by Mary Hughes
But instead, his mouth pursed, considering me. “Let’s take your mind off all this.”
The protein drink curdled in my stomach.
You might think “great hubs”, but Julian didn’t get to be a high-powered attorney by being a softie. Not pursuing it now only meant he’d hound me later, timing it for when all my defenses were down. If he thought it was important, not even a semi barreling down the highway could stop him.
He stood and held his hand out to me. “Let’s retire to the bedroom.”
Oh. The fang plucking action had finally gotten through, and he was up for a round of bed bingo.
But between pregnancy, the stalker, and dealing with my apex-predator hubby, I was both keyed up and too tired. “I want to, but…well.”
He smiled. “While I am always ready, willing and able, I actually didn’t mean sex. How about a massage?”
Every aching cell in my body jerked to attention. I blinked. “Foot rub?”
“And back rub and thigh rub, plus I’ll massage oil into your belly.”
I put my hand in his. “Baby Jayden would be grateful.”
“We’re not naming him Jayden.” He drew me to my feet then picked me up and glided with me into the bedroom. “What kind of name is Jayden? No history to it. Now John, or William, or Peter—”
“A potty, a willie and another willie? Uh-uh.”
He sighed as he laid me gently on the bed. “Open your jeans.”
“Don’t you want them off?”
“This is a non-threatening belly rub. But feet first.”
As I fumbled with the maternity jeans’ fastenings, he pulled off my shoes and socks, picked up the lotion, pumped a handful, and warmed it with a brisk rub of hands. Taking my foot, he worked the lotion into the ball.
I groaned. “I love you.”
“This is to make sure that you keep loving me.”
“This is to make sure I keep functioning.”
“That too.” He knuckled the sides of my foot, rubbed the heel, then massaged each individual toe, pulling more ecstatic groans from me.
I managed to get my pants open but my blood pressure was dropping by the minute and my fingers were lovely relaxed noodles. “That’s sooo wonderful. Don’t stop.”
“I value my life, so I wasn’t planning to.” He did the other foot then massaged up my calf.
My tension dropped a level with each circle of his warm, strong fingers.
So by the time he got his hands on my jeans-covered thighs, my fatigue was gone and my tension had turned to something warmer.
I wrestled to my elbows. “How about you help me off with these pants?
He continued to knead muscles, smiling slightly. “In a minute.”
That smile meant he’d expected my change of heart. I love it when he knows me better than I know myself. Being six-plus of jaw-dropping gorgeous doesn’t hurt. “How about now.”
“As you wish.” With one smooth tug he depantsed and depantied me, and with another, slid off both my smock top and bra.
“Dang, you’re good. Practice?”
“Motivation. My lovely wife.”
“And practice.”
“And motivation to practice on my lovely wife.”
“Okay, you win.” I spread my legs, expecting his agile tongue.
He surprised me by standing. “Let’s start with a warmup.” He unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes a heated blue on me, sizzling toward vampire violet. He exposed his hard muscles and bronzed skin inch by inch.
I squirmed. Yum. I quirked a couple fingers at him, a “come here” so I could palm those hard mounds, feel those acres of silken skin under my lips.
He only smiled.
“What are you doing? The band’s already warmed up. Get on the bed.”
“Not yet. There’s an opening act for the audience first.” He turned and shrugged the shirt off his shoulders. It made all sorts of lovely ripples across that broad, muscular expanse.
“Don’t need an opening act.” I panted it. “Ready for the main show.” I slid a hand between my thighs to prepare the stage. My fingers skidded on hot moisture. I was ready and then some.
He shot me a hot look over one shoulder, his fangs extending between his lips, his eyes shading toward red. “Not even this?” He spun front and unzipped his trousers, revealing the trail of black hair, leading from his dent of a navel to the top of Mr. Big Gavel which was expanding rapidly and trying to tear free.
“Oh. Okay.” My heart was pounding a Sousa march. “Loving the opening act.”
He turned away again but before I could protest he dropped trou, revealing roped, cuppable glutes. A pang of need hit me, so sharp I started rubbing myself, trying to relieve the worst of it.
“Hands off.” He growled it. “That’s my job.”
“How can you tell what I’m doing? You’re turned the wrong way. Speaking of, turn back so I can see.”
“I can hear you stroking. Stop it. I want you screaming for me. Stop it, or the show stops.”
I took my hand off myself so fast my arm flung onto the bed with a whump. “Stopped. Turn now. Wanna see.”
He stepped out of his pants and slowly turned. His jutting cock hove into view, bobbing as if it was nodding, happy to see me.
I whimpered.
“Is this what you want?”
I nodded and licked swollen, throbbing lips.
He smiled with masculine satisfaction. “Now, what do you say?”
I reached for it, waving my hands in the air at him. “Gimme.”
“Not what I had in mind.” He stalked toward the bed, eyes glowing red, fangs straining. His chest rumbled with a vampire purr. “Try again.”
“Gimme now.”
He laughed through his purr. “Good enough.” He climbed onto the bed between my legs. I pictured him doing the lotus or the dog or just shoving my knees to my chest and impaling me with one hard thrust.
What I got was better, because frankly pregnancy made any position with a yoga name awkward. First he fit the head of his erection to my slick sex, swirling it like a ball joint in its socket. Then he slid his arm under my back and, supporting me, slowly rolled over and sat up with his back against the headboard and my feet tucked behind the small of his back. It levered me upright on top of him, easing my body onto his, a long slow glide like a glissando.
Long, slow, and wet.
I gasped as I sank onto him. I groaned when I bumped into his hand, a sleeve around his cock to keep pregnant me from getting plumbed too deep. My heart was rat-a-tatting like a snare drum. He rumbled his purr.
“One problem,” I gasped. “I don’t have any leverage to move.”
“You don’t have to.” He crossed his legs under me and slid an arm around my hips. Then, flexing his thighs, he raised me along his erection.
I thrilled at the feel of his muscles bunching under me like a powerful beast.
Relaxing his thighs, he let me slide back down, the long stroke shivering desire into me.
“Ohhh.” I wrapped arms around his neck. “That works.”
He flexed and relaxed, over and over, his hand steadying me for the slide up and down his body. Our fronts, pressing together, dampened. Heated. He kissed the crook of my neck as he stroked me over himself, his breath hot on the delicate skin.
I imagined his orgasmic bite and shivered. “Too bad you’ve nixed fang action while we’re preggers.”
“Biting, yes. But it recently occurred to me I can do this.”
“‘Recently occurred’? How many syllables does it take—?”
He scraped just the tips of his fangs along my throat.
“Gah!” Pure electricity jolted me, neck to breasts to belly and points beyond. My nipples sprang hard and tight. My sex clenched, then sang out for more.
“My words exactly.” He continued stroking into me, and scraped his fangs s-l-o-w-l-y along the tendon to my shoulder.
Ever so carefully, he pressed down.
I gasped. He wasn’t biti
ng but it was close. Excitement skewering me until my heart hammered and my sex was shivering with pre-orgasmic spasms of joy.
He continued his powerful flexes, sliding me up and down, curling and straightening with me so that his fangs stayed on the tantalizing edge. His hot breath billowed over my skin with each panting breath. His cock grew fatter the wetter I got. Closer, closer…I arched back, almost there. It scrubbed my nipples into his chest, swooping me to the very peak.
So when he released my hips and touched my clit, every cell exploded. I dug nails into his shoulders and fell screaming off the apex with as much force as if he’d sunk his fangs deep. I shuddered with the orgasm, quaked with it, as my sex clutched his cock like a fist.
Groaning, he clasped me to him and erupted, filling me with his heat.
We clutched and shuddered together in bliss.
After, I lay my head on his shoulder, his panting chest like a bellows against me, my heart whoosh-whooshing in concert. We held each other as our respiration slowed and our bodies cooled. I drowsed in his embrace.
Eventually I yawned and straightened. “That’s a keeper.”
“I’ll add it to the permanent repertoire.”
“What number?” We’d made a game out of numbering positions that worked for pregnancy. One was spoon, two was cowgirl, three was chair cowgirl and four was closed-leg missionary. Five was something we’d dubbed in-the-tent and six was sidesaddle-cowgirl. “What do you call it?”
“I don’t know.” He stretched too, with an impressive display of rippling muscles. “Maybe oil rig?”
“Ri-i-ight.” I rolled off the bed to my feet, to hunt around for my clothes.
My hubby rolled off after me and came up with my undies in his hand.
“Thanks.” I took the bra and panties and sat while he snared the rest.
I’d almost gotten recombulated when the bedside phone rang.
Chapter Three
Brrr. Julian snatched up the phone and thumbed it live before it even finished its rrring. “Emerson.”
I paused with my socks in my hands, chafing because I wasn’t able to hear the other end of the conversation—but also because I couldn’t tie my shoes without him.
“Damn. Nixie has been getting calls since Guns and Polkas’ Summerfest gig.” He listened. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll let you know.”
“Elena?” I asked as he deposited the phone in its cradle.
“Elena. The stalker’s call came from a burner phone.”
“Untraceable.” Thus the spousal “damn”, which told me exactly how pissed he was about this stalker thing, since he was the fuzzy-bunny-language instigator. “That’s bad.”
“Worse. He called our land line.”
I sucked in a breath. “That’s right. Which means…” Sharp icicles stabbed me and my heart suddenly thumped like a running mouse. My hand dropped to my belly. “He knows where we live.”
“Sweetheart. I won’t let him get to you.” Julian, still naked, wrapped me in his strong arms. I sank gratefully into the heat of his skin. “Elena’s calling Steel Security. The gurus will put a tap and tracer on our line, among other things. She’ll find out who this stalker is.”
I groaned. “Logan Steel will hear all our conversations? He’ll have a field day with my mother. Yes Mother, I’m eating enough. No Mother, we’re not naming the baby after uncle Gustav.”
“Giving Steel fodder to taunt us both mercilessly. Pfui. His puns are bad enough.” Julian snapped his fingers. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What?”
He released me to snatch his pants from the floor and retrieve his smartphone from a pocket. He swooped a finger on the screen. “While Elena tracks the creep down, we’ll go out of state.”
“Like a vacation? Just you and me?” I perked up. “Five star hotel? Whirlpool, massages, catered dinners?”
“Yes. No.” He paused. “Nowhere easy to trace. Whoever this guy is, he has some abilities, at least enough to track down our unlisted number.”
“Out of state?” New gears meshed. “Can we go anywhere near Minneapolis-St. Paul?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“There’s rumors Vanksy is there.”
He frowned. “You mean Banksy, the elusive street artist?”
“I’m impressed you’ve heard of Banksy. Like, but not. Vanksy is an artist in tattoos. He’s a genius. Very selective about his clientele, very private. Known for giving each person exactly the piece they need. And his skin art never slips. Almost magical.”
“He works in Minnesota?”
“No, he works all around the world. But rumors put him in Minneapolis the last week in June. So if we can find a nice hotel there—”
“Too exposed.”
Hope deflated.
“But…”
Hope lit up. “You have an idea?”
“There’s a place near Minneapolis where I stayed in the Fifties. A cabin in the Wisconsin north woods.”
“No whirlpool?” I groaned. “No civilization?”
“There’s a lake. And the outhouse is clean.”
When I married Julian last Christmas, I moved from my own apartment into my master vampire hubby’s “household”—which translates into a communal sort of deal where three vampires protect twenty adult humans and their dependents from rogue vampires, in exchange for blood donations. We all lived together in two side-by-side sets of townhouses which connected underground.
The bad news was, I moved from a place of my own where my mother called me every day, to a place I have to share with two dozen other people—and my mother still calls me every day.
The good news was, we employed some of those people to, as Julian put it, “handle domestic logistics”, which means cook and tidy, and resulted in a couple of suitcases plus food ready for us when we woke at five that night. All I had to do was put my guitar Oscar in his case, and set him and my travel amp by the door. Mr. Hinz from the anchor apartment trundled everything to the car.
Julian and I got on the road at six thirty p.m. Around Chicago, end of June, sunset isn’t until eight thirty (actually eight thirty-three; most v-aware humans know to the minute and Julian knows to the second), which meant it was still light out, which meant I drove and he sat in the shielded passenger seat. Yes, the sun legends are true—or true-ish. He can stand direct summer sun for a few minutes without bursting into flames, although he does start smoking a bit. He can go even longer if it’s winter or close to sunrise or sunset.
Around nine we stopped for a restroom break and switched drivers. Julian drove the rest of the way. We made two gas stops, one for food, and a few comfort stops.
We made good time, considering the weight on my nether regions turned “a few” into “every hour”. Fortunately Wisconsin, like many states, has lots of nice big, clean way stations.
On the Interstate, that is.
Nine hours into a six hour trip, we were wending our way along a two-lane black asphalt snake. My bladder was already crushed to the size of a walnut by Snagrat, and joy, he was gleefully playing trampoline on the thing, made worse by swooping along the hilly, curvy road through thick swaths of trees.
My ultra-aware husband saw I was uncomfortable, yay. But in response he drove faster, which meant the curves generated even higher G-forces, which meant my walnut was crushed to yellow diamond. I loved being pregnant, having a new life growing inside me that was the product of our love, but honestly some of the mechanics were just weird, messy and uncomfortable if not downright painful. Why hadn’t medical science created an app for this stuff yet?
Finally my mewling must’ve given Julian a clue because he stopped by the side of the road. I ran out into nature’s privacy, ripped open my maternity jeans—thank goodness for easy-open Velcro—and got comfortable again.
The budding gymnast settled down too, and as we got once more underway I was able to notice my surroundings. The night sky was strange—not pearly gray like the city, but velvet black, so richly dark I kept ex
pecting to see a painted Elvis on the horizon. A wash of stars looked like a cosmic baker had strewn the expanse with sparkly flour.
Finally Julian slowed to a crawl. “Here we are.”
The tall, dark, and vaguely creepy trees looked the same as they had for the last hour. “Where?”
He grabbed his phone, thumbed up a flashlight app and pointed it out my window at “Chipmunk Lake Cabins—Fishing, Swimming, Boating”.
“Oh. Good.”
The car crunched up about a hundred feet of gravel driveway. I was pleasantly surprised to see a large, two-story manor-style home with wraparound veranda sitting on a grassy clearing. A real house meant they’d upgraded from the two-seater out back, right? Hey, I know it’s a lot of bladder talk. You get pregnant and see if you don’t obsess over it too.
A woman bustled out of the back door, drying her hands on a dishtowel, fully dressed in a flowered dress despite the late hour. She waved at us with the towel to catch our attention then started down the steps from the veranda. I hoped her news was our suite with king-size bed and extra deep tub with limitless hot water was ready.
Yeah, Luck isn’t a lady—and sometimes she just likes to bitchslap.
Julian stopped the car and rolled down the window. The woman trundled to his side and stuck her head in, the silvery light bringing out streaks of white in her short, wavy tawny blonde hair.
“Mr. Emerson, how good to see you again,” she said. “You haven’t changed at bit.”
“Hello, Ann.” His voice got echoey. “I look older.”
“Now that I think about it, you do look older. Has it really be fifty years?”
Good old vampire compulsion.
“More like sixty,” he said urbanely. “Do you have a husband now?”
“And children.” She laughed. “And grandchildren, actually , which is what I came to talk to you about. We were getting set to leave.” She nodded toward a detached garage where an older model truck sat, a silver-haired man at the wheel.
“What’s going on?”
“Our youngest daughter is in labor. We’re helping out. Don’t worry, everything’s ready in your usual cabin. Here’s the key.” She fished a large diamond-shaped plastic keyring from a pocket. “Water’s on, and there’s plenty of wood for a fire. There’s only one other cabin let, but they’re quiet. Fishermen.”
