A crease formed between his brows, but his hands never stopped wandering. “You’re a hybrid then,” he said, flipping her back over. “My sexy little hybrid. You’re amazing.”
What remaining worries she had melted away under his touch, his lingering kiss. And when he pulled back to stare into her eyes, she knew this was it. The one moment out of an infinity, that she would treasure for all her days.
Hatch brought a hand to her entrance, testing to make sure she was ready. She jerked against his soft touch, aching for more.
“So wet,” he murmured, his expression going rabid.
Poised between her legs, his erection brushed at the apex of her thighs before he pressed into her with a long, measured thrust.
Mine.
Lola gasped at the sweet invasion, and he swooped in to catch it from her lips. He kissed her senseless, lapping and sucking until she was completely soft beneath him.
And then he moved. Slow at first, a long delicious drag out, before plunging back in. He repeated the motion, grinding his hips against hers until she was dizzy with pleasure and so close to release.
When he picked up speed, she knew she wasn’t going to last long. She let out a tortured moan, and Hatch thrusted impossibly faster.
“Look at me,” he rasped.
Her eyes popped open like he was her master and she was to obey every command.
“Want to see you come. Want to see it in your perfect fucking eyes.”
Lola tangled her hands in his hair, bringing his face closer as he pounded away at her, each movement more intense than the one before it.
“You’re… all… mine,” he growled in between each push.
And that was all it took to send her flailing over the blissful edge. His claim on her body and her heart was complete.
As she spasmed on him, waves of pleasure wracking her body, he roared his own release. Long and loud and liberating.
Liberated. That exactly how Lola felt. Free to be herself, knowing she was perfect in Hatch’s eyes.
Eventually, he slowed his hips, moving softly until he came to a full stop and collapsed half on top of her, out of breath. She kissed his shoulder, drawing her hand up his muscular back.
“Hatch,” she whispered.
He groaned against her neck and his hot breath made her giggle.
“So now you’ll call me Hatch?” He lifted his head long enough to toss her a raised eyebrow, and then rolled to his side, pulling her snug against him. His thick arms banded around her like he was afraid she’d disappear while he was sleeping.
“Sure,” she teased. “Ply me with orgasms and I’ll call you anything you want.”
He leaned forward and nipped her ear as punishment, drawing another happy giggle.
“Lola?”
“Yes.”
“Someday,” his voice was drowsy and pleasure drunk. “Will you have a house with me? One with a yard and a fence? And a couple kids and a puppy to fill it?”
Her breath stalled in her chest and she couldn’t answer immediately because unshed tears clogged her throat. But the answer was yes. Unequivocally yes.
“Wherever you are,” she promised, snuggling into his embrace. “That’s where I’ll be.”
Chapter 9
Hatch eyed his girl as they stood in Drak’s ridiculous office. The ceilings were triple high, with bottom to top bookshelves. Rolling ladder included. A window the size of Texas took up one whole wall, and the heat from it should have been smothering. Instead, the room was chilly. Briefly, Hatch wondered what Drak’s electric bill looked like.
Narrowing his gaze at Lola, he wondered why she hadn’t stopped staring at the giant painting of three women dressed in old fashioned clothing. One blond, one brunette, and one red-haired, their hands were folded perfectly at their waists, each with a polite expression. Hatch had seen the painting a time or two. It didn’t exactly suit Drak’s style, but he decided it was an art piece of some value the vamp had acquired. It probably cost millions.
Drak cleared his throat from behind his billiard table sized desk.
“You admire the painting?” he asked Lola.
She nodded, eye still glued to the art. “I do.”
“They are the mothers of our race,” he told her.
This pulled her gaze to him, and one side of her mouth curved upward. “I know.”
The Daybreaker seemed shocked before he blinked and covered the expression. Hatch stepped closer to Lola. Drak had called them in to talk about Hazel’s transition and their plans going forward now that blood supplies were depleted. But there was also the little hybrid bomb they needed to drop on him.
Should go over well.
Or not, because who was Hatch kidding. His boss was a control freak.
Either way, Hatch was standing by his girl.
“You know?” Drak raised a curious eyebrow. “Care to explain how you know, Lola?”
She stared back at the picture, a wistful smile on her face. “That one right there?” She pointed a finger to the one in the middle, with the dark hair and big doe eyes. “She’s my great-great- grandmother.”
So that explained it. These women were Lola’s ancestors. Part of her beautiful mixed heritage.
But Drak stiffened in his chair. “You are a descendent of the Sorcera who created us?”
Lola nodded.
“That’s what we came to tell you,” Hatch began.
“I’m… different,” Lola said, turning her attention back to Drak. Hatch had a feeling she’d been describing herself like that for too long. “I’m a little bit of everything. Sorcera, shifter, Daybreaker, and of course… human. Hatch says I’m a hybrid. I like that name. Because before, I had nothing to call it.”
Drak was silent for a long time, running one thin finger along his pursed lips.
“Powers?” he asked.
Lola glanced at Hatch and he nodded his encouragement. “None really. Everything is dormant. Except I’m stronger than a normal human, and faster.”
“No magic?” Drak clarified.
“No.”
“And no animal?”
“None that comes out.”
“And you don’t require blood and sun?”
“No.”
He nodded slowly, his gaze finding Hatch. But he didn’t know what was going through the Daybreaker’s mind.
“A hybrid,” he mused. “Perhaps you’ll be our secret weapon.”
Hatch stiffened. He wasn’t down with using his woman as any kind of weapon.
“Relax, Hatch.” Drak narrowed his gaze. “As you well know, I take good care of my weapons. And we’re going to need all the help we can get with a transitioning Daybreaker in our care. The banks are depleted. As I suspected, all major cities across America were hit. We suspect other coordinated attacks will take place soon across the globe.”
His tone was calm, when Hatch figured it should be stressed.
“Sounds grim, yet you don’t seem worried,” he said, confused.
Drak smiled wide, his retracted fangs glistening in the sun blazing through the window. He drew in a long breath before answering.
“I’m not worried.” He stared Hatch right in the eye, and he knew the vamp was telling the truth.
“What will we do?” Lola asked.
“We will do what people have been doing for ages and ages, hybrid.” His gaze softened a touch. “We will survive. And we will do it well.”
He stared at Hatch, his eyes speaking a promise. A vow. One Hatch believed. They would survive. Together. All of them. Hatch, Lola, Hazel, Drak and his crew. They would survive, and they would do it well.
The End
About P. Jameson
P. Jameson writes stories of love, trials, and triumph. She lives next door to the great Rocky Mountains and is always dreaming up the next adventure for her characters. Though always tempted by donuts, there is only one thing she can’t say no to: a soft-hearted alpha male who would do anything for his woman.
www.pjamesonb
ooks.blogspot.com
Immortal Glamour by Colleen Gleason
Immortal Glamour by Colleen Gleason
Gotham Hollywood Series
Hollywood, California: The last time DEA Agent Lyla Harris saw Gunnar Malkensen, the super-sexy stuntman/vampire nearly killed her—through no fault of his own. But now she needs his help, and she’s willing to do anything to gain access to him—including taking the place of his weekly call-girl.
Chapter 1
Calling in a Favor
Can Really Sting
Lyla Harris hadn’t seen Chas Woodmore for more than two years—since he’d saved her life, in fact—but of course she’d kept up on things. You didn’t work in or around Hollywood, or in the type of profession she did, without being aware of the private security firm he owned and managed.
Considering the man’s sterling reputation and wild success, the office space allotted to Woodmore & Associates was a hell of a letdown. After all, the firm was the number-one speed dial on the cell phone of every Hollywood publicist, producer, and A-lister when it came to needing protection or security for anything from a hotel room at Chateau Marmot, to paparazzi-avoidant transport to, say, Nobu, to discreet but effective bodyguard services. Knowing this, one would think the man would have an entire floor in a tall, glass-walled building that overlooked some gorgeous vista of city or sea.
But the address Lyla had took her to an average-looking, gray marble office building. Though the suite in question was tucked in a corner on the top level, it certainly didn’t take up more than a quarter of that space. And from what she could tell, it did have a view—of a nearby rooftop and the back of a crumbling brick warehouse that should have been torn down long ago.
Truthfully, she would have preferred to go about this matter in a different way. But time was of the essence, and Chas Woodmore was her best shot at getting in to see Gunnar Malkensen tonight.
As she opened the frosted glass door with Woodmore & Associates engraved on it in silver, Lyla couldn’t completely suppress a shiver at the thought of seeing Gunnar again. It was, unfortunately—considering the situation—the good kind of shiver. The kind of warm, expectant shiver you got when you thought about seeing someone like, oh, David Beckham. Naked.
It didn’t help that Gunnar Malkensen resembled the soccer player in more than a few (important) ways.
Lyla definitely had a thing for David Beckham, and whenever she saw the ads for whatever product he was pushing—she didn’t really care what it was—she took her time turning that magazine page. She might have even torn out the page from a magazine at her salon and tucked it in her bag…once.
“Yes? May I help you?” The woman who emerged from beyond another set of mottled glass doors (not engraved) either had perfect timing, or had been watching on a monitor, for there was no one else in the vicinity. Not even a reception desk—or chairs or tables for anyone who might have to wait, for that matter.
The woman’s age was indeterminate—somewhere between thirty and fifty—and her voice was the ultimate in professionalism. She had rich brown skin that appeared smooth as silk, black, almond-shaped eyes, cheekbones that could cut metal, and hair color that, if it came from chemicals (which it surely had done; after all, this was LA), would have been called “Aubergine Dreams” or “Amethyst Bomb.” The hair in question was styled in a stacked, short pixie cut with a long swath of fringe that looked spectacular on her. She wore a severely cut business suit of soft gray that was unfashionably long—cutting at mid-calf—and absolutely fabulous Jimmy Choos that matched her hair.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to speak with Mr. Woodmore,” Lyla replied.
“You don’t have an appointment.” The woman was pleasant but firm. Her demeanor and her voice had the barest hint of British influence.
“You’re correct. I do not. But I know Mr. Woodmore will see me, even without one.” Lyla’s smile was just as pleasant but firm.
“Indeed?” The woman’s brows lifted behind her bangs in an expression that was neither snarky nor surprised. Merely interested. “Then I suppose the next step would be to provide me with your name.”
“Lyla Harris.”
Without a change of expression, the woman nodded. “Quite right. I’ll let him know you’re here, Agent Harris.”
Lyla hid her surprise at the woman’s knowledge of her occupation and allowed her smile to turn from cool and impersonal to slightly warmer, tinged with encouragement. Encouragement—as in, Great—go get him, please.
Not that she really expected the man himself to come out here and greet her. She’d be taken back in and brought to his corner office, with its requisite imposing desk and the very handsome, sometimes charming, often cryptic, and always sardonic Chas Woodmore.
Ah. The joys of her profession. Her colleagues in the conventional side of the DEA—who only had to deal with cartels trafficking cocaine, heroin, krokodile, and other such illicit drugs—had it so much easier than she did. But there were only a select few who were capable and qualified to be part of Team Z: the secret arm related to a completely underground side of the Drug Enforcement Agency.
Lyla—who was overworked and highly underpaid as the only agent on Team Z stationed in Hollywood and the LA area—fronted as a movie extra trying to “break in” to the film business, all the while working covertly to investigate any problems on the paranormal side of the drug trade. The problem was, only one person in the upper hierarchy of the DEA—Director Candace Smith—knew about the problem of crystal grit, and that meant limited resources for Team Z. There was a reason they were named after the last letter of the alphabet, because that was where they fell in the budget.
“If you’ll come with me, Agent Harris,” said the ice queen in the drool-worthy shoes.
Lyla followed her down a simple, unadorned hall, noting the lack of any other people in the suite. Strange, perhaps, for she knew Chas had a full contingent of personnel. Still, it was past six in the evening. Perhaps they were out keeping the paparazzi at bay while the likes of Gwen Stefani went grocery shopping. Or accompanying Chris Pine to his choice of restaurant. Or securing a private suite for rising star and Oscar favorite Alex Pesaro at one of the exclusive hotels.
“One moment, please.” The woman paused at a forbidding set of French doors made from mahogany and trimmed with ornate silversmithing at each corner and handle. She disappeared inside.
A moment later, the doors opened and Lyla stepped into a room that was part office, part lounge, part…man cave?
“Agent Harris. I never thought I’d see you again.” Chas Woodmore was not sitting behind an imposing desk—for there wasn’t even one in the room. “Let me guess—is this related to Barry Rudolph’s death?”
He’d risen from his seat on a lush black leather sofa punctuated with cobalt and silver throw pillows of suede. The only electronics visible in the room were his laptop and a mobile phone on the seat next to it, though there was cabinetry that could be discreetly hiding screens, monitors, and keypads.
A stunning floor-to-ceiling aquarium bubbled at one side of the room, immediately capturing Lyla’s attention. She felt the familiar rush of energy flow through her at the sight and sound of the moving water—the way it stirred up the molecules in the tank, and in the air, and in the very aura of the room—and felt the corresponding warmth and glow from her life crystal. An added, unexpected bonus in this most difficult task.
As she pulled her attention from the colorful saltwater aquarium, she discovered Chas was watching her. He was still standing, and held a tall glass of something that looked like water. “I see you like the latest addition to my office. I find it very relaxing to watch the sea life swimming about.”
A quick glance at him left her wondering how much he knew about her—other than the fact that she worked for Team Z, which obviously told him something. His expression gave away nothing but mild interest.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Lyla had only met Chas Woodmore a few times, b
ut every time, she’d been struck by a sort of old-fashioned air about him. Something in the way he moved and acted bespoke of the traditions of centuries past (she was an expert—she’d seen pretty much every Austen movie ever made), though she couldn’t put a finger on why.
“You’re looking well,” she told him. That was an understatement, for he wasn’t looking merely well…he was looking delicious. Chas resembled a Romanian-prince fantasy come to life, with his swarthy complexion and strong features, unruly coal-colored hair, and intense black eyes—not to mention the angled, muscular shoulders filling out a crisp white shirt.
He remained standing until she sank onto a chair, then settled onto the sofa next to his laptop. He glanced at his mobile, then turned it over and placed it next to him, demonstrating that she had his full attention.
“I see you’ve met Miss Brick,” he said, looking up at the elegant woman. “She’s the Miss Lemon to my Poirot, the Hermione to my Harry, the…hm…Giles? To my Buffy?” He glanced at Miss Brick in question.
“Not bad,” the woman replied with a faint smile. “But the Pepper Potts to your Tony Stark would have been more apt than the Giles reference—except that, unlike Mr. Stark, you will never see me with my clothing off, Mr. Woodmore.” She looked down her long, straight nose at him, which wasn’t difficult, as she was still standing and Chas was seated.
Then, obviously noting Lyla’s curious expression, she explained, “We’ve been working on his pop culture references. He’s getting better, but there’s still work to be done. There’s always work to be done—with him.”
With a sigh, she swept from the room—taking with her the faint scent of something floral and feminine.
Chas shrugged, accurately reading the curious, amused expression on Lyla’s face. “She came with the place, and I haven’t been able to shake her off,” he said, gesturing to the office suite. “I alternate between being delighted and terrified on a daily basis.”
Taming the Vampire: Over 25 All New Paranormal Alpha Male Tales of Contemporary, Military, Shifters, Billionaires, Werewolves, Magic, Fae, Witches, Dragons, Demons & More Page 56
