by Juliet Lyons
I get up, dress, and walk past her door to the lounge, trying not to think about how her slender body will look under the covers, her blond hair a spill of sunshine on the pillow.
In the lounge, bright daylight streams through the windows, casting its rays over the now-messy room. There are DVD boxes scattered over the glass coffee table, a hairbrush on the back of a sofa, and a dozen other tiny pieces of Mila everywhere, from stray blond hairs clinging to the cushions, to clothing items shed and forgotten.
I’m so deep in thought I don’t hear the door from the bedroom hallway creak open.
“Well, if this headache is anything to go by, I’d say I’m sober now.”
I turn around to see Mila standing sheepishly in the doorway, her hair stuck up, wearing the same tank top and pajama shorts as that night she had her nightmare.
I shove my hands into my pockets, a familiar gesture I’ve acquired to keep myself from wrapping my arms around her. “We really need to buy some aspirin.”
She nods, cheeks pink. I notice a faint ring of mascara beneath her eyes. In all her dishevelment, I have never seen her look more beautiful.
“I’ll make you some breakfast,” I say, crossing to the kitchen and busying myself in a cupboard.
When I turn around with her bowl of cereal and spoon, she has slipped onto a stool. One of her tank top straps has fallen down her arm, drawing my eye to the outline of her nipples beneath the thin material. The memory of how they felt—hard beneath my fingertips—makes my length stiffen.
“So,” she says, a corner of her mouth quirked.
I grin, handing her the dish and shoving my hands back in my pockets. “So.”
We continue to gaze at each other, tension swirling palpably in the air.
And then we both start chuckling like buffoons.
“I can’t believe you faked Dr. Quinn,” she says.
I nod. “I hate it. Don’t get me started on the anachronisms.”
She shoves a spoon of Rice Krispies into her mouth and my length hardens a little more. I can’t help but muse about the various parts of my body I’d like to see disappearing between those soft, pink lips of hers.
I wait until she’s eaten her cereal, and when I pass her a glass of orange juice, I ask, “Do you regret it?”
She arches a brow. “What do you think?”
“I know I don’t,” I say in a low voice.
Flashing a wicked grin, she says, “I don’t either.”
Relief and fear course through me like warm air.
“So, it’s Friday. What would you like to do tonight? Shall I ask around about a harpist?”
She laughs. “No. I’m not sure I want a third wheel in the room. Are you still taking me to my cousin’s engagement party tomorrow?”
I nod. “Yes. Will you be drinking again?”
She shakes her head, eyes sparkling mischievously. “No. After last night, I’m considering never drinking again.” She pauses as our eyes lock. “I’m well aware this morning could have started very differently if I’d only kept a tighter rein on the cocktails.”
I gulp, moving closer to the kitchen island to disguise the bulge in my trousers. “I’m not against drinking,” I say, my voice rasping with barely concealed lust. “I wanted you to have a good time last night. But I can’t take advantage when you might not be thinking straight.”
Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head to one side, as if she’s figuring me out. “What did you used to be, Vincent? Before you were a vampire policeman?”
The change of topic is enough to subdue my trouser stirrings for a moment. I don’t often talk about the past. I break her gaze. “That’s a story for another time.”
Or never, preferably.
“Were you a musketeer?”
I laugh. “No, I wasn’t a musketeer. I was the son of a French duke.”
She screws up her pretty face. “You’re not French.”
“I am,” I say, smiling. “A long time ago. I just lost the accent.”
“I knew you had to be something like a nobleman. I can tell by the way you’re always opening doors and waiting until I’m seated before you sit down.”
She wouldn’t be calling me noble if she knew the kinds of fantasies I’m having right now about those sweet lips of hers.
“Say something French,” she demands, grinning.
I snatch a glance down at my watch. “Nous allons être en retard.”
“Which means?”
“We’re going to be late.”
“Sexy,” she mutters. “But I get the hint. Give me twenty minutes, Your Highness.”
I watch her scurry across the room. At the door, she skids to a halt, a devious twinkle in her hazel eyes. “You can practice your sword fighting while you wait.”
“I wasn’t a musketeer,” I yell, laughing, as she twirls a wrist, pretending to lunge.
“It’s all the same,” she yells back, disappearing into the hallway.
* * *
We manage to make it all the way down to the parking garage without touching, but when we climb into the car, the tension is so thick it’s like wading through tar.
I glance across at her in the dim light, her features half-hidden by shadows. She’s wearing her work clothes, an ivory blouse pulled tight across her full breasts and a charcoal pencil skirt that shows off her shapely thighs. The material has ridden up and I can’t help but stare longingly at the gap between her knees.
“Be sure to put your seat belt on,” I say, voice trembling. Though to be frank, safety harness or not, having her in the seat beside me brings dangerous driving to a whole new level.
When she doesn’t move, I lean over for the buckle, her smell all around me, blinding me like sea mist. I freeze as she slowly turns her head.
Our eyes lock, and for a few crucial seconds, neither of us moves, time standing still. I should end this, right here, right now, either by looking away, or pushing the ignition key and driving her to work. But I don’t.
Eventually the invisible string of tension snaps—one second we’re apart, and the next her warm lips are on mine and my hands are roaming all over the place, one curving around her cheek, the other resting in the enticing space between her legs.
“Mila,” I whisper as she cups my face, dragging me closer. “I’m out of control.”
“Me too,” she says between deep kisses. “Put your hands on me. Wherever you like. Please.”
I groan, sliding my hand farther up her skirt, rubbing a thumb into the soft, silky flesh of her leg. I don’t want the first time I touch her intimately to be inside a car, but at the same time, I can’t stop. I trace the line of the juncture between her panties and inner thigh with my fingertips, feeling warmth radiating from the spot between her legs. Then I give in, gently pushing aside the moist strip of lace and rubbing an index finger into her delicious heat. She moans, her legs opening, urging me deeper until my whole hand is inside her panties, teasing her wet bud with my thumb, sliding a finger around her tight walls. She feels even better than I imagined.
She shudders, tipping her head back onto the headrest, one hand around the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “Vincent,” she gasps, and the way my name sounds in her mouth, as wild and out of control as I am right now, drives me on. I increase the pressure on her clit, her ragged breathing coming out in short, sharp pants. With my other hand, I turn her face, pulling her open lips roughly to mine, my tongue in her mouth, mimicking the movement of my finger exploring her core.
“I want to watch you come,” I say, my voice as jagged as broken glass.
“I am,” she pants. “I’m going to.”
I push another finger inside her, swirling my thumb around her nub. My dick is so hard in my trousers I can practically hear the seams groan under the pressure.
Her thighs begin to shake, a breath catc
hes in her throat, and then she unravels, jaw slack, chest heaving, animal cries erupting from her lips. In all my centuries on earth, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
I pull my hand away, wishing we weren’t in a car so I could lie beside her, encircle her with my arms.
She closes her eyes until her breathing slows. I leave a trail of soft kisses along her jaw.
“How am I supposed to go to work after that?” she asks, opening one eye.
“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to go on living after that,” I say, nuzzling into her warm neck, burying my face in her hair.
The air in the car is humid, a fine mist now clinging to the windows, but I shiver as she brings shaking fingers to my face, slowly working them down over my chest, stroking me with languid caresses until she reaches the straining bulge in my trousers.
I encircle her wrist with my fingers. “Mila, you don’t have to.” And although I mean it—I would happily stay hard forever if it meant watching her fall apart like that every day—my length twitches almost painfully at her touch.
She frowns and then smiles, her pretty eyes glowing in the gloomy light of the car, the tiny smattering of freckles across her nose standing out dark against her flushed, rosy skin. “Don’t you realize that I’ve been dying to do this since the first time I set eyes on you?”
The zip of my fly being yanked down may be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. My erection springs out like a trapped beast from a cage. A breath hitches in her throat.
“So, how does the reality compare to the fantasy, Miss Hart?” I tease.
She chuckles, flashing me a coy smile. “Let’s just say I’m far from disappointed.”
I groan as she takes my length in her hand, closing my eyes briefly as she begins to stroke the shaft with soft, velvety caresses.
“It’s perfect,” she murmurs. “Is there any part of you that isn’t perfect?”
“I could say the same about you,” I whisper.
My eyes widen as she leans over, her long hair tickling my groin, sparks of pleasure shooting through me like tiny electric shocks. I gather her blond locks up, coiling the length around my fingers like a thick rope. When she licks my glistening tip, my whole body jerks as if I’ve been shot. I brace myself, placing my free hand on the ceiling of the Porsche as she wraps a damp palm around the base of my cock.
“Mila,” I say, my voice raspy.
It’s usually at this point I wake up.
Then her lips are around me, sliding down my shaft, my whole length disappearing into her hot, wet mouth. I cry out, a tide of ecstasy immediately threatening to spill as she pumps me furiously. In a tiny corner of my brain, I acknowledge that the sight of her swollen pink lips and blond head bobbing up and down in my lap will haunt me forever. A hiss escapes my lips as she increases suction, her tongue swirling against my sensitive skin, and when her hand slips lower to cup my balls, I’m done for. Screaming her name, my head lolls forward as an earth-shattering climax rolls over me, cutting me adrift until I’m nothing more than a loose bundle of nerve endings exploding in pleasure.
The sound of her sweet voice pulls me back to earth and into the car. “Do you think we should call in sick?” she asks innocently as if she didn’t just give me the most intense orgasm of my life.
I splutter with laughter, opening my eyes to find her beautiful face inches from mine. “I don’t even think it would be a lie,” I say, carving my hands through her long hair and sighing with contentment. In all honesty, this feels like an illness—a consuming sickness that’s running through my veins, transforming me the same way I did all those centuries ago when Ronin’s venom flooded my system. I’m not the same man I was two weeks ago. I’m not even sure if I’m the same man from two minutes ago.
I draw her toward me, loving how she knots her fingers into my shirt, the gentle moan that escapes her throat as I kiss her deeply. I want to carry her upstairs and spend the rest of my days ravishing her in my bed, exploring every nook of her beautiful body. But at the back of my mind is the constant, gnawing awareness that every moment we spend kissing is another moment the vampire who wants her dead walks free.
I pull away. “There’s some work I need to do on the case today,” I say, remembering Catherine Adair. “But I’ll pick you up at the usual time. We can come straight home.”
She frowns, worrying at her bottom lip. “I’ve got my English classes at London Met after work, remember? I don’t want to let them down.”
“I’m not sure I can wait,” I say in a low voice.
She places a long, simmering kiss on my mouth. “Me neither. But it is Friday, so we’ll have the whole weekend.”
I smile. “That does sound promising.”
We spend a few moments straightening our clothing, fastening buttons, smiling shyly at each other in the dim light of the car, before I reluctantly start the engine.
“Ready?” I ask, taking the handbrake off.
This evening can’t come soon enough.
* * *
Catherine Adair’s office is out east, near Hackney, on a tiny cobbled street lined with brightly painted artist studios and trendy boutiques, sandwich boards thronging the pavement. In the early days of the V-Date website, I assumed Catherine chose the area because it was cheaper rent than central London, but she’s since revealed that she was born around the corner in a poor neighborhood in the nineteenth century. For us vampires, it isn’t unusual to circle back to a place that meant something to us as humans. It’s mostly why I keep the chateau in France—not that I would ever live there permanently.
I hum a little tune to myself as I park the Porsche on the double yellow lines, grinning like a buffoon when my phone vibrates with a text from Mila.
I’m a mess. You’re a bad man, Vincent Ferrer.
Leaning against the car, I reply, I am a bad man. Practically a sadomasochist. P.S. You’re not exactly innocent yourself. I have a tear in my pants to prove it.
I lock the car and stride across to Cat’s building, pressing a buzzer on the panel beside the door and straightening my tie in a bid to recoup a sense of professionalism. Though I’m fairly sure professionals don’t go to third base with witnesses whose lives they’re supposed to be protecting. A chink of guilt opens in my brain, eating up some of the endorphins. This time yesterday, Mila and I were buddies at best, awkward cohabiters at worst. One night out in a bar and we’ve turned into something entirely more intimate. Something that makes me feel less lonely. I push the thought from my head as the door clicks open and I make my way up the narrow, rickety spiral staircase to Cat’s office on the second floor.
Inside, the building is bright and airy, the walls painted brilliant white. The contrast after the mottled-gray sky outside is jarring.
Whoever it was that buzzed me indoors, it wasn’t Cat. When I knock on the glass door to her office, she looks up from her massive white computer screen and jolts in surprise to see me standing in her doorway.
Like most vampires, Cat is undeniably a beautiful woman—the change when an ancient gives their blood reverses all dying processes in the body. If a person had damaged their skin in the sun as a human, turning vampire would reverse the effect, leaving it unblemished. And yet, Cat is so far removed from Ronin’s usual type that I can’t help but muse why he’s so desperate for her company.
Ronin is always surrounded by beautiful women—vampires and humans, showy model types with perfect hair and white teeth who never appear to be overly fond of clothing. Cat is more down-to-earth. Her cloud of black, curly hair is pinned up today, a yellow pencil shoved through the middle. The huge black glasses she wears for show—no vampire would need a prescription—magnify the intelligent, brown-green eyes behind them. She is wearing an oversize blue shirt with tiny dogs all over it and tight black cigarette pants. Her fashion sense isn’t unlike Mila’s. She too, I’ve noticed, has a thing for animal patterns.
Cat’s lip curls. “Didn’t I say no a thousand times already?”
I evade the question by pretending to examine some of the art on the walls. “Is that a real Andy Warhol?” I ask, motioning to an iconic image of an old movie star.
She folds her arms across her chest, swinging in her swivel chair. “I didn’t even say you could come in.”
Next, I feign fascination with the gloomy street outside the big sash windows on the opposite wall. “It’s a nice office,” I say finally.
“Yes,” she snips. “You’ve been here before, remember?”
I frown. “Yes, but you’ve done something with the blinds since then—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Vincent. Do your pathetic begging so I can get on with my morning.”
Ordinarily, Cat isn’t the sort to lose her temper, but Ronin always manages to bring out the worst in people.
I inhale deeply. The office smells like air freshener and perfume. Again, I think of Mila. I still have her scent all over me. “Please, Cat,” I start. “I really, really need you to see Ronin. I’ll pay you if necessary, or if you feel the visit would put you in danger of some kind, I could go with you.”
At the mention of the ancient’s name, Cat’s perfectly shaped brows pull tight. “Vincent,” she says slowly, “has there ever been a person you just want to forget? Who you never, ever want to set eyes on again as long as you live?”
Oddly enough, there hasn’t. When you spend your existence not getting close to people, you shut yourself off to hate as well as love. “Yes,” I say anyway.
“Then you’ll know why I categorically do not want to see Ronin McDermott. As for danger, well, I know I won’t be in physical danger. It’s mind games with him. He loves messing with people. I hate him.”
I remember Ronin’s smile when I told him as much at the club. How pleased it made him. He clearly relishes the challenge of a woman like Catherine Adair.
“I know that as well as anyone, Catherine, and I wouldn’t ask if there weren’t lives at risk.”
