Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  “What time is it?” she mumbles.

  “Time I let you get some sleep,” I whisper, nuzzling her neck.

  She moans before flipping over and pressing her lips to mine. As our tongues meet, the noise of the club and the scene in Ronin’s office begin to lose some of their intensity. I glide a hand over her, savoring the soft contours of her body, pulling away as my cock stiffens.

  Mila is undeterred. She smiles, scooting closer across the bed and stroking my hard length. Suddenly, Ronin’s revelation is the last thing on my mind. Her breathing falters as I slide a hand between her legs, rubbing a finger into her wet nub, loving how she squeezes my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin. But before I can turn her sharp pants into animalistic cries of pleasure, she shoves me onto my back and climbs astride, pushing blond hair from her eyes. “Make me come while you’re inside me,” she whispers.

  “Anything,” I say, staring into her eyes as she caresses me, my fangs slipping out between my lips. “I’m yours.”

  She stops the stroking briefly. “Do you mean that?” Her voice is small, but a storm of emotions swirls behind her dark eyes.

  I answer in a hoarse voice, my swelling erection rising higher, demanding her attention. “Of course.”

  Leaning over, she kisses me on the mouth, leaves a path of kisses down my throat and onto my chest. The sensation of her tummy brushing my rock-hard length, her swollen breasts nudging my abdomen, sends me wild with desire. With a groan, I wrap my hands around her waist and slide her down onto my pulsing cock. Her hips open wide as she takes me in, her warmth stretching around me to the hilt. The sweet honey scent of her wet arousal is as intoxicating as a drug. I sit up, sinking deeper inside her, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out as she rides me, gasping my name, her gaze never leaving my face.

  “I love the way you feel,” she pants.

  Listening to the words fall from her parted pink lips unleashes an even darker beast within. I palm her breasts, twisting her nipples between my fingertips. “What else do you like?” I ask in a throaty voice.

  She glances down at her breasts, her nipples red and raw from my caresses. “I like it when you suck them.”

  I groan, grabbing her buttocks and giving her several hard thrusts before lowering my head onto one of her hard nipples and taking it between my teeth. She cries out, wetness seeping out between her thighs. “Yes,” she says, her head lolling backward. “Just like that.”

  Suddenly I’m hit by the overwhelming realization I will never get enough of her—of her body, her voice, her presence. My life is no longer my own. I lift her off me and slide out from beneath her, so she’s left, her knees pressed into the bed. Then I push her gently forward onto all fours and grip her hips before thrusting into her from behind.

  “How about this?” I ask, reaching around to circle her swollen clit. “Do you like this?”

  “Yes,” she gasps. “Oh God, Vincent, yes.”

  I arch over her, the slap of my flesh against hers filling the air as we pound mercilessly together. When she reaches between my legs to stroke my balls, I growl, scraping my fangs on the nape of her neck. I’m struck with the urge to sink my teeth into the baby-soft skin at the bottom of her hairline, the place that always smells so sweet, so floral.

  With all rational thought obliterated, I’ve become the animal I never wanted her to see. But she doesn’t pull away from my fangs—she presses back into them, moaning. Suddenly it’s all too overwhelming—my length buried into her tight sheath, my fingers rubbing her dripping entrance, her hands stroking me. Before I know it, I’ve sunk my fangs deep into her neck and I’m sucking, drinking her in like she’s the finest wine in the world, her blood flowing warm and sweet into my mouth. A part of my brain registers that I’m no better than those animals back at the club, yet I don’t stop. For the first time since Adrienne died in my arms, I cave to the beast inside me, and God forgive me, it feels like heaven.

  Mila cries out, her warmth clenching tight around me, her body shuddering as release takes her within its grip. Hearing her cries of pleasure, sensing the lick of heat erupt from her body, brings me over the edge. I pump into her, a flow of ecstasy surging through me like a tidal wave. I come harder than I ever have, pouring into her in an unending stream of pleasure. I withdraw my fangs from her neck, but my orgasm continues, my stomach and thighs trembling, hot juices dripping onto the sheets. I say her name, over and over. When the waves finally begin to calm, I sit up, pulling her into my lap.

  I’ve made a mess of her. Her hair is knotted with sweat and blood, her body sticky with my release.

  “Mila, did I hurt you?”

  “No,” she whispers.

  Her voice is distant. I lift her up and lower her gently onto the bed before twisting to face her. I’m horrified to see tears glistening in her eyes.

  Any remaining pleasure from the most powerful orgasm of my life is instantly crushed when I see hurt in her face. I cup her flushed cheeks in my hands. “Mila, I’m sorry. I should have asked if it was okay to bite you. I don’t know what came over me—”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “It’s not the bite. I wanted it. I loved it. It’s—”

  “What?” Though really, I know what.

  “It’s Adrienne.”

  What did I expect? But before either of us can say anything else, we’re interrupted by a furious pounding on the bedroom door.

  “Vincent, get up now. Burke just called. There’s been another murder.”

  Chapter 15

  Mila

  I freeze as Lee’s words reach my ears, watching as Vincent’s gentle, blue eyes turn dark with horror.

  He grips me by the shoulders. “Stay in the bedroom, Mila. Whatever Lee says, I don’t want you to hear it.”

  I nod mutely. Maybe it’s the shock, but I’m more concerned about where our conversation was headed right before we were interrupted. I swipe at my eyes, sniffing away unshed tears. The best thing he can do for both of us is leave before the ugly crying starts.

  With a final worried look, he leaps off the bed.

  “Wait,” I say, as his hand closes around the doorknob. “What about your clothes?”

  He glances down at himself in surprise. There is a thin sheen of sweat shimmering between the ridges of his muscles, his thick length purple and raw from our lovemaking. Golden strands of his hair stick up from his head like a toilet brush.

  “Not that I don’t think that’s an exceptionally good look on you, of course.”

  He flashes a grin, plucking his underwear from the pile on the floor before grabbing the door handle again. “We will continue this conversation.”

  I nod as he disappears, pulling the door closed behind him. Without Vincent, the air in the bedroom turns cold. I pull my legs up to my chest, wishing I were home in my flat above the hairdressers, watching Britain’s Next Top Model with a tub of ice cream. Life might have been dull, but at least it was simple.

  After a few minutes of self-pity, I decide to do something about the clumps of dried blood in my hair and the fact that I reek of sex. Not that smelling of sex with Vincent is a bad thing, but tonight there has been a lot of it.

  The shower cubicle in Vincent’s bathroom is huge, even bigger than the one in the guest room. The powerful surge of hot water feels heavenly on my skin. I take my time under the jets, using his body wash and shampoo to rinse the blood and sweat from me, watching the water turn from pink to clear as it disappears into the drain. When I finally step out of the steamy warmth, I wrap myself in a large towel before rummaging through Vincent’s medicine cabinet for Band-Aids. The puncture holes on my neck are barely visible, but blood still spots from the ones beneath my hairline.

  “You’re an idiot,” I mutter aloud. “Why would a vampire need Band-Aids?” Yet I find some underneath a couple of bars of soap. No doubt his cleaning lady likes him to be prepared. Unless,
of course, they were left here by another woman.

  I stick the Band-Aid on as best I can and towel-dry my hair, trying not to imagine how many women have been here before me, seen what I’ve seen in the inner recesses of his mind.

  Out in the bedroom, the occasional high-pitched exclamation drifts through from the lounge, though it’s too far away to make out who’s speaking, let alone what’s being said.

  There’s been another murder. For the first time since hearing the words echo through the door, I picture how it might have played out. A woman like me, perhaps also down on her luck with men, heading out for a date. Nervous about outfits and hair and whether she’ll have anything in common with him, when all the while the jaws of death awaited. I shudder, dread worming its way into my gut, the night of my botched murder playing out in my head like a half-forgotten dream.

  I’m recalling the strange shine behind Jeremiah Lopez’s dazzling eyes as he sat opposite me in the noisy bar when my eye snags on Vincent’s large family portrait. I’m struck by an odd sensation of déjà vu. I creep closer until I’m nose to nose with the crusty, age-worn paint.

  On Vincent’s right hand, the one holding the hilt of a sword, is a ring. It’s made of gold and a coat of arms is engraved on the green background, a tiny silver dove visible at the tip of its crest. I suddenly recall Jeremiah Lopez as he led me from the bar—hand outstretched, the same gold ring on his middle finger, glinting beneath the spotlights.

  My blood runs cold; my heart begins to thud in my ears. I back away from the painting and drop my towel before grabbing one of Vincent’s freshly laundered shirts from the end of his bed and throwing it on. My hands shake so badly I can barely fasten the buttons.

  Out in the lounge, Vincent sits on the sofa with his head in his hands, his long fingers threaded through his dirty-blond hair. Every sinewy line of muscle in his body is tense. Lee is on his phone with his back to the room, framed by the darkness of the window. Vincent’s head flips up when he sees me, his face ashen.

  “The ring,” I say breathlessly. “It’s the same.”

  Vincent is before me in a millisecond, grasping me by the arms, ducking his head level with mine. “Mila, did you hear us talking? Because I’m going to find him. No harm will ever come to you, I swear it.”

  His grip tightens, the heat from his fingers burning through the cotton of the pin-striped shirt.

  I shake my head in confusion. “No. The ring you’re wearing in your painting. Jeremiah Lopez was wearing one the night of our date.”

  In the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Vincent look afraid. But the words appear to hit him with the force of a fifty-ton juggernaut, life draining from his chiseled features like the glow from a snuffed-out candle.

  His gaze wanders past me, staring into space. “Are you sure?” he whispers.

  “Yes.”

  Past Vincent’s head, I see Lee glance over his shoulder, clearly wondering what further drama can be unraveling across the room. He jabs a finger at his phone to indicate he’s still speaking.

  “Oh God,” Vincent says, the words coming out in a gurgle of pain.

  “What does it mean? It has to be coincidence, right?”

  I’m unaware Vincent has moved until I’m suddenly pressed tightly into his bare chest, his arms gripping me around my back, his skin silky against my cheek and jaw. His lips are in the hair of my crown and he’s muttering in a foreign tongue, his voice vibrating through my body. It sounds a lot like he’s praying. For the first time since we met, I push him away.

  “You’re scaring me. What is it? Why does he have the ring?”

  Before he can answer, Lee gets off the phone. He stares between us, shaking his head. “You’ll have to tell her.”

  I screw my face up. “Tell me what, Vincent?”

  Vincent brings a hand to my face, brushing the back of his fingers across my jaw, his eyes round and sad. Then he lifts me up and carries me to the sofa, setting me down on the cushions as if I’m a fragile china doll.

  “This is all my fault,” he begins, a tremor in his voice.

  Lee moves to the kitchen, busying himself in the cupboards. The clink of mugs rattles around the otherwise silent room.

  Vincent kneels before me. “I went to see Ronin McDermott again tonight. He procured the name of the killer.”

  I jolt in surprise. “That’s good though, isn’t it? To finally find out who he is?”

  His mouth forms a grim line. “He gave me the name of David Moreau. Adrienne’s surname was Moreau.”

  I frown, wondering where he’s going with this. “So they’re connected?”

  “I thought it was a coincidence,” he says, his grip on my knees tightening. “I didn’t want to worry you about it. But now they’ve found another body and…” He breaks my gaze, trailing off into silence.

  “What?” I demand.

  He closes his eyes briefly. “The female, as yet unidentified, was discovered in the same alley where I found you that night.”

  Fear stabs at my chest like a thousand knives. “Do you think that’s a favorite spot of his or something?”

  Vincent shakes his head. “We don’t believe the female was using V-Date. Cat has temporarily frozen new memberships anyway. The victim bears a startling resemblance to you—hair color, age, build.”

  My teeth start to chatter. Although I already know the answer, I ask, “What are you saying?”

  Anything to delay the inevitable.

  “I don’t believe this was ever about random or even serial killing, or punishing the police for nosing into vampire crime. I think it’s always been about me. David Moreau is some relative of Adrienne’s, and he’s out to avenge her death. This whole killing spree has been about taunting me. If he has that ring, it proves it.”

  My throat dries up. “The ring,” I repeat.

  “There’s only one of those rings in existence. My family ring. If you remember, Adrienne threw it from her finger that night she went over the cliff. I never saw it again after that. Never even really thought about it. If he has it, he must have been close to her, known the link between us.”

  My eyes meet his. “You think this new murder was deliberate? That he’s caught on about us and killing a girl who looks like me is his way of letting you know?”

  Vincent nods, cupping my face in his hands. “He must have seen us together. He must realize how I feel about you.”

  I forget that Lee is across the room making tea and grab Vincent’s wrists, wanting to finish our conversation from earlier no matter how inappropriate the timing. “It’s okay, Vincent. I get it about Adrienne. I felt it in your life essence. I know you’ll never be able to move on from the past—love me the way you did her.”

  His jaw clenches, and he rakes his hands through my hair, shaking his head. “No, Mila, you’re wrong. God, is that what you think? I thought you were secretly repulsed by me. That seeing her in my life essence made you realize how dangerous I am.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “You could never repulse me.”

  Pressing his forehead to mine, he says, “I know what’s in my heart, Mila, and trust me, it’s you.”

  Lee coughs loudly, breaking the spell. He slides a tray of tea and biscuits onto the table. “I think the important thing is not to let our emotions get in the way of this.”

  I look back at Vincent. I want to press the matter, ask him what he means by “in my heart,” but Lee begins crunching a biscuit noisily.

  Vincent throws him an irritated glare.

  “I’m a stress eater, okay? It’s not every day you find out your wife is screwing the UPS guy and a psycho wants your work colleague dead.”

  Vincent strokes my damp hair. “We’ll sort this, Mila,” he says. “I’ll sort it. Ronin has agreed to help. He’s going to find out where David Moreau is staying. As soon as I have the address, he’s toast
.”

  “But then you’ll be in danger,” I say, my stomach churning.

  Lee snorts derisively, cramming another custard cream into his mouth. “Vincent can handle him, don’t worry. He may act like an aristocrat, but trust me, he’s a badass. Think Bruce Willis minus the dirty tank top.”

  For the first time in what feels like forever, Vincent and I both smile. I suddenly remember I’m wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Vincent, who is still crouching between my knees, is dressed only in a pair of boxers. We must make quite the intimate scene.

  I swallow loudly. “So, what about the victim?”

  “Burke’s there now and I’m off in a minute,” Lee says, slurping his tea.

  “I’ll stay here with you, obviously,” Vincent says. “Until other arrangements can be made.”

  “What other arrangements?”

  “We need to hide you until he’s caught. I have contacts in France. The safest option is to move you.”

  My jaw drops. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “If it’s me he’s after, we don’t have much choice,” he says, swiping his thumbs across my cheekbones. “But I promise it won’t be for long.”

  Great. More hiding. Only this time I won’t have the consolation of being protected by a hot vampire.

  “When will I have to leave?” I ask, darting a glance between them. The idea of having to leave Vincent so soon is giving me heart palpitations.

  The pair exchanges worried looks.

  “This place is as safe as any,” Lee says, breaking the silence. “Strong locks on the windows and doors. Two security guards on the desk downstairs.”

  Vincent nods, deep in thought. “It would be dangerous to try to move her tonight. I can protect her better here until we have everything in place.”

  “I agree,” Lee says. “She stays here tonight.” He drains his mug and slams it down onto the coffee table.