by Jackie Ivie
It could have been a minute. Could have been five of them. He finally lifted the grocery sacks and toted them into the kitchen. The feeling of being accompanied was still there as he set the bags on the counter. Clicked the lights on by touch. Did a visual scan of the kitchen area. The space was brightly lit. Clean. The aluminum finish on his appliances sparkled. The cleaning service he employed must have come that morning. They came twice a week. It might be their presence affecting the area.
...but he doubted it.
The hall was a dark aperture. Mitch ran a hand up his side and unfastened the strap on his gun. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It was eerie, like he’d entered a horror film or one of those videos showing a shadowed presence that manifested in a selfie, but otherwise didn’t seem to exist. He padded soundlessly down the hall. Checked his spare bedroom. Bath. Master bedroom. Everything was normal-looking. Uncluttered. Orderly. He retraced his path, stopping at the entrance to his hall in order to look up. He’d fallen in love with this particular condominium because it had a vaulted ceiling with skylights and a lattice design of wooden beams above the living room and kitchen area. The space was brightly lit in daylight. Right now, the area above him was a shadow-land.
Mitch waited another span of time. Listened. Watched. He heard the same echo-type nuance in relation to his physiology. His heart had an accompanying beat. Each breath contained the faintest resonant sound. He didn’t move for several moments. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Mitch finally gave a heavy sigh. He was imaging things. He had to be. No perpetrator could be still that long.
It was three steps along the wall to turn on the water fountain located in a far corner of his living room, and then he was heading for the kitchen. Trickling sounds followed him, but they didn’t seem to soothe. That was even more weirdness in an already odd day.
This was stupid. The woman had just been a pick-pocket who worked in a gang of miscreants that appeared to be smart enough to have gloves of some kind that were imprinted with one set of fingerprints. It was a good supposition, except she hadn’t worn gloves, latex or otherwise. Mitch shook himself mentally. It was a conundrum and his brain was tired. It was late. He was famished. And guys at the station were misinformed. Even if they’d brought Chinese food from a restaurant, he’d have hesitated. He rarely ate out. He wanted to know what was going into his body. He only used the freshest ingredients purchased from the Asian market. Selecting these groceries had taken the brunt of his evening. But it was so worth it! While the rice cooker handled duties, Mitch chopped and cooked vegetables and chicken in his Wok. Sizzling sounds and fantastic smells were the result.
He filled a bowl, pulled out chop sticks, and straddled a stool, all while keeping his back to the refrigerator. He normally ate at his table, paying complete attention to aroma. Taste. The sensation of each bite. Tonight was different. He was on edge. He couldn’t shake it.
He needed rest. A good night’s sleep would fix everything. But before that, he needed to work the kinks out of his muscles. Mitch padded down the hall, tossed off clothing, and returned attired in loose work-out pants. He lifted the edge of his room rug and pulled it toward the entrance foyer, bringing the coffee table with it. A whisper of sound dented the silence. He considered it for a bit before lifting the last of the rug out of the way. There wasn’t another sound. He now had a large space with minimal obstructions. His floor was real wood. The maid had polished it. That made it slicker than normal, but he was barefoot, and the gloss might add a dimension to his workout he needed tonight. Mitch pulled off his shirt and started.
But the entire time, he could swear he wasn’t alone.
~ ~ ~
Oh my.
My.
My.
Adelaide watched her mate. She’d found a dark section above one of the beams in his home, and stood there for what felt like hours. She’d been motionless, but it wasn’t an issue. She was undead. Staying still was easy. What she couldn’t control was her heart. Or her breathing. Nor the tingling sensations that raced through her torso in a continual series since he’d entered, and that had multiplied when he’d returned and taken off his shirt. The feeling weakened her thighs. Made her knees quake. Her heart pound. He moved about beneath her, flexing and highlighting a physique that would shame any male she’d seen or imagined, and the tingling grew apace. Her heart had reacted. Each breath came faster. Her pulse pounded. Her mouth dried. She’d never seen such a man.
Then again, she’d never wanted to.
She barely caught a sigh as he completed a series of hand-stand push-ups, and sprang upright, without appearing to expend much effort. Her sigh wouldn’t have been audible, since his feet made a thudding noise as he landed, but she was afraid to make any sound. She’d never felt so strange. Almost bashful. She knew her way around men. What they wanted. And how to use it. This shyness was misplaced and ridiculous. This was her mate. He’d been created for her...or something along that line. She didn’t remember the exact wording, but that sounded right. A vampire was an undead being. Emotionless. Lifeless. Unless and until their one true mate came into their sphere. And then all kinds of things happened. Including—
Oh my!
Desire was a frightening thing. She wished she knew how best to approach him. What to say. Do. How to act. What should she say? He seemed so distant. Remote. Probably because he was a bobby. She already knew he was standoffish and arrogant. Now, she had to factor in how badly he affected her. Just looking at him was problematic. She might stutter. Speak complete gibberish. Sound like an idiot. It wasn’t far-fetched. Her mind was a mess of options, along with consequences. And she thought she’d prepared.
She’d dressed with supreme care for this.
She’d cinched herself into a breath-stealing, black silk corset to create the hourglass figure so craved by women of the Edwardian era. It was worn with a brocade skirt in a burgundy and black pattern, atop a petticoat of tiered ruffled broadcloth that had been starched and then ironed into perfection. Pointed buttoned boots were fastened all the way to a spot above her ankles. They pinched her toes. She hadn’t remembered that particular problem with footwear until she’d donned them – and could actually feel it again! She’d finished by lifting and then securing her hair into a curled mass atop her head, hoping to create the image that the Gibson Girls made popular. She didn’t have a reflection, but hoped she looked nice. Feminine. Attractive. And not nearly as desperate as she felt.
Oh, my, again!
She’d found her mate! He was right before her! Available. Perfectly displayed. Extremely manly.
And she was leery of even approaching him.
Adelaide licked her lips with a dry tongue. Shook slightly. The rustle of her attire would have alerted him to her presence, except he was busily sending a set of two wooden things attached to a chain rocketing about him...without once hitting himself. It was just one thing he’d done that amazed and awed. She’d never seen the ballet of motion her mate was displaying below her, but it was impressive. And he was extremely masculine. To a staggering degree. His efforts raised a sheen of perspiration that made his skin glisten. It defined all kinds of muscle throughout his belly. Chest. Shoulders. Arms. She was ogling him and couldn’t seem to stop. But her mate was such a beautiful specimen! His body was beyond jaw-dropping. The corset that squeezed her ribcage made breathing difficult, and she was panting here.
She was going to fall if she didn’t halt this.
He stopped suddenly. Lifted his head. Snarled. He was breathing heavily. His heart was pounding. Hers matched. He looked directly up at her as if he could see her. Adelaide caught the gasp, and barely prevented a tremor before it rustled her attire. The dagger she’d brought thumped against her thigh. It was a long blade. Sharp. Perfect for handling the woman she’d expected, but seen no hint of. It was also going to be perfect for slicing the cords of her corset apart...
He loped out of view, entering the hall beneath her. A few moments later, Addie heard
the water in his bathroom starting up.
Ah.
He was showering.
She couldn’t prevent the shudders that afflicted her at just the thought of soap and water dripping off his body. Accompanied by a mist of steamed water. Adelaide trembled. Her mouth watered. Her legs wavered. Her belly flickered with sparks. Her core grew moist. And that’s when she fell, landing atop the beam with a rustle of brocade and satin.
CHAPTER SIX
He was dreaming. His sleep filled with the images of that woman. Adelaide.
Mitch tossed and turned. Rotated. Tried to avoid her. Turned on his belly and shoved his head beneath a pillow. It didn’t work. She was in his dreams and he was hooked. Her eyes sent messages. His mind reeled with them but his body had no such trouble. His heart ramped up. His muscles tensed. His dick even hardened, drilling into the mattress with vicious efficiency. Her voice added to the trance-like quality of the dream, surrounding him with indecipherable whispers, faintly tinged with a British accent.
The room grew hot. His covers clinging with moisture. Almost suffocating. Mitch shoved the bedding aside and flopped over again, making the mattress bounce. It didn’t fix his problem. The room was even hotter and now it felt humid. The sheets beneath him clung. The boxers he wore restricted. His erection pushed against seams with an almost painful motion. And then she said his name, sending another nuance into this dreamscape.
“Mitchell...”
“Yeah?”
The word was automatic, growled from deep in his throat.
“It’s me. Adelaide.”
“Addie,” he replied.
“Of course.” The voice grew more distinct, her accent much more noticeable. “You may call me...Addie.”
“Addie,” he said again.
“Yes?”
Mitch growled. Thrust with his hips. Got another reminder that his boxers were skewed and he wasn’t near an opening. He may have opened his eyes. He might not have. It didn’t seem to matter. She was there. In his room. Looming through the density of the night into view. And shit. She wore another corset-thing. It thrust her breasts into prominence while defining a waist he could span with his hands. She neared the side of his bed, but she wasn’t using the floor. She was above him, just out of reach.
Floating.
Somehow.
He would have puzzled it, but she licked the middle finger of one hand and ran it slowly...seductively...along the top of her corset. Her finger lifted and fell as she traced her cleavage.
Holy shit.
She left a trail of moisture that glimmered, even in the dimness. Mitch’s mind froze. His body reacted instantly. He lurched upward. Dropped back down. The bed frame groaned slightly.
“I have come for you,” the apparition told him.
“Oh, baby.” The words were immediate. And rough-toned.
“Just you,” she replied.
Her fingers started fussing with hooks, or something, along one of her sides. Mitch’s breath caught. Came out with a rush. Caught again. He could swear she matched each gasp. He watched her fingers. Glanced toward her face. Looked back to her hand. The corset started gapping, giving him glimpses of perfection. Rounded flesh. Creamy-colored breasts topped with mouth-watering nipples. Mitch licked his lips. Bucked with his hips again.
“Mitchell...?”
She said his name again. Mitch didn’t move his gaze. He was riveted on her hand. How elegant and long her fingers looked as she moved them along her side, unfastening her garment. But when she finished she moved her hand to the opening between her breasts as if suddenly noticing how much she exhibited. And it made her shy. And that was exquisitely tempting.
His cock twinged against the seam again, crooking his rod painfully. Mitch slid a hand beneath the waistband and pushed it down his right leg. Where there was room. But that just tented his shorts, unerringly pointing up toward her. And she was still just out of reach!
“You...like what you see?” she asked.
Squirming along the sheets, he panted out, “oh, hell, yeah!”
“You want to see...more?’
“Oh, baby. Please?”
“Please?”
“Please? Yes. I’m begging. Please?”
She released the corset’s opening and moved to the back of her waist. Mitch assumed it was to unfasten the skirt. But a second after thinking that, his mind went into a paralytic state. Because her top fell open and each movement she made sent absolute perfect breasts into view. The material grazed the sides of her breasts, hiding them slightly. Then it opened again, showcasing them. Shadowed them. Showcased them. He wasn’t just thrusting his hips. His whole body throbbed in anticipation.
Oh. Baby!
This was the best dream he’d ever had. Ever. There wasn’t any competition. He’d never felt like this...not even in his puberty when wet dreams were a nightly event.
Her skirt opened in the back, the entire way along the back. He’d never seen anything like it. He didn’t care, either. She dropped the garment onto his lower legs. He kicked it off. His heart was hammering. His pulse was at rapid-fire level. His mouth was watering. His muscles were clenching and unclenching. His groin was a mass of ache. His dick pushed continually against cotton in a series of thrusts that gained nothing.
And she wore some skirt thing on her lower half with so many ruffles it would have looked good on a character in a fairytale.
Frustration had a color. Red. It colored everything.
There was a little fabric bow at the waist of her now reddish-colored petticoat. She moved her fingers to it with a slowness that defied description. Mitch groaned loudly, filling the room with a reverberation that bounced off the walls. She stopped undressing. He immediately reacted.
“What? Oh, baby! What did I do? Don’t stop! Please?”
“Mitchell?”
Mitch pulled his gaze from the fascination of her half-revealed body and glanced toward her face. She remained in shadow. Her eyes should have been difficult to decipher. They weren’t. They were just as glossy black as he remembered. Fathomless. And sending spark-like projectiles he could swear he felt. Mitch was riveted. Again.
His ears hummed. His throat closed off. Each swallow pained. His eyes watered as he fought against blinking. His mind registered that there was something odd about her image. He couldn’t tear his gaze from hers to figure it out. Nor did he want to.
“You want me to continue?” She whispered.
“Oh, yeah! Yeah! Hell, yeah. Please?”
She licked her lips. Something was really strange about the motion. He should figure it out. Lustful sensation rioted through him, swallowing up everything else. Reality. Common sense.
“Addie! Please!”
“Please...what?”
“Get down here!”
Mitch lurched up for her, swung his arms. Failed to connect. His body dropped back down. The mattress bounced with it. The bed’s groan was absorbed up by the one he gave. And if he listened closely, he thought he heard her sigh.
“You want to make love to me, Mitchell Hartnett?”
His response was garbled, shoved through clenched teeth. It carried more than his frustration level. It held menace. Bass tones reverberated around them.
“Well...I want it, too. Do you know why?”
“Get down here,” he repeated.
She laughed and fire shot through him. Followed instantly by ice. The howl he gave tore his throat. Made him shake. If she’d have been in reach, he’d have had her in his arms, then beneath him, been buried as deeply as he could, and he’d have been pounding.
She brought her other hand from behind her back. A knife came into view. A big-ass one. Mitch didn’t even have time to react before she shoved the blade beneath her waistband and slit down with it, slicing the petticoat-thing into a mass of ruffles and fabric. It dropped onto his legs, too. He kicked it aside instinctively. His eyes were wide, while his mouth hung open in order to suck for air. Because she wore lace-topped, thigh-high stocki
ngs. Old-fashioned, above-the-ankle buttoned boots. And not another damn thing. And she had the most incredible legs he’d ever seen.
“Oh. Baby!”
He would have crowed it, but the words came out grunted. Garbled. And entirely unintelligible. She launched onto him, straddling him, and managed to hover above him long enough to remove his boxers. And he would have done it, if she hadn’t grabbed the waistband and ripped them apart. He grabbed at her. He’d been right. He could almost encircle her waist. Her hands found his cock. Her fingers ran along his length sending sparks shooting from the contact. Mitch howled again. Tightened every muscle. His body arched upward slightly. Shook. The mattress shuddered in accompaniment.
It was her motion that joined them, but at the same time, she lowered her lips to his neck, and did something to it – something that started with a stab-like pain, but was instantly accompanied by the most amazing sensation. Pleasure overrode any hurt. And all kinds of rapture ensued. She made little moans. He didn’t know what she was doing. And he didn’t give a shit.
His focus was on one thing. She was hot. Tight. Wet. Ready. She pulled him into her with a long, sensual motion. Kneading his length with a coil-like restriction. Flickers of flames began shooting from the area. His dick got a direct hit. His belly was next in line. His chest. Shoulders. Back. Mitch had never felt anything like it.
She pulled from him with the same sinuous movement. Her thighs gripped about his hips. Her hands held him down. And she rode him. Gripping him as she lowered onto his shaft, and then sliding off. Taking him in. Pulling off. Release hovered about him. Came close. Mitch had a grip on her waist to keep the motion at a bearable pace. It didn’t do much. He fought for control. Domination. The last thing he wished was to lose it. Not before she achieved pleasure. But the room was starting to rotate. His extremities grew numb. His nose tingled. The red color he’d been envisioning changed markedly. Went darker-toned. And it had substance...akin to the consistency of blood. It was oozing through everything he looked at. The ceiling. Walls. Sending streaks of dark fluid as it dripped out from what had been a pristine white color.
