Притворяюсь самой невинностью.
Он точно знает, какие клетки в моем теле невинные, а какие полностью развращенные. Он ответственен за развращение многих из них. Один уголок его рта приподнимается в ухмылке и я вижу вспышку животного в его глазах: дикий темно-красный отсвет окрашивает белок.
Это меня заводит. Бэрронс заставляет меня чувствовать себя страстной, сексуально- наэлектризованной и живой. Мне бы хотелось шагать рядом с ним в ад.
Но я не позволю ему шагать в ад рядом с собой. И без сомнения туда я и собираюсь.
Я думала, что я сильная, что я героиня. Думала, что вышла победительницей. Враг пробрался ко мне в голову и попытался соблазнить ложью.
Легко убежать от лжи.
Сила — другой случай.
Искушение — это не тот грех, над которым вы однажды одерживаете победу и освобождаетесь навсегда. Искушение каждую ночь проскальзывает в вашу постель и помогает произносить молитвы. Оно будит вас поутру с дружеской чашечкой кофе и точно знает, что вы примите это.
Он обходит честерфилдский диванчик и встает передо мной.
— Что-то ищите, мисс Лейн?
Мой взгляд останавливается на уровне его ремня, но это не то место, где мой пристальный взгляд должен был застрять, и внезапно у меня во рту становится так сухо, что я едва могу сглотнуть и понимаю, чего я хочу. Я - при-йа для этого мужчины. Я ненавижу это. Я люблю это. Я не могу этого избежать.
Я дотягиваюсь до пряжки его ремня. Рукопись, о которой я забываю, скатывается с моих колен.В этот момент забывается все, что не касается этого мужчины.
—Я только что нашла это, — говорю я ему".
6-ой тизер из "BURNED"(этот я не переводила для группы в контакте):
"The king stirred from his reverie and stared down at the unconscious female in his wings.
Half a million years since he’d last seen her. Held her. Touched her.
It was no illusion. She was here. She was real.
She felt as small and gossamer fragile as the new worlds he spun.
He inhaled. She smelled the same as she had on the day he’d met her, of sunshine on bare skin, moonlight on silver oceans and enormous, sky-no-limit dreams. He closed his eyes and opened them.
She was still there.
After an eternity of grief and regret, he held the only thing he’d ever wanted more than he wanted to be God.
A second chance.
He’d imagined this, dreamed it, hungered for it beyond reason.
They are replaceable, one and all, insisted the Fear Dorcha, his dark traveling companion through insanity. You will forget her.
But he never had.
Grief will pass, lisped the Crimson Hag, one of his more exquisitely terrible creations.
But it never did.
He, who had once been whole was halved without hope of ever being complete again. And when you’ve known that kind of love, to exist without it is to live a half-life where nothing else ever feels real.
He’d fabricated their reunion in countless illusions, slipping in and out of madness for millennia, talking to her as if she were beside him, answering. Drawing to his side one mortal woman after the next that possessed the body, the hair, a pale imitation of the passion, never seeing them, calling them by her name, pretending they were her until they died.
He’d lived lie after lie to escape the unbearable truth: She’d left him by choice, killed herself to escape him. He’d come to believe she’d never loved him at all, or worse—had stopped loving him because of the things he’d done.
Gazing down at her now, he found it easy to pardon Cruce for stealing her, forcing her to drink from the Cauldron and erasing all memory of their time together.
Somehow his soulmate was at long last the very thing he’d struggled to make her: Fae, immortal unless killed in one of a very small number of ways. (He intended to eradicate all of those ways immediately.) Funny how things turned should time enough pass. But the king knew the natural state of Universes was not to list toward entropy, rather wholeness. Universes were healthy. It was sentient beings with free will that were the true disasters.
So what if he’d suffered an eternity of hell without her? If someone had offered him this bargain a half a million years ago, said—you need only endure a half a million years without her to have her for all time—he would have taken it in a human heartbeat. What was a brief time of madness for eternity with her?
Fire to his ice. Frost to her flame.
He was whole again.
The Unseelie king bent his head and kissed her. Lightly. Reverently. He’d sliced open his soul and bled it out over memories of the woman he would never kiss again. Deep in his chest, thunder rolled.
Lashes fluttered. She opened her eyes. He drew back and stared down at her, unable to speak. Creator of worlds, God, Devil, whatever he was, words failed him now. His massive black wings shuddered with the depth of his feeling. He shifted and resettled them.
There was wonder in her gaze as she stared up at him: a moment of precious, pre-conscious dawn where all is dew and promise and anything at all might bloom.
Beginnings are fragile things.
Was it as he hoped? Was the power of true love greater than the power of the Cauldron of Forgetting? Did the body recall despite the damage done the mind? Memory, carved into gray matter, never obliterated. What would she say? What would her first words to him be?
Time ground to a halt and, as a human might hold his breath, the Unseelie king held his existence in silence, filling the frozen moment with tiny miracles: the blush of her skin, the curve of her lips, the arch of her brows.
Was that a flicker of confusion? Of duality preceding recognition? He knew her face intimately, had never forsaken a nuance, yet these were expressions he’d had no cause to learn.
After all she’d been through—eternities about which he knew nothing and might have contained any number of atrocities spent as they were at the Seelie Court with Cruce—but more recently kidnapped, interred in a tomb of ice and nearly killed by the power-hungry prince, he sought to reassure her:
“My love, you are safe. I have you now.” He paused, to lend emphasis to his next words, a pledge he would keep until the end of time, which he was fairly certain he was in some fashion or another. “And I will never let you go again.”
Envisioning their joyous future together as immortals, he waited for the first sound of her voice in half a million years…
She screamed".
7.Она знала, что хочет-лучшее. Он знал, что он был лучшим.
8. Этот тизер был в интервью Монинг, но ясно, что это говорит Риодан (кто еще из трех мужчин,которые присматривают за ней, прожил столько веков,что может сравниться с Фейри) о Дэни:"Ты охотишься за лучшим, самым ярким, самым сильным … и когда ты находишь того, кто сияет как солнце, ты сделаешь все,что в твоих силах,чтобы удостовериться, что тот свет никогда не погаснет".
9. Еще тизер от лица Дэни:
"Человек действия.
Сильный. Великолепный. Властный.
Хищник.
Неуязвимый.
В нем есть всё, чем я восхищаюсь, плюс те вещи, которые я даже не могу выразить словами.
Я увлечена Иерихоном Бэрронсом.
Мой мозг почти выключается каждый раз,когда я вижу его и он действует на мой мозг как наркотик. Прежде, если я не могла заснуть, я могла представить себе все те способы, которыми могла бы впечатлить Бэрронса, например, убивая монстров или сказала бы ему что-то действительно умное, или спасла бы мир и он смог бы посмотреть меня, как на взрослую женщину, и я светилась бы только от одного взгляда на его лицо.
Но потом Риодан стал появляться в моих фантазиях, то как он занимается своими делами, и как он выглядит…ну…как Риодан, и как он будет смеяться и делать это с хриплым стоном, как он делал это на четвертом уровне, поэтому я прекратила мои попытки заснуть.
Теперь я начинаю считать овец.
Вскоре даже эти паршивки начинают выглядят как Риодан, с его ясным, холодным взглядом, который оказывает на меня какое-то странное гипнотическое действие.
Черт!
Я начинаю думать, что буду теперь постоянно искать способ убить его, только для того, чтобы выкинуть его из своей головы".
10. "Я также не тороплюсь со своими ударами,отчаянно желая простить её, желая вернуть назад то время, когда она была невинна. Но эти часы разбились"..

Sex from Lor's Point of View
“This night could almost kill you”

“WHO AM I?” the blonde kneeling between my legs demands.
I need to come so bad I hurt.
I know the answer she wants. She wants me to call her ‘Mistress.’ Like she’s the Dom. She’s already tried to get me to say it twice, sneaking it in like she thinks I won’t notice because of the mind-blowing stuff she’s been doing with her lips and tongue and that flawlessly executed glide of teeth so few women ever master when giving head.
She’s wasting her time. It’s never going to happen. There isn’t a submissive bone in my body. I’m Alpha to the motherfucking core.
I pull her head from my groin and grin down at her. Hot, horny blondes are a dime a dozen at Chester’s. Riots may have sacked Dublin last Halloween and a killer freeze might have shut the city down for a while, but it’s rebounding fast. People have been flooding in, resettling on both sides of the River Liffey, drawn by the thaw, restored power and supplies, but most of all by the endless parade of sexually insatiable Fae that pack the bars and dance floors of 939 Rêvemal Street every night of the week, hunting human lovers. The hottest, most deadly nightclub in Dublin is bigger, better and badder than ever: Chester’s is Sin Central—if you want it, we got it.
“You’re not that good, honey.” I flash her a grin. My comment is guaranteed to spark one of two things: either she’ll get up and walk out pissed or I’ll get even better head.
I know by her confidence—and the hungry way she’s been watching me all night—she’s not walking.
She laughs and runs her tongue over her lips to make them even wetter, shiny with the spit of a pro and pre-ejac. I lean back against Ry’s desk, looking forward to her amped up performance, watching her, watching the club through the glass floor beneath my boots, loving life. As long as women walk this earth, I’ll be a happy man. If they ever get wiped out, I’m done. I’ll go in search of K’Vruck.
She slaps the head of my dick then closes her mouth over it in one long perfect slide all the way to the base….does some kind of swirly thing, then an intense suck back out.
I nearly stagger.
Son of a bitch, she’s good.
She has her hands on my ass, face grinding into my groin, my dick is down her throat, and I’m a frigging volcano about to blow. Problem is, I been ready for a good twenty minutes but whenever I get close, she mixes it up and shoves it out of reach. What was initially a turn-on has become a pain in the ass. Not to mention the balls. I’m beginning to think they might rupture. I’m dripping sweat and I’m not even the one doing the work, although I’m looking forward to getting down to it. The woman has one damn fine body.
I take her head in my hands and try to move her mouth on me the way I want.
She resists with a muffled laugh.
I pull her mouth off me and she looks up, smiling. Takes my breath away for a second. Her hair is a hot mess around her face, just the way I like it—bed-head always makes me want to fuck. Then again, pretty much everything does.
“Let me come, honey,” I say. “There’s plenty more after, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Do I look worried? I know exactly what to expect from a man like you. Who am I?” She flicks her tongue over the swollen head of my dick.
I start to hit it, that’s how close I am, but then she does this twisting thing with her hands and mouth at the same time, and I got needles on my dick.
Pleasure killed by pain.
Velvet of her mouth.
Needles.
It’s starting to chafe more than I like. And I’ve been known to play rough with the right woman. Or three.
“Mistress,” she purrs. “Is it really so much to ask? For what I make you feel?”
I consider. She is blonde with big, beautiful tits. Whole world knows I got a weakness for the combo. That’s how I’d ended up in the boss’s office, leaning back against his desk, leather pants around my ankles, buck-naked brick shithouse between my legs while the bass of Rob Zombie’s Pussy Liquor—and when the hell is she ever gonna give that up? It’s one of my finest skills and I haven’t even gotten the chance to dazzle her—rumbles in the desk beneath my ass, pounding up from one of the sub-clubs below.
I love this place. Definitely one of our better investments.
“I’m giving you the best head you’ve ever had,” she says. “Admit it.”
Not a problem. I say so to every woman that sucks me. Women enjoy doing things they excel at, praise guarantees repeat performances, every repeat performance is more practice for the woman, which guarantees the next man even better head. Given how long I’ve been at this, and on how many continents, I’m pretty sure I’ve single-handedly improved the quality of head around the world.
“Sure, babe, you’re the best. Head. Ever.” Damn close anyway.
“Who am I?” she purrs.
I groan. “The bitch sucking my dick.” We agreed on no names. She asked me to call her bitch downstairs when we were doing shots at the bar. Said it turned her on. Later, with a laugh, she switched it to princess. Now she wants mistress. High maintenance. Some women are worth it.
She cups my balls and squeezes, then begins sucking them with exquisite precision. All the muscles in my abdomen clench and I exhale explosively. I’m beginning to think this might be the best orgasm I’ve ever had. If I ever get around to the bloody fucking thing.
“You really don’t get this, do you?” she says. Laughter tinkles and the hair on the back of my neck feels weird all the sudden. There’s a darkness to the sound that might worry me if she wasn’t so frigging hot.
Speaking of hot, I look down to see sweat running down my six-pack, dripping down my legs. I’m practically standing in a puddle of my own sweat. What the hell did Ry do? Crank up the heat in Chester’s to a hundred? I’m burning up. Lightheaded, like I have a fever. Which is impossible.
“Don’t care. You’re here. I’m here. Do that thing with your tongue again. The swirly thing.”
“I’ll give you a clue,” she says and somehow she’s smiling while she’s sucking and for a second I think I see rows of tiny needle-sharp shark teeth. Not what a man wants to hallucinate with a woman’s hot wet mouth on his dick. I blink and wipe sweat from my eyes. Trick of the light. She has perfect teeth, movie star white, framed to perfection by smears of crimson lipstick, most of which is all over my dick and stomach. Oh, yeah, I’ll take a blonde with cherry red lipstick every day of the week that ends in a ‘y.’ Life is sweet. I laugh.
She cuts me a look then shoves me back on the desk and I’m cold where her mouth was burning, then she’s on top of me, slamming down onto me and I’m pushing up into her. I’m a grenade, pin out. Feels like my whole body is going to hit it, blow apart, come from head to toe. Bloody hell, sex has never been like this. I’m on fire, so frigging hot I’d swear the desk is burning.
Wait a second, it is.
Orange flames are licking up around us, like my sweat is some kind of gasoline sloshed across the lacquered ebony. We must have spilled some tequila. Must have been a candle on the desk. I’m sprawled on my back in fire and can’t even feel it. She leans into me, joins me in the flames, fists her hands in my hair and we kiss.
It’s unfucking real.
I half-expect celestial trumpets to blare. I feel like my skin is melting and we’re merging into each other. Strange shit. But damn, my dick has never felt better.
“Who am I? Is it so difficult to give me such tiny thing? A little respect. That’s all I’m looking for, honey. I can give you so much in return.”
Christ, she sounds just like me, right down to her inflection on the word ‘honey.’ I always get them to call me whatever I want. I’m always in control. Isn’t much I like more than a beautiful woman tied to my bed while I make her come till she passes out. So what’s my problem? Like she says, it’s a small thing. What can one word hurt? It isn’t like letting a woman have the power for a change can bring about the end of my world as I know it, for fuck’s sake.
I open my mouth and suck her tongue deep, grinding in, sliding out. I feel my dick inside her, and I also feel what she’s feeling: Me filling her, giving her all she wants except for this one tiny little thing that is so important to her for some reason. Maybe some man treated her like shit and now she needs to be called Mistress to get back some of her own. Maybe I’m part of the healing. Maybe it’ll make her come as violently as I know I’m going to. I like women. I want them to feel good. It’s practically been my mission in life.
“Who am I?”
I try to shape the word twice and still fail. I’d honestly like to give her what she wants but submission just isn’t the stuff I’m made of.
She clamps down on me and….aw, shit, she squeezes! She has muscles that could milk a herd of Holsteins dry. I buck and nearly get off but then she’s soft again and I get the feeling she could do this all night if she wants. And this crazy babe might just want to.
“Mistress,” I manage to growl. “Now make me come or get the fuck off me ‘cause I’m jacking off.”
“Tell me you want me more than life itself,” she croons, all soft and sultry.
“Sure, honey.” I’ve gone this far. If Ryodan ever finds out I called some babe Mistress, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Would you die for me?” she asks breathlessly.
I’m beginning to see no matter how hot this woman is, despite her plentiful talents, she has serious-ass issues. Looking for some big strong man to play hero for her. Who the hell isn’t? Every woman downstairs. I excel at the role. And I need to come. Simple enough exchange.
I grab her ass, grind up and drive deep. “Protect you. Rescue you. Guard your frigging honor if you have any left by the time I’m done with you, woman. Now squeeze.”
“But would you die for me?”
I don’t tell her I might kill her if I don’t come soon. I might turn. She’s kept me on the brink too long. I’m getting edgier than is safe with a woman. “Sure, honey. Whatever.” She doesn’t know I can’t. She doesn’t even know my name.
She pulls back and smiles down at me with rows of needle-sharp shark teeth.
Blonde hair darkens to blood-black.
Red lips fade to white. Then ice-blue.
Flames leap up around us. Takes me a second to process—also blue.
Aw, fuck.
I stare up, a little slow to get it.
I’m too close to coming to think real fast. Hell, her tits are too far in my face for me to think real fast.
Unseelie. The bitch is Unseelie. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it. I’m not easy to fool. Well, sans blonde hair and curves enough to happily smother a man.
She’s dark Fae. Twisted buggers, one and all, some more than others.
And she wanted me to call her princess….
Unseelie. Princess.
I narrow my eyes, staring up at her.
Nah.
The dark king never got around to making them. They’re a myth. They don’t exist. Damn good thing, too. The Unseelie Princes are problem enough.
Oh, honey, she purrs in my mind, we certainly do. Trapped in a library for a small eternity. One of yours let us out. Good thing, too. Men have too much power on this world. We will fix that.
“Get the fuck off me.”
You called me Mistress. You said you would die for me. I own you.
I laugh. “Yeah, right. Try pursuing that thought.” I shove her off me but my hands go the wrong way, fly up over my head and abruptly I’m slammed flat on my back, with both wrists manacled to one end of the desk.
Links snake around my throat.
My waist. My ankles.
Fuck me.
I’m chained.
I lunge up testing the links, snarling. Magic doesn’t work on me. Neither does glamour. Yet both seem to be. What the hell is going on?
We are a singular recipe. His final creation. She smiles and there are those frigging shark teeth again.
I’m immobilized, pants at my ankles, dick sticking straight up, and this bitch has shark teeth. I’m beginning to think this might not to turn out to be one of my finer nights.
“Say it again,” she says but now she’s all icy, imperious princess. “Who am I?”
No way I’m saying it again.
Ever.
My mouth opens and it says, “Mistress,” offending every goddamn fiber of my being. I think my balls actually shrivel.
She slaps me. Hard across the face.
“I’m going to kill you, you crazy motherfucking bitch,” I say tenderly. My kind doesn’t get loud when we’re about to annihilate. We go soft and gentle. See us like that: worry. She doesn’t know I’m one of the few in existence that can actually make good on that promise. She doesn’t know who or what I am.
She’ll be calling me Master before she dies.
“Who am I?” she says.
I clamp my mouth shut and strain against the Fae compulsion and still my vocal cords grit, “Mistress.”
Oh, yeah, definitely killing her. Ten different ways and slow.
“That’s a good boy, Lor.”
What the fuck, she knows my name?
“Now we’re really going to play,” she purrs.

Да ничего такого. Попал Лор в рабство к Unseelie Princess (да, да, у нас теперь и принцессы невидимых есть), но непонятно, то ли это флешбек, то ли то, что произойдет прямо по ходу следующей книги. Все же когда мужики думают не тем местом, то совершают такие глупости. Кто-то из Девятки выпустил этих созданий и, красотки с острыми зубками решили устроить матриархат.