Dating the Undead

by Juliet Lyons

  I leap to the bottom of the concrete stairs in a single bound and yell through the door, “You kissed Nathaniel!” I sound like a spoiled five-year-old whose friend went to a party without him.

  The door is wrenched open. She’s taken off her long, padded coat and is in her work clothes—a fitted, black pencil skirt that accentuates her curves, with a crisp, white shirt, tight across her breasts. There’s a sharp twitch in my pants. I never even knew the sexy-secretary thing did it for me until now.

  She crosses her arms, and I notice how the top two buttons on her shirt gape slightly open. I catch a brief flash of white lace on smooth, ivory flesh. God, to be that bra.

  “For your information,” she says in arctic tones, “and not that it’s any of your business, I didn’t kiss Nathaniel.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “He bit you,” I say, voice low.

  She rakes her gaze over me. Even though her jaw is still clenched, her eyes soften, flickering from my eyes to my lips and back again. “Well, yes. But it wasn’t—”

  “Wasn’t what?” My breath catches in my throat.

  Sighing, she looks up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t the same as that night with you. There, happy now, O vampire love god?”

  Chuckling, I lean against the doorframe, resting a wrist on the wood. “You can put it down to my Irish charm. It’s a powerful aphrodisiac, Silver, don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “You really are full of it, aren’t you?” she says, gripping the door as if she’s about to slam it in my face. “Full of shit.”

  I straighten up, trying to be serious. “Invite me in,” I say, my eyes locking with hers. “I have something I want to ask you.”

  “I’m not inviting you in,” she says, top lip curled in a way that has me yearning to suck on it. “I’ve seen the movies.”

  “Silver, I’m not asking in that way. I don’t have to be invited.” I step into her flat and back out again to prove the point. “I want to come in, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  I pretend to pick a loose flake of paint off the doorframe, suddenly imbued with the dating skills of a sixteen-year-old virgin. “I like you,” I say without looking at her. “Does there have to be any other reason?”

  I hear a breath stick in her throat. “Fine, but you can’t stay. I’m going out tonight and I need to take a shower.”

  Stepping into the flat, I say, “I don’t mind talking in the shower if you want to save time.”

  She shuts the door after me, shaking her head. “Get on with it, asshat.”

  Unlike my place, her tiny flat is homey and modern—freshly painted dove-gray walls, cushions scattered on the L-shaped sofa. I cross over to the mantel above the fireplace and look at the row of photos in shiny, chrome frames, picking up one of a pretty, dark-haired woman who looks a lot like Silver.

  “That’s my mother,” Silver says in a voice fragile as eggshells.

  I quickly put it down. Something about her tone tells me the subject is taboo. On the other side of the room is a shiny, white kitchenette separated from the lounge by a long breakfast bar. Silver leans against it, watching me with a shadow of suspicion. I wonder whether it’s just vampires she doesn’t trust or men in general.

  “It’s a nice place, Silver,” I say, taking in the personal touches—a trail of heart-shaped fairy lights around a Van Gogh print, a fruit bowl filled with champagne corks. “What’s your bedroom like?”

  She arches a brow, eyes flashing. “Comfy. Too bad you’ll never get to see it.”

  Her gaze is haughtiness personified, and just like last night, it stirs some deep, dark animal within me. I cut across the room, placing a hand on either side of her on the breakfast bar, trapping her between my arms.

  Hearing the hitch in her breathing, I lean down, lips brushing her hair. She smells like coconut shampoo, freshly cut grass, and beneath that, the sweet scent of arousal. “I could see your bedroom,” I whisper, letting my mouth linger for a second on the tip of her ear, “if I wanted.”

  She gapes up at me, lust and fear swirling like smoke within her dark-gray eyes. I hear her heart hammering beneath her ribs. She swallows heavily, and I move a hand from the wooden counter to rest on her thigh, just below the swell of her bottom. “Ask me,” I murmur, my voice rough as sandpaper as I begin to trace a circle into the material of her skirt. “Ask me to bed. I know you’ve thought about what it would be like.”

  A little voice in my brain reminds me I’m supposed to be apologizing, but somehow that no longer seems important. My hand moves with a will of its own onto the curve of her backside, and I squeeze, watching as her pupils dilate. It would be so easy to glamour her, fulfill Ronin’s orders, but I want her, just as she is. And more than that, I want her to want me too.

  She swallows again, though her voice is clear as a bell. “Aren’t you supposed to be asking me something?”

  I smile, my hand still caressing her bottom, erection twitching in my pants like it’s on steroids. “There’s something about you, Silver,” I whisper, pushing against her, pinning her to the breakfast bar, “that makes me lose all sense of reason.”

  She brings a hand up to my jaw, tracing fingers across my lips, and I catch one in my mouth, sucking on it before she pulls away. Slowly, she lifts her face, and I lean down, capturing her mouth with mine, tongue parting her soft lips. And if I lost all sense of reason before, I lose everything now. I go at her like a starving man at a feast.

  Struck by the overwhelming need to consume, I knot fingers into her hair, pins popping out onto the countertop as I deepen the kiss, my tongue dancing with hers. Half of me expects her to pull away, maybe even slap me again, but she doesn’t. She groans instead, like she did that first night—deep in her throat, the animal noise forming a single word:

  “Logan.”

  Spurred on by the sound of my name, the overpowering taste of arousal, I move my hand back to her bottom, grinding my erection against her.

  I find myself moaning her name too. “Silver.” Repeating it like a man possessed, and in all honesty, that’s exactly what I am—possessed. A thousand Ronins could be out in the world waiting to kill me, and I’d be as powerless against it as I am now.

  She pulls away from my lips and we stare into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, and everything is laid bare—mutual crazy attraction. Dropping her hand to my waist, she pulls my T-shirt up, toying with the buttons on my jeans.

  “Oh God, yes,” I say, watching her shaking fingers twist open the fasteners. “Silver, please.”

  I’ve never pleaded with a woman to touch me before, never needed to. But now, I feel like if she doesn’t do something with the twitching bulge in my pants I’ll probably explode.

  She releases the last button and slides her hand in, and I watch the look of surprise cross her face as she realizes I’m not wearing underwear.

  Her hand brushes my stiffness. “I should probably leave you like this,” she whispers, one brow slanted almost vertically, “to pay you back for last night.”

  I smile. God, she’s a tease.

  “Don’t,” I say simply, watching as she takes my stiff length in her hand. “I can’t take it.”

  She pauses, and for a second, the briefest look of vulnerability flits across her face, and then she begins moving her hand along my shaft, a devious smirk twisting her rosebud mouth. I take her lips with mine, sucking on her bottom lip as a tide of ecstasy builds within. When I look down and see my swollen manhood thrusting in her exquisite, ivory hand, I lose it completely. Shouting her name as I fall apart, I hold her to me, burying my face in her hair.

  “Fuck,” I say. “Silver, what are you doing to me?”

  “You stained my work clothes,” she whispers.

  I laugh, drawing back to look at her. “They’re about to get worse, I’m afraid,” I murmur. “A lot worse.”

  But as I s
lide a hand down to part her legs, a mobile phone begins ringing shrilly in the lounge, noisy music shattering the delicate balance of tension between us. We both freeze.

  “Do you need to get that?” I ask, hand wedged between her thighs.

  She stares at me, wide-eyed, chewing her lip. “Yeah, I should. It’s probably Ollie. He’s playing a reunion gig tonight.”

  Ollie. Who is Ollie?

  I step back, letting her duck past me across the room. A draft swirls in the space she’s vacated. I miss the warmth of her body already.

  “Hello,” she says, tugging the black skirt down over her shapely legs and then pointing at my groin.

  Looking down I realize my fly is still undone. When I meet her eyes, she is smiling.

  “Yeah, I’m still coming,” she says to the person on the line.

  I wink at her. “You will be coming—all over my face.”

  Her jaw drops. “No, that was the television. No one is here. Okay, see you at seven.” She hangs up. “That was my friend.”

  “Ollie,” I say, as if I’m not the least bit threatened.

  “Ollie. What, are you jealous?”

  I scoff. “Jealous? Me? What could he possibly have that I don’t?”

  She shrugs. “A heartbeat.”

  I slap a hand playfully to my chest, as if mortally wounded. “Low blow, Silver. Even for you.”

  After dropping the phone onto the sofa, she stands swinging her arms beside her. “I should get ready.”

  It’s hard to believe that only moments ago, her hand was in my pants as I unraveled around her. The air has turned fifty shades of awkward.

  “I’ll let you get showered,” I say, straightening my clothes.

  A frown line worries the space between her brows, as if she’s being torn in two different directions. “Unless…” she says, trailing into silence.

  “Unless what?”

  “You want to go with me?”

  I do.

  Chapter 7

  Silver

  With the address of Ollie’s gig typed into his phone, I send the sexy vampire on his way and collapse on the sofa, head in hands.

  I must be completely insane. One moment, I agree to become an informant of vampire secrets; the next, I’m pleasuring one against the kitchen counter.

  When I arrived home from work to find him sitting and muttering excuses on my doorstep, he was both the last and only person I wanted to see. Still, at that point, I had no intention of asking him indoors, let alone making out with him and shoving a hand in his pants.

  I tut, raking hands through my now-disheveled hair. What is it about him that makes me lose all self-control? It can’t be the simple reason that he’s hot. I’ve been with good-looking men before—it goes deeper than that, deeper even than his self-proclaimed Irish charm.

  “Don’t think it,” I mutter aloud. “Don’t you dare think it.”

  But it’s too late. The words are already swimming around my head like killer sharks at a shipwreck: I like him.

  * * *

  An hour later, a taxi drops me outside the Fiddler’s Tavern, an über-trendy bar in Shoreditch where Ollie and his old bandmates are playing. Several years ago, the place was a complete hole—sticky floors, a permanent stench of stale beer, and their own resident drunk, Sad Sam. These days, however, it’s rocking a chic, industrial look—walls stripped back to bare brick, distressed wood floors, high, vaulted steel ceiling. Sad Sam wouldn’t be caught dead here anymore.

  Pushing open the polished door, I weave my way through a mass of sweaty, Friday-night, post-work drinkers to the little stage at the back.

  I told Logan not to bother showing until nine, figuring that would give me enough time to see Ollie play and take off early if the urge took me. Of course, I know that’s not really going to happen. Just being in the place where I’ll see him again is already giving me heart palpitations.

  I’ve just waved to Ollie, who is setting up sound equipment on stage, when I spot Krista sitting with a few of her banker cronies in a booth. She sees me and waves, getting to her feet and crossing the bar toward me.

  Here we go.

  “Hi, Silver,” she says, leaning in to air-kiss me. “Good of you to come.”

  “Hey, Krista,” I say through gritted teeth. “How are you?”

  “Great,” she says, patting her perfectly highlighted locks and sliding her gaze over my casual outfit of skinny jeans and biker jacket. “Wow, those are unusual boots. Very urban.”

  Krista is one of those people with the inherent knack for disguising insults with charm—one of the many reasons why I can’t stand her.

  But two can play this game. “Thanks, I like your outfit too. Did you come straight from work?”

  Her smile falters. She tugs at her silky, expensive-looking blouse. “No,” she says, the light turning cold in her blue eyes. “I came from Oliver’s place.”

  Another reason for my dislike—she calls Ollie Oliver. As if saying his proper name is somehow going to transform him into the aristocrat she’s hoping to marry.

  “Are you here all by yourself?” she asks, sticking out her bottom lip.

  The gloves are off. “No,” I say. “I’m meeting someone later.”

  She tilts her head, as if addressing a five-year-old. “Oh, is it a guy? I was only saying to Oliver last week what a shame it is you haven’t managed to meet anyone yet.”

  Hold me back. I am going to kill her. “Yes, a guy. I’ve seen him a few times now. I’m surprised Ollie didn’t tell you.”

  Of course, Ollie doesn’t have a clue about me seeing Logan again. But the look on her face as I insinuate Ollie keeps things from her is worth its weight in gold.

  “No.” Her voice wobbles slightly. “Oliver didn’t mention it. But then, why would he? It’s not like we don’t have more important things to discuss. What’s he like, this guy?”

  “Hot,” I say, eyes wide to emphasize my point. “Superhot.”

  Suddenly, I’m aware of someone standing in the space beside me. A tall someone, whose masculine scent drives a stab of lust shooting straight between my legs.

  “Who’s superhot?” a seductive Irish voice asks.

  Shit. I turn my head to find Logan just a couple of feet away. He’s changed clothes from earlier but is no less tantalizing—signature black jeans slung low on slender hips, a gray T-shirt clinging to his lean, muscled body beneath a frayed denim jacket. His dark hair looks mussed, as if he hasn’t touched it since I ravished him in my flat. He stands, shoulders set in confidence, mocking green eyes lit up in amusement.

  “No one,” I stammer, turning back to Krista, who is gawking at Logan, mouth open. “We were having a conversation about Chris Hemsworth’s latest movie, that’s all.”

  Logan steps closer and holds a hand out to Krista. “Hey, I’m Logan. Silver’s person.”

  I screw my face up, swinging my head around to look at him. “Person?” I repeat.

  Krista doesn’t appear to hear. She grasps Logan’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Krista. I’m with the band.”

  I suppress a violent choke of disbelief. Did Krista, Sloane Square princess, really just say that?

  “It’s good to meet friends of Silver’s,” Logan says, flinging an arm around my shoulders. “I’ve been begging to meet everyone, but you know how shy she is.”

  My jaw drops. What the hell is he playing at?

  Krista’s brows shoot up. “Really? You must see a different side to her than we do.”

  Logan reaches down to pinch my cheek. “Sure, Silvie here is shy as they come. Probably why I’m crazy about her.”

  I bat his hand away furiously. “No,” I hiss, “you’re crazy, full stop.”

  Krista looks between us, baffled. Before she has a chance to speak, however, a high-pitched whine erupts from the speakers ne
xt to the stage and Ollie steps up to the mic.

  “Hi, everyone. We’re the Cat’s Pajamas and we haven’t played together for five years. Our first song is called ‘Down, Never Out,’ and I’d like to dedicate it to Sad Sam, wherever he may be tonight.”

  The drummer counts in, and at once the chatter is drowned out by Ollie’s soulful voice, drifting huskily across the room. Luckily, they’re not quite as bad as I remember.

  I feel warm lips at my ear. “You’re welcome,” Logan whispers, as Krista dashes back to her friends.

  Even though I long to stay cushioned in the nook of his strong arm, I force myself to step away. “Since when did you become my person?” I ask, lips pursed.

  “She was making digs about you not having a boyfriend,” he says, dimples flashing. “I stepped up.”

  “I was handling it,” I snap. “I don’t need you to rescue me, and anyway, you’re not supposed to be here until nine.”

  He hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, a wicked glint in his eye. “I knew you’d be dying to see me again, so I thought I’d put you out of your misery. Besides,” he continues, waggling his brows, “I have an extra spring in my step for some reason. You have the magic touch, Silver.”

  I roll my eyes, trying to keep a straight face. “Well, don’t expect that all the time. I was just checking out the goods. Saves disappointment later on.”

  He chuckles, leaning closer. “And did you find the goods to your satisfaction, Miss Harris?” he asks in a gravelly tone that has me longing to get down on my knees for another look.

  I arch a brow, my gaze dropping like a dead weight to his groin. “Everything seems to be in working order. Though of course, further checks are not out of the question.”

  His chest brushes against my shoulder, sending a tingly shiver up my spine. “I’m sure, given enough notice, I may be able to organize something. But first, what are you drinking? Whiskey?”

  “No thanks,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I’ll have a vodka and soda. What will you have? A Bloody Mary?”

  He slaps a hand to his chest. “Good with your hands and hilarious—whatever did I do to deserve you, Silver?”