by Juliet Lyons
We lie quivering, bodies wrapped tightly together, the sound of panting filling the air.
“I could spend the rest of my days hearing you come,” I say, brushing auburn hair from the ivory column of her neck.
She reaches behind and pats my shoulder. “Keep doing it like that and I might let you.”
I pull out, turning her toward me, needing to see her face. A yellow glow from the street casts a sheet of light onto the bed, and I gaze, mesmerized at her flushed-pink cheeks, eyes softened to the color of rain clouds. Her mouth is red from kissing, a pink rosebud in spring. I trace my fingers over her soft lips and along her jaw, hearing a hitch in her breathing as I lean forward to take her mouth with mine.
She tastes even more intoxicating after sex—sweet and winey, like the nectar I lapped from her core. My arms tighten around her as the kiss becomes more urgent, my hands combing through her hair. I’m hard again in an instant.
“Will you bite me?” she asks in a small voice.
I smile at her unswerving desire. “Are you sure? I already drank a fair bit of blood.”
“Yes,” she murmurs, tipping her head back. “I love how it feels—like sin itself.”
Chuckling, I cup her face in my hands. “You are a wanton, Silver Harris.” I pause, dropping a hand onto her perky nipple. “If it’s sin you’re after, I could bite you here.” I rub the supple underside of her breast. “And then, if that’s to your satisfaction, how about we try here?” I place a hand between her legs, gently pinching her inner thigh.
“Yes,” she hisses, draping a bare leg across my hips. “Do all of it.”
Tipping her onto her back, I hover over her. “Silver Harris, where have you been all my life?”
* * *
When the amber rays of streetlights turn to the dull gray of morning, I finally drift off into a semiconscious daze of happiness. It isn’t until a few hours later, when I hear running water, that I open my eyes to the now-bright room. I sit up and reach across the bed, finding only warm, rumpled sheets. The door to the bathroom opens and Silver steps out. Her hair is wet, hanging in damp waves around her face, and she’s wearing my shirt. It hangs loosely off her small frame, skimming past her hips, only just covering her ass.
“Jesus,” I mutter, as the sheet covering me from the waist down tents upward with my stiffness.
Silver averts her gaze, a sexy flush in her cheeks as if she is some innocent and not the woman I’ve just spent the whole night fucking to within an inch of her life.
“I borrowed your shirt,” she says, tugging at the hem. She points with her thumb over her shoulder toward the bathroom. “They have Jo Malone shower gel in there. I might smuggle some out in my coat.”
I chuckle, running my gaze from her blushing face to her naked thighs and back again. “Do it. I’ve got your back.”
She nods, smiling. This bashful act of hers is doing nothing for my hard-on. She stays standing, making no attempt to rejoin me in bed. No matter how many years pass, how liberated human sexuality becomes, the power of the morning after is infinite.
“What time’s checkout?” she asks, looking around the room. Seeing a welcome pack on the marble-topped chest of drawers, she reaches over for it. The shirt lifts, revealing the black, lacy knickers I discarded in a frenzy last night. My cock twitches beneath the sheet. If she doesn’t come back to bed now, I’m going to end up touching myself.
“Do you regret last night?” I ask, watching her flip through the cardboard booklet.
Her gray eyes meet mine and she arches a brow, tossing the pack back where she found it. “Are you mad? I had about fifty million orgasms.”
I grin like a Boy Scout being awarded a badge of honor. “You’ll want a second date, then?”
She narrows her beautiful eyes. “Are you getting needy, Logan Byrne?”
My dick is getting needy; I know that much. “No. But I would hate to deny you a further fifty million orgasms. Also, don’t kid yourself by trying to pretend I’m not the finest ride you’ll ever have.”
Her jaw drops and she folds her arms across her chest. The movement pushes her breasts together—a line of cleavage just visible above the neckline of the shirt. I fight the urge to groan. “Maybe it’s like that with all vampires.”
“It’s not.”
She lets her arms drop, pointing to the obvious bulge beneath the covers. “Do you need some help with that?” There is a wicked sparkle behind her gray eyes.
Suddenly, I can’t think of a single smart-ass comment. I nod like a mute and pull the sheet aside, enjoying the flash of lust that lights up her face.
“My God,” she murmurs, climbing onto the bed. “It’s really hard.”
The way she says hard in her sweet voice unleashes the beast in me. As soon as she’s close enough, I pull her down on top of me, shoving my hands under the shirt and palming her full breasts. “Hard because of you,” I say throatily, as she arches her back, rubbing herself on my stomach muscles. The friction of wet lace panties on my skin sends me out of my mind with lust. I grip her pert buttocks, and as she straddles me, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the sight of her wearing my shirt and writhing around like a harlot will be forever etched onto my brain.
She leans down, flicking her tongue over my nipples, reaching behind her to stroke my twitching length. I drop back against the pillows, watching her trail kisses over my chest and down toward my waist. By the time I feel the tickle of hair on my groin, it’s me who is begging for it.
“Silver, please,” I beg.
“Pretty please,” she says, brushing her lips over my wet tip.
I ball my fists into her hair. “Pretty please with a fucking cherry on top.”
Laughing, she gazes up at me, her eyes meeting mine, one brow slanted almost vertically as she positions her wet, pink mouth at the top of my raging hard-on. “As you wish,” she says, before sliding her lips down the length of my shaft and taking me wholly in her mouth.
* * *
We don’t leave the room until well after midday, when the frantic hammering of the maid on the door signals checkout is long overdue. Silver is back in her tight, green dress and heels. She takes a look in the gilt mirror hanging near the door. “Oh, bloody hell. Look at the state of me.”
I smirk. To me, she looks perfect. She has that satisfied, rosy glow women get after a decent bout of lovemaking—a faint smudge of mascara beneath her lashes makes her eyes look sensuous and smoky, and her lips are red and full from kissing, like ripe strawberries. I reach across, smoothing down her wavy hair and tucking it behind her ear. “You’re a vision, Miss Harris.”
She shoves at my shoulder. “You have to say that.”
We both stand, staring at each other like fools, until another flurry of knocking forces us into action.
“Will we take a taxi or the vampire express?” she asks, snatching her purse from a velvet chair as I wait for her to lead the way out.
“As it happens,” I say, opening the door to the hall and flashing a grin at the scowling maid, “the vampire express only works at night.”
Silver wrinkles her nose, stepping past me. “Why?”
“Daylight weakens our speed,” I explain as we trail slowly toward the lifts. “It’s the only negative impact of the sun.”
“So all that sex we had this morning was solely because—”
“Because I’m a naturally magnificent lover.”
She rolls her eyes, jabbing at the metal elevator button. “Good thing I didn’t have breakfast or I might throw up. You realize you only get away with the supreme cockiness because of the Irish accent, don’t you?”
I chuckle as the mirrored doors slide open. “Don’t forget the good looks. Those help too.”
Outside on the street, it’s as if a year has passed. Although the overcast sky is the same as yesterday—gray and white like marble�
�and people are still scurrying past like ants, something somewhere in the universe has shifted. Silver and I stop by a row of black cabs. She turns to face me, and I gaze deeply into her eyes, at the amber flecks among gray, flickering like sunlight through clouds.
“I guess we’ll get separate cabs,” she says, “if you’re heading back to Marylebone.” I glance down at her hands, fists clenching beneath the sleeves of her coat. On impulse, I reach across to hold one. She swings her arm in the opposite direction. “I’m not much of a daytime hand-holder,” she says, frowning.
I cock a smile. “How do you know I was going for your hand?”
She laughs, pricking the bubble of tension.
“Let me get this straight,” I continue. “You won’t hold my hand in public, but biting on a street corner is perfectly acceptable? Then there are all the things we did last night.” I close the gap between us, my lips brushing the silky tendrils around her ear. The warmth from her body hits like a current of hot air, drawing me in. “All that sucking and licking and bodily fluids spilling. All that nakedness…”
Her eyelids flutter closed for a brief second. “I see your point.”
“As for the taxi, I’d like to see you home safely.” I hold my hands up. “No touching.”
She worries at her bottom lip, and it occurs to me that apart from our obvious sexual connection, I have no idea what’s going on in her head.
“Okay.” Her voice is filled with trepidation.
I motion to a black cab waiting by the curb. “Will we take this fine carriage, good woman?”
Shaking her head, she steps toward the taxi and opens the door. “You get in first, remember? In case of ass ogling.”
“Ass ogling?” I repeat, wiggling my brows. “I’ve no reason to ogle anymore, Silver. I’ve seen everything and then some.”
Before I step past her, I lean in, placing a swift kiss at the corner of her mouth. She clambers in behind me, her cheeks a shade redder than they were outside.
“I love how you do that,” I whisper, as she settles on the seat opposite.
“Where to, mate?” the cabbie calls over his shoulder.
“Jubilee Place, Chelsea,” I say, before flicking my eyes back to her.
“Do what?”
“Blush over something as innocent as a peck on the cheek when you spent all night riding me with wild abandon in a hotel room.”
Silver’s eyes go wide. She jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the driver. “Shut up,” she hisses.
I flash a grin. “He doesn’t care. In fact, I might lean out the window and shout it loud for all to hear.” I jerk toward the sliding panel of dirty glass to my left, and Silver jumps up in horror, grabbing my arm.
“You are absolutely mental, aren’t you?” she says. In spite of the mark of scorn above her brow, her lips curve into a smile.
“You might have to sit next to me and hold my hand if you don’t want your wanton secret out of the bag,” I tease, drumming my fingers on the glass.
“I don’t do blackmail, Logan Byrne. Besides, I have no shame.”
Her flashing eyes are like a red flag to my inner bull. I wrench the grimy pane open as we squeak to a halt on the main road. “Silver Harris of Chelsea gives fantastic head!” I yell, startling a group of gray-haired tourists who are standing around a woman with a green umbrella.
Her palm covers my mouth, as she fights to close the window one-handed. “Okay, I have shame.” She collapses onto the seat next to me, laughing as I offer her my hand.
“You’re such a weirdo,” she mutters, slapping her small, ivory palm into mine. “Why can’t I meet a nice, normal vampire?”
I close my fingers around hers. “Because they’re boring.”
She nods, sighing in resignation.
When the cab clears the glut of traffic around Trafalgar Square, my mind drifts to our imminent parting. I glance down at our intertwined fingers, deciding it’s now or never.
“So, you didn’t answer my question about a second date back at the hotel,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
She sucks in a breath, pushing the hair away from her face. “What did you have in mind?”
Deep down, I’m hoping she’ll invite me in when the taxi stops. Invite me in and never ask me to leave. But something in her brooding demeanor tells me that won’t be happening. I decide to tread carefully. “Dinner. I’ll come over and cook for you.”
Her brows shoot up. “You cook?” she asks in disbelief.
I lean back into the seat, spreading my legs a bit so my thighs touch hers, a flame licking the space where our legs meet. “Yes. I cook. Can’t everyone over the age of twenty?”
“No. I live on ramen noodles and takeout.”
“All the more reason for me to cook for you. What time do you finish work tomorrow?”
“I’ll be home by half past six.”
“In that case, I’ll be on your doorstep at six thirty-five.”
The taxi turns onto Jubilee Place, and Silver shouts out the number to the driver. A little farther up, we squeak to a halt. I grab the red handle and push the door open, jumping into the street.
Silver steps out after me, rummaging in her purse for keys. “Thanks for the ride,” she says innocently.
I burst out laughing as her face goes slack, the unintended double entendre hitting home. “Well, you know,” she says with slanted brow, “thanks for both types of ride.”
I grin. “Thank you for being a worthy passenger.”
She flicks at my shoulder with the back of her hand. “See you tomorrow, Logan.” She exaggerates the first vowel in my name, oozing sarcasm, and I push my hands deeper into my pockets to refrain from slamming my mouth to hers.
“See you tomorrow, Silver.”
When she’s at the bottom of the steps, she turns back, looking up to the street with a mischievous smirk. She pushes her key into the door and lets herself in. The door, for the first time in my presence, clicks softly shut behind her.
Chapter 12
Silver
At work the next day, I can’t stop smiling. Ciara even catches me humming a tune as I polish the cabinets.
“What’s got into you today?” she asks, hand on hip, as I rub the yellow duster over the glass in vigorous circles.
“Nothing,” I say, leaning forward to breathe on a particularly stubborn fingerprint. “Why do you ask?”
“You told Nina you liked her earrings. You never compliment Nina. You say she’s Hitler with hair extensions. Plus, you’re skipping around with that cloth like Mary Poppins at Disneyland.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes. “You got laid, didn’t you?”
I lightly flick the duster toward her. “Yes,” I say loudly enough to draw a look of disapproval from Nina on the other side of the shop. “A whole bunch of times.”
Ciara looks disgruntled. I’ve noticed people in sexless relationships don’t take kindly to news of others’ bedroom shenanigans. They prefer to think of single people as odd types who play with train sets in their attics.
“Are you seeing him again?” she asks a shade aggressively.
“Tonight,” I say and, unable to refrain from gloating, “He’s cooking me dinner.”
She purses her lips. “I’m sure he has more than dinner on his mind.”
I grin so manically, my face strains from the pressure. “Let’s hope so.”
Logan’s bedroom technique was a gratifying surprise to say the least. Though the chemistry between us always promised an explosive encounter, I did wonder if he’d turn out to be one of those good-looking, selfish-in-bed types. How wrong I was. As well as a generous lover, he was tender, thoughtful. Sex in the past has sometimes made me feel lonely, the means to someone else’s end, but with Logan, it was as if our bodies thrummed to the same tune. He was aware of me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
> Ciara pulls a face. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she says in a tight voice. “The hot ones are notoriously difficult to keep on the porch.”
Ugh. First Vera and her starting-pistol metaphor and now this. “As long as he stays long enough to give me a decent go on the swing, I’m not bothered,” I snap, turning my back on her. To think, I had to congratulate her on tying herself for life to Mr. No Sex. Is it too much to ask for a simple high five of congratulations?
At lunchtime, I’m pleased when I find out it’s my turn to pick up the sandwiches. I take my time, ambling slowly through the cobbled streets of Covent Garden, past the theaters and market stalls, a whiff of roasted horse chestnuts permeating the stale city air. Even before I landed my job at the jewelers, I always loved it here. On good days, when there are fewer people, I can imagine London as it used to be, before cars and Starbucks and pricey boutiques, all sandstone arches and timber-framed inns.
I pick my way carefully through the dawdling shoppers, zipping up my thick, padded coat. Though the sun is out for once, the chilly air prickles my skin like needles. Still, it’s good to feel sunlight on my face. I can’t imagine how it must have been for Logan in the beginning—shut away from daylight for all those months on his own.
I’m so absorbed in Logan-related thoughts I almost don’t notice the stocky, bald man in a black bomber jacket walking beside me. Feeling his eyes on my face and suspecting he’s a pickpocket of some kind, I speed up, but he keeps pace, bobbing along six inches or so behind me like an irritating wasp. I walk straight ahead as fast as I can without breaking into a run and, at the last second, duck into the golden warmth of the supermarket, hoping to give him the slip. Grabbing a basket, I head straight to the sandwiches.
I’m reaching for Nina’s hoisin duck wrap when a voice at my shoulder says, “Jenna Gold?”
I whirl around to find stocky pickpocket man from the street standing behind me. Face-to-face, I recognize him instantly. Rounded cheeks, wide, car-salesman-esque grin—it’s Sergeant Davies in casual clothes.
