by Michele Hauf
He moved, sliding his thigh between her legs. Her skirt rode up, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but the pressure building inside her. She was close … too close to her goal, to vengeance. She couldn’t—she shouldn’t—think about anything but that. But she could think only of him, of the impressive erection pressing against her abdomen, as his leg shifted again, sliding between her thighs … back and forth across the heat of her panties. Her feet left the floor, so that she had to hang on to him, her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. Her nails tangled in the silky curls at his nape.
Desire coursed through her, and she gasped at the intensity of it. Her nipples pebbled, peaking against the satin. The silky fabric caressed the sensitive points, as she longed for him to caress them. To caress her.
Dipping his head close to hers, his mouth brushing her ear, he murmured, “You’re so hot…”.
“And here I was warned that you might burn me,” she admitted.
That wicked grin of his flashed again, revealing just the faintest hint of fang, while those devastating blue eyes twinkled with a sensual threat. “So you’re not afraid to play with fire?”
Her heart knocked against her ribs, beating hard and fast with fear. But she blithely lied, “I like to play—” she stretched up his body, so that her lips skimmed across his throat, her fangs just scraping his skin “—with fire…”.
He shuddered, but his hands tightened on her waist and he pulled her away from him. Her legs trembled as her feet touched the floor again.
“We can’t,” he said, “not here …” He leaned closer, his mouth pressed to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. “If anyone sees us …”
A vampire who exposed her or his fangs in public risked revealing the secret and subsequent punishment for the revelation. That punishment was usually death. If she could entice him to bite her on the dance floor, she could end it here….
Quickly. Almost impersonally.
Panic pressed on her chest, stealing her breath. She hadn’t waited fifty years for quick and impersonal. She wanted vengeance—messy and personal vengeance.
He slid his tongue across her earlobe and then whispered, “Come home with me…”.
She shivered, remembering the last time he’d spoken those words to her. And just like last time, she lifted her gaze to meet his, and nodded.
He dipped his head and brushed his mouth across hers, briefly. But then she slid her fingers back into his hair and tugged him down again. She deepened the kiss, pressing her lips tighter to the curve of his. The smile left his mouth and he increased the pressure and parted her lips for the invasion of his tongue. He swept it in and out of her mouth, stroking it over her bottom lip, over her tongue, over her fangs.
And she was the one who risked everything, who risked revealing a secret she’d never wanted to know. She’d only wanted him … almost as passionately as she wanted him now. The temptation to take what she wanted, to sink her fangs through his skin and drink from his stolen blood.
She closed her eyes, fighting the temptation—fighting the desire.
He dragged his mouth from hers and slid his lips across her cheek to her ear. His voice ragged with desire, he implored her, “Come home with me, Brandi…”.
She blinked open her eyes and stared up into the blue depths of his hypnotic gaze. That was all he’d had to do last time—to look at her like that, like he wanted her more than anyone else ever had—and she was helpless to resist him. “Yes, I’ll go home with you…”.
But this time things would end differently between them. She would be the one who walked away; Conner West would be the one who died.
CHAPTER TWO
THEY banged through the door, locked in each other’s arms, mouths hungrily mating. Consumed with desire, Conner nearly took her right there, where he’d pinned her against the open door of his apartment. But common sense, just barely, prevailed, and he dragged his keys from the lock and stepped back. Then he lifted her curvy body in his arms and kicked the door closed behind them.
Her chest rose and fell as she panted for breath, her nipples taut against the black satin. He couldn’t wait to get his mouth on them—to taste her … everywhere.
But then a voice, not hers, drew him from the fog of desire. “America’s sweetheart, movie star Miranda Hamilton, was only twenty-five when she disappeared.”
Conner tensed and glanced around what he’d thought to be his empty apartment. “What the hell—”
“Your television,” Brandi murmured as she arched in his arms and slid her lips along his jaw. “You left your television on.”
No, he hadn’t. He had damn near thrown the remote through the plasma screen when this documentary had begun earlier this evening because the documentary was about her. Even after he’d shut off the TV, he hadn’t been able to escape his thoughts of her. But he couldn’t blame those thoughts on the television program. If it hadn’t aired, he still would have been thinking of Miranda Hamilton tonight … on the anniversary of her death. He had been crazy to think he could forget her … even with Brandi.
He uncurled his arms from around her, so that the sexy redhead slid down his body. But then he quickly moved away from her and walked around the apartment, with its high ceilings, hardwood floors and bricked-over windows. He had to find the remote as the built-in TV didn’t have an external off switch.
He checked out the mahogany bookshelves framing the television, even glancing behind them where he thought he’d thrown the remote. Not even dust lay back there; he hadn’t lived in this apartment long enough to accumulate dirt or dust. Just ghosts. But then it wouldn’t matter where he lived; she would always haunt him. His hands shaking, he patted down the cushions of his black leather sofa.
“Fifty years later, her disappearance remains an unsolved mystery,” the narrator continued. “We still wonder whatever happened to Miranda Hamilton.”
“Isn’t that wild,” Brandi mused, “that no one ever found he”
“Wild,” he repeated. He knew where she was. Dead. Because of him.
Brandi gestured at the television screen and the portrait of the young starlet. Even though the picture was black and white, it was obvious Miranda Hamilton had had pale hair, bright eyes and haunting beauty. “She was really beautiful.”
More beautiful than any other woman he’d ever met—until his dark-haired damsel in distress the night before and now the redheaded temptress who’d come home with him. Just as Miranda had come home with him fifty years ago.
“She would have had a hell of a career,” Brandi continued, “had she not … disappeared.”
Finally he found the remote, on an end table next to a lamp. Had he left it there? He’d thought for certain that he’d thrown it across the room. Hand shaking, he lifted the remote and clicked off the television. If only he could shut off his thoughts as easily.
“What do you think happened to her?” Brandi asked, her gaze intent on his face.
He drew in a deep breath, fighting hard to keep all
emotion from his expression. He could not reveal weakness to anyone, but most especially not this woman, who had promised to punish him for all his past crimes.
“What do you think happened to her?” he asked, wondering if she knew what only a few people did. Ingrid couldn’t have told her; she had no specifics about Miranda, only speculation on his other sexual escapades. Miranda hadn’t been the first mortal with whom he’d made love, but she was the only one who’d died because of it.
Brandi lifted her bare shoulders in a slight, sexy shrug. “I would bet poor Miss Hamilton got involved with the wrong man—one who broke her heart.”
“So you think she ran off somewhere?” God, he wished she had. If only she would have run away from him.
Brandi tilted her head and pursed those full red lips. “I don’t know. Do you think she could still be alive?”
Biting his lip to hold in a groan of pain, Conner shook his head. He’d shut off the TV, but he could sti
ll see the young starlet … in his mind. With her blond hair and wide eyes, she’d been considered an ingénue, but even before he’d met her, just from watching her movies, Conner had noticed that glimmer of mischief in her eyes and her mysterious smile. Miranda Hamilton hadn’t been the innocent the rest of her fans had believed her to be. But she hadn’t been worldly enough to suspect what he was and the danger he’d posed.
“You think she’s dead then?” Brandi asked, her husky voice lilting with salacious interest in the mystery … and something he was too consumed with his own emotions to identify. “Do you suppose the man, the one she fell for, could have killed her?”
She hadn’t loved him; she’d hardly known him. And he’d been crazy to think he’d loved her, that he’d wanted to spend eternity with her. He had never loved before; he’d had no way of knowing if what he’d felt had been real or only infatuation. Like what he felt for the flirtatious and beautiful Brandi. He needed her, for more than a release of the desire she’d built inside him. He needed her for oblivion. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
Brandi damn well bet he didn’t.
He tossed down the remote, not knowing that it wasn’t the one that had turned on the television to the documentary she’d taped. That remote was in her purse. His jaw taut with purpose, he crossed the living room in smooth, long-legged strides—as if stalking her. “I don’t want to talk at all.”
She didn’t want to talk, either—not when she didn’t trust him to tell her the truth. She wanted only her revenge. Then he touched her, just sliding his fingertip along the slope of her shoulder, down her arm to her hand. Goose bumps rose along the path he’d traced on her sensitive skin. Her breath shuddered out in surprise and desire.
How could she be so weak as to let even his brief touch distract her? But no one had ever touched her as Conner West had. No one had ever made her feel what he had. She wanted to experience that feeling again—wanted him—once more. Just once more.
He closed his fingers around hers and tugged her forward. Before her body touched his, he stepped back and tugged on her hand again. Just as he’d followed her onto the dance floor, she followed where he led … across the living room and through an open door into a dark room.
He flipped a switch, but the faint glow from a crystal chandelier that hung from a high, coffered ceiling barely illuminated the bed beneath it. Even if the antique four-poster hadn’t been the only piece of furniture in the room, it would have dominated the space. Her gaze clung to it … as she imagined the two of them in it, as she had imagined so many times in the past fifty years. She remembered the pleasure … and the pain. But in her mind the pain became his. “I like your bed,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to where he stood at the door, turning the lock. He lived alone. Who was he worried might interrupt them? Miranda? “Let me tie you to it…”.
He chuckled. “I don’t think so…”.
“I haven’t forgotten—” anything, she thought “—that you’ve been a very bad boy, Conner West. I need to punish you for all your … misdeeds.” And she needed to remind herself that while he’d taken everything from her, he’d lost nothing. His sexual exploits, with mortals and immortals, were legendary, but there had never been any mention of what he’d done to her, any repercussions from his killing her.
“Misdeeds?” He chuckled again. “Tying me to the bed can’t punish me for what I’ve done.”
It was what she would do to him after she tied him up that would be the punishment. She’d take back the blood he’d stolen from her; she’d take his life in exchange for the one she’d lost.
“It sure would be fun trying, though,” she urged him with a smile. She grasped her satin purse tightly in her hand; inside she’d stashed silk scarves … and a wooden stake along with the remote.
He moved up close behind her, and his lips brushed her bare shoulder as his fingers toyed with the hook at the top of her zipper. His voice raspy with desire, he asked, “You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?”
“Under satin?” she scoffed. “It’s too revealing…”.
Instead of lowering the zipper, he turned her to face him. But rather than looking at her body, he stared into her eyes. “Your dress may be revealing, but your eyes are not, Ms…?”.
“Brandi,” she said, “just Brandi.”
His lips curved into a faint version of his wicked grin. “You’re not just anything…”.
Brandi’s breath shuddered out of her lungs in a shaky sigh. He was looking at her exactly as he had looked at her fifty years ago … as if he really saw her. Millions of people had watched her on the silver screen, but no one had actually seen her … until he had. He’d looked deeper than her sophisticated outward appearance and he’d recognized the insecure foster child who’d been abandoned and lost.
She couldn’t risk his seeing her now … and realizing who she really was. She had to distract him as he was distracting her. After tossing her purse next to the bed, she reached between them and touched the tab of his zipper … at his fly. Long, hard flesh strained against the material of his tailored suit pants. She unbuttoned his pants and tugged down the zipper.
He groaned, as his cock sprang free, tenting the silk boxers he wore beneath. His pants dropped, pooled around his ankles and revealed legs dusted with golden hair. He shrugged off his jacket and reached for the buttons of his shirt, dragging them open to the sculpted muscles of his chest. He pulled off the unbuttoned shirt as she pushed down his boxers. Her breath caught, with awe, as he stood before her gloriously, mouth-wateringly naked.
With his golden good looks and lean muscular body, he could have been a movie star. He could have been anything but what he was.
But, at the moment, with heat building from her nipples to pool in her very core, she didn’t care what he was—or even what she was. She only cared how he made her feel—that he made her feel more than anyone else ever had. And she needed to feel him.
She reached out, sliding her palms over his chest. His heart pounded hard beneath her touch. Legs trembling, she knelt before him, skimming her hands over his washboard abs and lean hips… silky smooth skin rippled over muscle. She wrapped her fingers around the length of his cock; it pulsed within her grasp.
And he groaned. “Brandi …”
She opened her mouth to tell him who she actually was as she needed him to say her real name. But before she could give in to the weak impulse, she closed her lips … around him. Her fangs scraped the smooth tip of his penis as she sucked him deep within her throat. With her tongue, she lapped at the beads of passion spilling out of him.
His fingers clenched in her hair, holding her against him as she made love to him with her mouth, sliding it up and down the length of him as she closed her hands around his tight butt.
“Brandi, no,” he protested, his voice rough with passion. “I want you…”. As he tried to pull back, she clutched him closer … with her lips and her hands, sinking her nails into the firm flesh of his buttocks. But he was stronger, and his hands grasped her arms and tugged her up. His cock pressed against her abdomen, hot and hard and damp from her mouth.
“Let me finish,” she urged him, licking the taste of him from her lips, “punishing you.”.
“You’re not punishing me,” he argued, his eyes hot with desire. “You’re pleasuring me. And that’s not going to happen until I pleasure you first.” His mouth covered hers in a hungry kiss, his tongue sliding between her lips, thrusting in and out of her mouth.
Brandi’s heart beat frantically as an unbearable pressure built inside her, tight and painful. She needed more than vengeance; she needed the pleasure he promised her. She moaned into his mouth.
And he pulled back again, teasing her with his kiss and then his touch as his fingers trailed down her throat, over the slope of her shoulders to the satin bodice of her dress.
Her breath caught as she waited for him to push the material aside. But instead, his fingers skimmed over it, stroking her nipples until
they pressed against the flimsy fabric. Then he lowered his head and through the satin he suckled the sensitive points.
Her breath shuddered out in a sigh as the heat and dampness intensified between her legs. She pressed her thighs together as the ache consumed her. She could think of nothing but the release she craved even more than vengeance.
While his mouth teased her breasts, his hands skimmed over her body—down her arching back, over the curve of her hips and butt, down her thighs to the hem of her dress. He toyed with the material and her skin, sliding his fingertips along the backs of her thighs.
“Please.” she begged, trying to reach behind herself for the tab of the zipper. As she arched, her nipple sank deeper into his mouth. He gently bit the point, and a small orgasm rippled through her.
His fingers were there, pushing her thighs apart to trace the trickle of moisture down her leg. Then he pulled back and pulled his hand from beneath her dress. He lifted his wet finger to his lips and licked her passion from his skin.
“Sweet,” he murmured, his eyes dark with desire as he studied her face. “I want more.”.
Metal rasped as he finally tugged down her zipper. The dress dropped, leaving her naked before him in nothing but her heels. Cool air rushed over her hot skin, but nothing would reduce the heat of her flesh until she found the release for which her body ached.
As she had done just moments before, he dropped to his knees in front of her. He lifted her left thigh, sliding it over his shoulder as his hands slid over her hips and up her torso. He cupped her breasts in his palms, his thumbs stroking over the sensitive points as his lips skimmed the damp skin of her inner thighs.
She clutched at his shoulders, so that her weak legs wouldn’t fail her, causing her to fall.
His mouth moved, his tongue easing through her folds of sensitive skin—over the very center of her femininity. She jerked in reaction, pleasure radiating from that point throughout her body. His fingers closed around her nipples, tugging as he dipped his tongue inside her.
