by Unknown
“Maybe.”
“Monica, let me up. Let’s talk about Nicky.”
Monica licked her neck again. “Hungry.”
“I could make you breakfast.”
“Need blood. You have it.”
Good going, Em. You just reminded her you’re food. “Remember, Nicky? Your new boyfriend? The fabulous fuck?”
Monica stretched like a cat on top of her. “Nicky here soon.”
“Yes, Monica. Nicky here soon. And Nicky won’t be happy.”
“Nicky mad?” she asked, her voice frighteningly deep.
“Yes. Get off me, Monica. You’re not thinking straight.”
With a petulant sigh, Monica rolled off her.
And Emmy turned and sat on the floor, her eyes never leaving Monica’s monstrous face.
Leaning forward, Emmy looked over Monica’s shoulder. “Is that Nicky coming now?”
Triumph suffused Monica’s face, and she whirled toward the door.
Emmy jumped on her back. She had to subdue Monica long enough to get out of the apartment. If she was still here when Nicky arrived, she was a dead woman.
She held on with all she had, and Monica crashed into a wall, trying to dislodge her. Her hands reached behind her, and she clawed at Emmy’s clothes, snarling and howling. Monica slammed back into another wall and bits of drywall crumbled around them. With the next slam, pictures slid from the wall, the glass shattering.
Finding it difficult to draw a breath, Emmy released her grip on Monica’s shoulders and slid to the floor.
Monica pounced, but Emmy was ready. She wrapped her thighs around Monica’s neck and squeezed. Monica’s hands clawed at Emmy’s legs, shredding her khaki slacks and raising rivulets of blood on her thighs, but Emmy didn’t let go.
Then Emmy realized she’d left two major arteries running down the inside of her thighs vulnerable to Monica’s powerful jaws and teeth. Hoping Monica wouldn’t figure out that fact too soon, Emmy decided to psych out her opponent with a little bravado. “You may as well stop fighting me. I can crack a walnut with these thighs.”
Monica’s head continued to thrash.
“You be careful, or I’ll break your neck.” Emmy squeezed tighter, growing more worried by the moment that Monica would ravage her with her mouth. Grabbing handfuls, she pulled hard on Monica’s hair. “I’ll snatch you bald if you don’t stop moving.”
Monica held her head perfectly still.
If Emmy hadn’t been so frightened, she would have crowed over that little moment of victory. Monica might be a mighty vampire, but she was still not the sharpest tool in the shed. Emmy wondered how long her bluff would last. Monica should know her hair would grow back like a Beautiful Chrissie doll.
“What do you think she’ll threaten her with next?” Quentin’s amused voice drawled.
With a gasp, Emmy whirled her head toward the front door.
Dylan and his stuffy friend stood in the entrance.
Chapter Eight
‡
Monica’s body stiffened between Emmy’s aching legs.
“You can let go of her now, love,” Dylan said.
Too shaken by the battle, Emmy realized her fingers were frozen in Monica’s hair. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just stay here for a minute or two.”
Dylan approached and squatted next to the women. “Monica, tell Emmy you’ll behave now.”
Monica panted, and then her body changed, softening. Her face reformed into familiar features. Her round cheeks reddened with the pressure Emmy continued to apply. “You can let me go, Emmy. I won’t hurt you.”
Emmy drew a deep breath and let her thighs loosen their iron grip. “Am I ever glad to see you,” she said to Dylan, reaching out a hand.
Dylan helped her to her feet, and she looked up, prepared to thank him, but his face was a tight mask of fury. A knot formed in her stomach, and she stepped back.
“Quentin, get her to the car.” Dylan’s voice was taut and hard.
Quentin grabbed her upper arm to lead her out, but Emmy resisted. “You aren’t going to hurt her.”
Monica rested on her elbows on the floor and smirked.
Emmy wished she still had an extra shoe to throw. Didn’t she know better than to piss off Dylan?
“Get up,” Dylan commanded.
Monica rose slowly, dusting plaster off her clothing, mocking Dylan with her nonchalance.
Dylan grabbed her by the neck and backed her up to the wall.
Monica’s eyes rounded, and her hands pulled at his, but she couldn’t dislodge his grip.
Shock ran through her, and Emmy stepped toward them, but was stopped by Quentin’s long-fingered shackle.
Quentin pulled her to him and slipped an arm around her waist, anchoring her to his side. “Wait,” he whispered in her ear.
“I’ll spare you tonight,” Dylan said, his voice low and deadly calm. “You were Emmy’s friend, but you’ll stay clear of her now, or I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Monica nodded, her eyes wild.
“And take a message to your boyfriend.”
“Yes,” she replied, sounding breathless. “What shall I tell him?”
“Run.”
*
As she followed Dylan into his house, Emmy still trembled from the aftermath of her battle. She’d actually had the nerve to attack a vampire with a shoe!
Quentin followed close behind and drew her into the living room, pressing her down into one of the sumptuous leather chairs on either side of a large, pale marble fireplace. He flipped on a wrought iron floor lamp, and golden light spilled into the dark corners of the room.
Feeling measurably safer, Emmy waited quietly while Quentin lit the fire.
“You have nothing to fear from Dylan,” he said quietly.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, and then realized she truly wasn’t.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
Emmy shook her head. She raised her hands toward the fire to warm them and saw they still shook.
A crystal tumbler was held in front her eyes, a finger of brown liquid sloshing in the glass. Rather than remind him she’d said no, she took it, but held it with both hands. She stared into the whiskey. She hated whiskey.
“It’s scotch,” he said, taking the seat opposite her.
“Smells like paint thinner,” she mumbled.
“Be a good girl and throw it back—into your throat that is.”
She glanced up.
He offered her a silent toast with his own glass, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth.
What the hell? she thought. Perhaps the booze would chase away the chilling fear she’d felt since leaving Monica’s place. Or deaden the sting of the deep scratches on her thighs.
The liquor burned all the way to her belly, and she gasped. “That was awful.”
He laughed softly. “You’ll feel better in a moment.”
Emmy’s hands clamped harder around the empty glass and her lips trembled, so she pressed them tightly together. But the sob she’d held inside erupted, and she set aside the glass to cover her face. “I can’t believe I attacked a vampire with a Jimmy Choo.” She sobbed a second time. “I’m not usually such a wimp.”
“You’re not a wimp,” Dylan’s voice broke in.
Great. He’d think she was a crybaby, too. She rubbed her hands over her face to quickly wipe away the tears and then looked at him.
He was kneeling beside her chair. His dark eyes were filled with concern.
“I think this is where I find something better to do,” Quentin murmured and left the room.
“Headstrong, stubborn—” Dylan said, his brows pulled together in a frown. “—lacking in common sense, perhaps, but not a wimp, my dear.”
Emmy wanted to argue over a few of those adjectives, but realized what she wanted more was for him to hold her. She bit the inside of her lip and wondered whether he’d offer his shoulder. If he didn’t, she wasn’t going to ask. Besides, g
oing there would only lead to heartbreak.
“Emmy, you’re thinking too much.”
Her chin lifted. “Are you also saying my intellect is puny?”
“I’m saying, come here,” he said, his voice firm.
“And I’m supposed to just fall into your arms?” A little resistance might convince him she wasn’t desperate for his attentions.
“It’s your choice, love.”
Something in his controlled voice jangled her alarms. “What am I choosing between?”
“Coming into my arms…or being dragged there.”
Her body reacted instantly to the caveman vision that came to mind. “Oh.”
“Emmy?” his voice held an edge of warning.
She didn’t know where the courage came from, but she licked her lips, a slow circle that his gaze followed. More than one way existed to get his two arms around her. “Come and get me.”
“Witch,” he whispered, and then leaned forward to take her lips. His tongue swirled inside her mouth. “Mmmm. My favorite flavors.”
“What? Tooth scum and paint thinner?”
His lips smiled against hers. “Whiskey and woman.”
“It’s scotch.” Her fingers combed through his hair, and she pulled to seal their mouths. He kissed her, and then pushed her back.
Disappointed, she tried to follow.
He took her hands and placed them on the arms of the chair. “First, let me take care of your legs.” With a slow move, he reached for the button at her waistband and slipped it open, then tugged down the zipper.
Emmy winced when he peeled the fabric from her thighs. How had she forgotten about the claw marks Monica etched in her flesh? Drying blood stuck in places, but Dylan was relentless.
Whimpering by the time he’d finished, Emmy dug her fingers into the chair.
His head lowered to the first set of wounds, and he licked them. Long wet strokes that soothed her flesh along the angry red scores. As she watched, the pain receded, and the scratches healed, disappearing altogether.
“Your tongue could earn millions,” she said around a moan when his head bent over her other thigh.
Moments passed, and he healed the last of Monica’s scratches. Then his hands encircled Emmy’s hips and pulled her to the edge of the chair. She widened her legs, and he pulled her groin flush with his.
Emmy wrapped her thighs around his hips and rubbed her pussy along the long ridge of his desire. “Too many clothes,” she complained.
Dylan grabbed her collar and pulled apart her shirt, popping buttons. A few clattered on the tile hearth.
Desperate to free her breasts, Emmy reached between them for the clasp of her bra and unhooked it.
His mouth descended on hers, and he skimmed her blouse and bra from her shoulders and let them fall. Her nipples pebbled instantly, and she scraped them over the fabric of his shirt.
Clumsy with frenzy, they ripped at the rest of their clothing until they knelt naked before the fire.
“I sure hope you have something my size in your closet,” Emmy said, as Dylan’s mouth skimmed over her collarbone and descended to her breast.
“When will you need clothes?” He tongued her nipple, and then sucked it between his teeth.
With her hand on the back of his head, Emmy pressed his face harder against her breast. “Right, tomorrow’s Sunday. No work. Play?”
He raised his head and took a breath, “Not play. Loving you is a death sport.” He pushed her back onto the carpet and lay over her body.
Her hands gripped his ears. “You should know all about it.” Directing his mouth to the neglected nipple, she contemplated a night and day of lovemaking. “Do you have real food in your fridge?”
“You mean,” he said, his voice sounding somewhat garbled, “something other than organ meat or pig’s blood?”
Her stomach flipped. Emmy made a face. “Something vegetarian?”
“And if I say no?”
“The only organ meat I want is yours.” To make sure he got the hint, she lifted her hips to nudge her bush against his…organ. “We’ll order pizza. They deliver.”
“So do I.” His cock pressed into the entrance of her vagina.
Emmy winced, still sore from the previous night, and thought to change the subject. “Perhaps, we should try a smorgasbord, instead. Cafeteria-style. No sausage. Little edibles.”
“Emmy.”
“Mmmm?”
“Stop talking.”
“Ahem.” The sound of someone clearing his throat sounded loudly in the room.
She glanced toward the foyer and saw Quentin standing in the shadows with a bundle under his arm.
Emmy squealed and became aware that Dylan was lifting off her body. She wrapped her legs around him. “Where do you think you’re going? I’m naked.” Her hands rose to cover her breasts.
“Before you get too deeply into the pepperoni,” Quentin said, with wry humor in his voice, “may I have a word with you, Dylan?” His gaze flickered over Emmy, assessing, almost clinical. “Doesn’t she put you in mind of a Botticelli?”
Emmy removed her hands from her breasts and let her arms fall to her side on the floor. English vamp was the one interrupting coitus. She didn’t have a thing to feel ashamed of. Besides, if she was honest she enjoyed his perusal. He thought she looked like a Botticelli? She hoped it was a famous painting and not a ravioli.
Dylan scowled.
One of his sexiest looks, Emmy thought. As worthy as any Calvin Klein pout.
“Quentin, is there a purpose to this interruption?” he asked, his teeth gritted.
“I just wanted to remind you of the meeting you have to attend later.” Quentin’s smile fell short of innocent. “And to bring you pillows.” He indicated the bundle beneath his arm.
Dylan raised a hand and caught the pillows as they were tossed. “Now, get lost.”
Quentin winked then turned on his heels and left.
“Where were we?” Dylan asked, urging her with a hand to lift her hips.
Unclasping her thighs, she put her feet flat on the floor and pushed upward. “Swallowing sausage?” she asked, grinning.
He slid one of the pillows beneath her hips. “No, going vegetarian.” He pressed her knees apart.
Feeling overexposed, Emmy placed a hand over her pussy. “I’ll take cucumber.”
He raised a pointed finger. “I’m bringing the carrot.”
Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes. “I think this analogy is getting tired.”
“I agree. Too much roughage.” His gaze dropped to her open thighs. “I’m up for something…creamier.”
“Potatoes?”
He lifted one eyebrow.
“All right, I promise to shut up. If you put your tongue to better use, as well.”
Dylan bent and kissed her inner thigh, nipping gently toward her core.
Emmy groaned, eager for the lash of his rough tongue.
He didn’t disappoint. He stroked long laps over her outer lips, alternating with short darts between that fluttered against her clitoris.
Liquid seeped from inside her, bathing her vagina, and her legs turned to jelly, falling farther apart.
He dipped inside. “Ambrosia.” He moaned, and the sound vibrated on her sensitive flesh. His tongue delved deeper.
Her hips rose. “I like carrots, too. Diced, sliced, puréed.” His finger pushed inside and swirled. “Raw. Whole. I love them whole!” She reached between her legs and spread her labia, pulling up to expose her clit. “Did I mention cucumbers?”
His lifted his head, his gaze spearing her. “I thought you were going to be quiet.”
“It’s not something I can help. I get excited and can’t stop my mouth. Oh!” Emmy arched her back when a second finger joined the first. She squeezed her inner muscles. Nothing like a little girly calisthenics to entice a man to do the dirty.
Her hips pumped, shallow pulses as she concentrated on the sensation of his fingers deep inside. “You know a little tongu
e action would go a long way here.”
“You’ve no patience, dear. Good things come—”
“—to she who waits. I know, I know. But I was thinking of a new Confucianism.”
He nipped her inner thigh again. “Is that even a word?”
“Pay attention. I think ‘A good cum comes to she who does it herself!’” She wrinkled her nose, reached with her other hand, and touched a finger to her clit.
“Uh-uhn.” His hand closed over hers and pushed it away. “No cheating. You see, I think three carrots beat a cucumber any day.” He slid three fingers inside her channel.
Her eyes closed, and her mouth rounded around a breathless O. “Are you raising me?” she asked, her voice held a plaintive note.
“Are we switching from vegetables to poker?”
She same up on her elbows. “I’m just hoping for more poke.” Smiling, she raised an eyebrow. A direct challenge.
“To hell with vegetables.” He withdrew his fingers. “Just turn over.”
Emmy’s heart pounded in her chest. Now! He’d cram every incredibly edible inch of himself inside her now. She turned onto her stomach, and then rose up on her hands and knees.
“Hold onto the edge of the fireplace.”
She braced herself, gripping the marble hard.
Dylan slid his cock inside her.
A twinge of soreness gave way to pleasure so intense she clamped her jaw closed rather than cry out. Why give his immense ego a boost? Keep him humble.
“Breathe, Emmy,” he whispered next to her ear.
His hips drove forward, stretching her, filling her. Her bottom wriggled as she accommodated his push through her tight channel.
Finally, sheathing him to the hilt, Emmy arched her back. “Fuck me, Dylan. Fuck me hard.”
Dylan had been right about her ass the first time her saw her. A man could die happy pumping against her soft, fleshy bottom. His palms curved around the milky-white globes, and he spread them. He dropped spit into the crease.
“I don’t think—” Emmy squirmed, pulling forward.
“That’s right. Don’t.” He traced a finger between her cheeks, gliding lower until he touched the soft, puckered hole.
Emmy gave a cry, half-dismay and half-delight, and bucked.
Dylan pumped his hips and drove deeper, at the same time sliding a finger inside her ass.
