Dating the Undead

by Juliet Lyons

  “Do you have an office?” I ask, my tone accusing.

  “I have a bed.”

  I swallow, running eyes over his broad shoulders, the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt, long, artistic hands on the starched tablecloth. Chewing my lip, I imagine them under my dress—between my legs. Somehow, I tear my gaze away. “What do you do anyway? For a job?”

  He fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt. “I’ve worked at a club in Soho for the last year or so. Before that I was in Peru, working as a homeopathic doctor.”

  “You realized your dream after all.”

  “Yes, kind of.”

  “What do you mean, kind of? Don’t tell me you forged the medical certificates.”

  “Silver,” he says, chuckling. “You have so little faith in me. I took all the exams and passed, set up my own clinic in a poor area just outside Lima.”

  “So what happened?”

  “When vampires went public, the townspeople caught on to what I was. They aren’t quite so forgiving as Londoners.”

  I frown. “What did they do?”

  “Burned down my clinic,” he says matter-of-factly.

  The knife I’d been toying with clatters onto a plate, my jaw dropping in disgust. “You’re kidding?”

  He smiles sadly. “No. That’s why I moved back. I even got my old flat back in the place where Rumbold’s apothecary used to be.”

  “Isn’t it weird? Living in that place after what happened?”

  “It should be. But I find it oddly comforting. When I walk through the door I remember.”

  “Remember what? The good ole days?”

  “Being human.”

  Fiddling with the tiny gold medallion at his neck, he seems suddenly forlorn. On impulse, I lean forward, reaching across the stiff linen cloth to cover his hand with mine.

  The waiter arrives with our champagne, making a big show of popping the cork, but we ignore him. My eyes flicker from our clasped hands on the table to his chiseled face and back again, butterflies tearing at my insides, cheeks burning hotter than the flaming sambucas at the next table. Suddenly, I’m aware the waiter is still standing beside us, tapping a polished shoe impatiently and holding his digital notebook aloft.

  “I’ll have the chicken,” I say without looking up.

  Logan passes our menus back, eyes the color of a stormy, green sea. There are tiny flecks of gold at the center I hadn’t noticed before. “The steak. Rare.”

  “Maybe,” I mutter, as the waiter turns away, “you should change that to still living.”

  He moves his hand farther up my arm, to my wrist, thumb on my pulse. “I know what I’d rather be eating.”

  I cross my legs, attempting to stem the throbbing ache building at my core. “Do you mean that in the blood sense or the bodily sense?”

  “Both,” he says quickly. “All of it. There are so many ways I want to take you I don’t know where to start.”

  “I should go to the bathroom,” I whimper. But I don’t. I stay, basking in the promise of sex with a man I’m crazy about.

  Dinner passes in a blur. We don’t speak about the past again. We don’t really speak about anything. The chicken is perfect, tender and juicy, but I might as well be eating cardboard for all the attention I give it. Logan too picks at his steak. Even the champagne sits barely touched. All I can think about is his body and his mouth and all the places he might put them.

  When I come back from the ladies’ room, Logan looks tense, clenched jaw, eyes blazing.

  I slide back into my seat. “What’s up? Was the bill massive?”

  He shakes his head. “What would you say if I booked us a room here? For the night. Would you slap me in the face again?”

  His eyes are wide, as if he’s half expecting me to lean over and smack him. I reach forward for my champagne glass, insides churning with excitement. “Hypothetically, I would remind you that wooing doesn’t usually involve shagging on a first date.” I pause, exploiting the power of the moment by taking a slow sip of bubbles. “In reality, I’d probably race you to the elevator.”

  The worry melts from his face. He picks up a white plastic card from under his napkin. “I got this while you were in the ladies’ room.”

  I slam down my glass, feigning a look of offense. “Oh, so you did bring me here for sex?”

  “No,” he says, holding his hands up. “I swear, it was meant to be for food only, but I thought…” He trails off when he realizes I’m grinning from ear to ear, and stands up, snatching the champagne bucket off the table and extending a hand toward me. “Let’s go to bed, Silver Harris.”

  With those six words, I am officially undone. The restaurant and the other diners fade into the background as I grab my coat from the back of the chair and place my hand in his. Like coconspirators, we hurry from the room, scanning the lobby for the lifts. A bellboy rushes forward to help us, and for a horrifying second, I think he intends to lead us all the way upstairs. But he merely presses a button and backs out into the foyer, leaving us alone in a cloud of swirling tension.

  As soon as the doors close, we turn to each other. In spite of our bravado, I feel strangely nervous.

  Logan squeezes my hand, forcing me to look up into his hazy eyes. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  I twitch a smile. “Thank God I’m wearing matching underwear.”

  He chuckles, low and dangerous, holding my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve been hard for you all night.”

  My nerves evaporate, swallowed by a blistering wave of desire. Heat blooms between my legs, nipples hardening to bullets. My heart pounds in my ears as he brings his warm lips down on mine.

  The string of tension snapping is intensified by the crash of the champagne bucket as Logan drops it, frothy liquid chugging out onto the plush, gold carpet. Hands matted into my hair, he forces me back against the marbled wall, his mouth opening mine, our tongues fiercely lashing together. He tastes like warm champagne and fresh mint gum.

  I feel his hand between my thighs, working upward to my panties, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Touch me,” I plead into his mouth. “Just touch me.”

  He groans, toying with the damp strip of lace between my legs. Moving the material aside, his callused fingertips find their way into my slick folds, and I sag against him.

  “Logan,” I whimper, head tipped back as he strokes me, thumb rubbing circles into my aching nub. He brings his other hand to my breast, massaging a hard tip through the thin material of my dress, until a white-hot wave of pleasure threatens to spill. “Logan,” I cry out, forgetting I’m in an elevator with doors that could pop open at any second.

  There is a loud ping and we jump apart as if shot with Tasers. I hastily pull my dress down as the doors slide open. No one is there.

  “Our floor,” Logan says, bending down to retrieve the champagne bucket, which has been rolling all over the place during our clinch. He grabs my hand, pulling me into the corridor.

  Inside our luxurious room, I barely notice the plush, chintz furnishings. I cross straight to the bed, perching on the end and tossing my coat onto the floor. The door slams, and in a split second, Logan is on me.

  Picking up where we left off, he rucks my dress up around my waist, spreading my legs wide. His eyes are pulsing, dark with need, a line etched between his brows. I reach up to his now-mussed hair, grabbing handfuls of the thick, silky strands and tugging on the ends as he kneels on the floor between my thighs and slips soaked panties down past my hips.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he says, the end of the sentence muffled as he buries his face into my wet heat.

  I throw my head back as his tongue glides through my folds. Gripping my knees, he laps furiously, grazing my swollen clit with the rough skin on his jaw. My breathing comes in short, sharp bursts, pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo. I drop
backward, balling fists into the shiny, floral bedspread as he inserts a finger into my soaking core, pumping in and out, faster and faster, his mouth clamping around my aching nub. Just when I think it can’t feel any better, he sucks hard, flicking with the tip of his tongue, and I lift up from the bed, exploding around him, warm juices trickling onto my thighs. The scream that erupts from my throat is feral—in the back of my mind, I pity the people in the adjoining room. I drop, semiconscious, onto the covers.

  It takes a good minute to float back to my body. My chest is heaving, my eyes screwed shut. Logan crawls next to me.

  “Well,” he says in his soothing Irish lilt, “I guess we’re even.”

  “We’ll never be even,” I say, panting like I’ve run a marathon. “Now kindly remove your clothing.”

  He laughs, working at the knot in his tie. “Gladly.”

  “God, Logan,” I say, the back of my hand on my face. “I can’t feel my legs.”

  Unleashing his tie, he hovers over me, kisses my swollen lips. “It’s not over,” he whispers. “Not by a long shot.”

  I sit up, wrapping my legs around his hips. “I’m a mess. Look what you’ve done to me.”

  He rakes hands through my tangled hair, leaning his cool forehead against my sweaty one. “I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.”

  I gently brush his lips with mine, tugging his shirt from the waistband of his jeans, and he reaches down to the hem of my dress, yanking it up over my head.

  “Jesus,” he mutters, staring at my barely there, black, lacy bra, and tracing a finger along the line where the material meets my skin.

  “Take it off,” I urge, sucking at his bottom lip as I go to work on his shirt buttons.

  He reaches around my back, expertly flicking open the clasp and slipping the delicate material down my arms. My nipples stand up, puckered and hard, and he rubs his thumbs over the tips, pinching them between his rough fingers. I moan, my core clenching almost painfully.

  “Suck them,” I demand, abandoning his shirt buttons. I lean back to give him better exposure, grinding myself into the hard bulge at the front of his jeans. I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he leans toward my chest, a sexy smirk playing at the edge of his mouth, soft hair falling forward, tickling my breasts. There is the faint rasp of stubble, bristly against the sensitive, pink skin of my nipples, before one disappears between his lips.

  A tingly ripple of pleasure shoots through my nerve endings as he sucks—slowly at first and then with increased vigor. I rock faster against him, feeling the delicious snag of his sharp fangs.

  “Shit, yes,” I mumble, feeling another wave start to build.

  Suddenly, he stops, fangs retracting. “I need to be inside you,” he says, eyes feverishly dark.

  I lean forward, panting, nodding mutely as I tear at his shirt. When we’ve managed between us to get the top half-open, he pulls the rest over his head. It lands in a puddle of material on top of my dress. I suppress a gasp at the sight of his bare upper body, running hands over his sculpted chest and down the tight ridges of his abdomen. Never in my life have I seen such a perfect specimen of man.

  “Work out much?” I murmur, ghosting a touch along the planes of muscle, velvety soft and rock hard beneath my fingertips. My eyes drop to the trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. I remember how his erection looked in my kitchen—a rod of silk erupting from a pool of dark, wiry hair—how it felt—stiff and unyielding as I pumped it in my fist.

  He releases a low moan as I fumble with the buttons on his jeans, helping me to push the denim down over his hips. I climb off him, leaving room for his erection to spring out.

  “No underwear again, I see,” I say with a gulp, staring at the thick, hard pole protruding between his legs.

  “No,” he says, flashing a smile and following my gaze to his stiffness. “I never can find them large enough.”

  We meet each other’s eyes, smiling.

  “It’s beautiful,” I murmur, placing a flat palm on the satin shaft and rubbing a thumb over its glistening tip.

  A low growl erupts from his throat. “You’re beautiful.” His hand closes over my wrist. “But this time, I need to be inside you when I come.”

  He wriggles away from me, off the end of the bed, stepping out of his jeans. A breath catches in my throat as I savor him fully naked for the first time—slim thighs, lean, muscled legs. I gape openmouthed, unable to believe my luck. He is my own personal Adonis.

  I push farther up the shiny bedcover to the pillows, patting the space beside me, suddenly aware of being completely and utterly buck naked. He drops to the bed on his knees, crawling on all fours until he has me beneath him. But instead of spreading my legs and plunging into me, he falls onto his elbows, chest pressed into mine, and gently tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear. He gazes into my eyes, as if searching for an answer to some unspoken question, a shadow of fear flickering behind his dark-green eyes. “Silver,” he whispers, tracing the line of my jaw with his fingers, “what is this with us?”

  I put my arms around him, trailing fingers along the arch of his back, my hands resting on steely buttocks. “I don’t know,” I say quietly, and in all honesty, I don’t. “But I like it.”

  He smiles, eyes drowsy with lust. “I like it too.”

  I reach into the gap between our bodies, tenderly stroking his satiny erection and parting my legs, whimpering as he positions its head at the entrance of my slick heat. He slides into me slowly, my name escaping his lips, and I tangle my fingers in his hair, our eyes locking.

  “Logan,” I murmur, barely recognizing the desperate, vulnerable voice as mine.

  “Silver,” he says into my mouth, our noses touching as he pushes deep inside me.

  I close my eyes, arching my back to meet his urgent thrusts as we begin to move together in a frantic rhythm. He lays his hands flat on the bed on either side of me, using the traction to plunge deeper. Warmth spreads like a wildfire around my loins, waves of pleasure building and coiling inside me. I yelp like a wild animal, my release inching closer with every euphoric thrust. I dig my nails into his shoulders, and he scrapes his fangs on my neck, sharp, delicious pain pushing me closer to the brink.

  “Bite me,” I plead, as he circles his hips, grinding against my sensitive nub. “Please, Logan.”

  He sinks his fangs into my neck, thrusting deeper than ever as I fall apart, rocked by wave upon wave of bliss rushing up over me like high tide on a beach. Right before I sink down into oblivion, he shudders between my thighs, and the last thing I hear before I succumb to the power of his bite is my name as he shouts it loudly into the room.

  Chapter 11

  Logan

  Even if vampires slept the way humans do, I wouldn’t catch a wink with Silver’s creamy, postcoital body nestled snugly against mine. I lay a hand on the curve of her hip and nuzzle the back of her neck, listening to her slow, rhythmic breathing, and inhaling the smell of her shampoo—a fruity scent now laced with the sweet aroma of dried sweat and sex. Every time she stirs and her body brushes mine, I’m hard again. Despite making love half the night, I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough.

  I allow my hand to drop from her hip to her stomach, tracing a circle around her belly button.

  She inhales, writhing beneath the covers and emitting a long sigh. “Sleep, pervert,” she murmurs, grinding her ass into my groin and sending my hardness into overdrive.

  “Just so I know I’m acting in full accordance with the consent campaign,” I whisper, my fingers curling into the soft, downy hair between her legs, “could you confirm you’re fully awake?”

  She chuckles, sliding backward into a spooning position. “Affirmative.”

  “Good,” I say, sucking the tip of her ear as I push two fingers into the warmth between her legs.

  A low groan erupts and she shivers, rocking her hips
into the pressure of my hand. “I don’t want to make you any more arrogant than you already are, Logan Byrne, but you are exceptionally talented with those fingers of yours.”

  I grin into her hair, circling her clit with my fingers. “Why, thank you. I’ve attended some of the finest sex schools in Europe. It’s good to know the tuition money wasn’t for nothing.”

  “Shh,” she says, snickering. “Don’t spoil it with your nonsense talk.”

  “I’m not spoiling anything,” I murmur, trailing kisses along the nape of her neck and rubbing my hard-on into the soft skin at her back. “You’re begging for it.”

  “Seriously,” she whispers, her breathing shallow, “just shut up and keep going.”

  I moan, continuing to stroke her slick folds, wedging my knee between her legs and positioning my erection between her thighs.

  “Yes,” she hisses as I push the tip against her damp opening. “Do it. Please, Logan.”

  “How many times have we done it now?” I tease, circling her entrance. “You can’t get enough, can you?”

  The truth is I’m the one who can’t get enough. I feel pushed to the brink of madness by her. Like I would do anything and everything in my power to never leave this bed.

  “No,” she says, “and neither can you, so quit teasing.”

  “Fair point.” As I sink deep inside her, she shudders, gasping with pleasure, her body melting around me like hot lava. I move my hand to her breast, pinching a silky tip between my fingers and eliciting a quiet sob of gratification.

  “Silver,” I whisper. The euphoria of saying her name while I’m inside her is overwhelming—like a drug. I pull out halfway before plunging deep again, repeating the motion, listening to her short, sharp breaths as they grow more ragged with each thrust. When her breathlessness turns to vixen-like shrieks, I run a flat palm over her firm tummy and down between her legs, rubbing at her soft, wet bud. I’ve always considered myself a good lover, but to this woman, I’m a slave. I would do anything to give her pleasure. If there were a choice between her climax and mine for the rest of eternity, I would choose hers in a heartbeat. When her cries reach fever pitch, I pinch her bud between my fingertips, giving one final thrust into her tight sheath as she spasms around me. Only then do I pour into her, a powerful orgasm rocking my body, my sweat mingling with hers.