“You noticed?”
“That, and the fact you snore.”
The bedside clock softly chimed the quarter hour. It was eleven forty-five. He took her hand, gave her fingers a squeeze. “You’re overdressed for New Year’s Eve.”
He stripped her in under a minute. Her red sweatshirt and jeans soon pooled at her feet. His gaze heated on her bra and panties. “Nice. Very, very nice,” he admired as he removed them.
He had fast hands when it came to getting her naked.
Slow hands when it came to making love.
She wrapped her arms about his neck, leaned into him. She so loved his body. Her hands grazed his strong back. His chest tensed when she rubbed her nipples against his skin. His leg muscles tightened when she leaned into his groin. She fit so perfectly between his thighs.
He lowered his head and she lifted her lips for his kiss. He changed the angle of his mouth, and deepened their intimacy. His tongue penetrated, then retreated, leaving heat and longing in its wake. She never wanted the kiss to end. She stretched her body in pleasure to be closer to him.
He walked her backward until her thighs hit the side of the bed. Then he lowered her to the mattress. Slowly. And he followed her down.
He fondled her breasts, ran his hand over her flat belly, moved down between her legs. She loved the touch of his hands on her inner thighs. He opened her. Stroked her. Coaxed her. She went hot, soft, wet for him.
She was gasping, panting, aching for him to fill her when he snagged a condom from the top drawer of his nightstand and slipped it on.
He came back to her, his mouth fastening on her sensitive nipple, his hands closing around her waist. Her heart slammed as he moved over her more fully, then spread her thighs and claimed her.
He felt huge inside her. She felt every thick inch of him. He rocked his hips, slow, deep thrusts; steady and prolonged. Heat pooled between them, a fiery friction.
She moaned, gasped, let her need overtake her. He knew how to touch her, just how hard and how soft, to keep her on edge. The pleasure was so blinding it was almost painful. She was burning up.
She arched herself even more tightly against him. She rubbed her nipples against his chest, rotated her hips, curled her fingernails into his back. She clawed his shoulders as her body climbed higher. His flesh was deeply scored by the time she climaxed.
She looked deeply into his eyes when she came. They were joined in every way a man and woman could be joined, sex to sex, heart to heart, gaze to gaze.
They shared a hot breathless kiss as they reached completion. Their shudder should have shattered them both.
With an expulsion of air, they collapsed, their energy spent, their bodies wet and hot against cool white sheets.
She didn’t want it to end. She’d waited such a long time. Only after she let go and allowed herself to love him did everything fall perfectly in place.
He now lay on his back, still semi-erect. She liked a man with staying power, in both her life and in her bed. She’d been such a fool not to trust Aidan, and because of that she’d almost lost him. Now she was here, unafraid to show him how she felt. And she felt plenty. She would never tire of looking at him, feeling him. They would make love all night.
A loud pop echoed outside their bedroom window. Allie propped herself up on her elbows in time to see gold, red, and orange fireworks flaring, then brightening the night sky. One year had come to an end and another had just begun. She couldn’t believe everything she’d ever dreamed of was now hers. She had a man who loved her and wanted her in his life. Always.
She kissed him long and sweet and loving, committing herself to him. He hugged her close, in an embrace never intended to end.
He was her man.
She was his snow angel.
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Griff’s train of thought was abruptly broken by a loud yelp coming from somewhere in the rear of the small shop, followed by a ringing crash of what sounded like metal on metal.
He gritted his teeth against the renewed ringing inside his own head, even as he called out in the ensuing silence. “Hullo? Are you in need of some assistance?”
What followed was a stream of very . . . colorful language that surprised a quick smile from him. He’d found Americans, at least the ones of his immediate acquaintance, to be a bit obsessed with political correctness, always worrying what others might think. So it was somewhat refreshing, to hear such an . . . uncensored reaction. He assumed the string of epithets wasn’t a response to his query, but then he’d never met the proprietor.
He debated heading around the counter to see if she might need help, then checked the action. “No need to engage an angry female unless absolutely necessary,” he murmured, tipping up onto his toes and looking behind the counter, on the off chance he might spy the pot of coffee. “Ah,” he said, on seeing a double burner positioned beside an empty, tiered glass case.
He fished out his wallet and put a ten note on the counter, more than enough to cover the cost of a single cup, then ducked under the counter and scanned the surface for a stack of insulated cups. Oversized, sky blue mugs with the shop’s white and pink cupcake logo printed on one side and the name on the other, were lined up next to the machine. He didn’t think she’d take too kindly to his leaving with one of those.
“Making an angry female even angrier . . . never a good thing.” His mouth lifted again as a few more, rather unique invectives floated from the back of the shop. “Points for creativity, however.”
He glanced at his watch, saw he still had some time, and took a moment to roll his neck, shake out his shoulders, and relax his jaw. He could feel the tension tightening him up, which was a fairly common state of late. But he’d never been so close to realizing his every dream. He fished out the small airline-sized tube of pain relievers he’d bought when he’d landed. Upon popping it open, he discovered there was only one tablet left. He shrugged and dry swallowed it.
He crouched down to look under the counter and had just opened a pair of cupboard doors when he felt a presence behind him.
“May I help you with something?”
Hmm. Angry female, immediately south of his wide open back. He was fairly certain there were sharp knives within reach. Not the best strategy he’d ever employed.
Already damned, he reached inside the cupboard and slid a large insulated cup from the stack, snagging a plastic lid as well, before gently closing the doors and straightening up. “Just looking for a cup,” he said as he turned, a careful smile on his face.
The smile froze as he got his first look at the cupcake baker.
He wasn’t normally taken to poetic thought, but there he stood, thinking her clear, almost luminescent skin made her wide, dark blue eyes look like twin pools of endlessly deep, midnight waters. It was surprisingly difficult to keep from looking away, every self-protective instinct he had being triggered by her steady hold on his gaze, which was rather odd. She was the village baker. Despite the tirade he’d just overheard, he doubted anyone who made baking cheerful little cakes her life’s work would be a threat or obstacle to his mission. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, lifting the cup so she could see what he’d been about. “You sounded a bit . . . occupied, back there.”
“Yes, a little problem with a collapsed rolling rack.”
His gaze, held captive as it was, used the time to quickly take in the rest of her. Thick, curling hair almost the same rich brown as the steaming hot brew he’d yet to sip had been pulled up in an untidy knot on the back of her head, exposing a slender length of neck, and accentuating her delicate chin. All of which combined to showcase a pair of unpainted, full, dark pink lips that, even when not smiling, curved oh-so-naturally into the kind of perfect bow that all but begged a man to par
t them, taste them, bite them, and . . .
He looked away. Damn. He couldn’t recall his body ever leaping to attention like that, after a single look. No matter how direct. Especially when his attentions were clearly not being encouraged in any way, if the firm set of her delicate chin was any indication.
“Nothing too serious, I hope,” he said, boldly turning his back to her and helping himself to a cup of coffee. After all, he’d paid for it. Not that she was aware of it as yet. But he thought it better to risk her mild displeasure until he could point that out . . . rather than engage more of the fury he’d heard coming from the back of the shop minutes ago—which he was fairly certain would be the case if her sharp gaze took in the current state of the front of his trousers.
“Nothing another five hours of baking time won’t resolve,” she said, a bit of weariness creeping into her tone. From the corner of his eye, he caught her wiping her hands on the flour covered front of her starched white baker’s jacket. “Please, allow me.”
He quickly topped off the cup and snapped on the lid. “Not to worry. I believe I’ve got it. I left a ten note on your counter.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding sincere. “It’s been . . . a morning. I’m generally not so—”
“It’s fine,” he said, intending to skirt past her and duck back to the relative safety of the other side of the counter. The tall, trouser-concealing counter. He just needed a moment, preferably with her not in touching distance, so he could button his coat and allow himself a bit of recovery time. It seemed all he had to do was look at her for his current state to remain . . . elevated.
Unfortunately for him, and the comfort level of his trousers, she moved closer and reached past him. “The sugar is here and I have fresh cream in the—”
“I take it black,” he said abruptly, then they both turned the same way, trapping her between the counter . . . and him.
Her gaze honed in on his once again, but he was the one holding hers captive.
“Okay,” she said, her voice no longer strident. In fact, the single word had been a wee bit . . . breathy.
“Indeed,” he murmured, once again caught up in that mouth of hers. Those parted lips simply demanded a man pay them far more focused attention. Step away, Gallagher, he counseled himself. Sip your coffee, gather your wits, and move on.
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He shook his head without opening his eyes. “No. I don’t sense evil anywhere near us. We’re probably safe for a couple of hours, then we should move again.”
A couple of hours? Damn. She needed him in fighting shape. “Will drinking my blood help heal you?”
His lids flipped open, revealing those silver eyes that had haunted her dreams for fifteen years. Hunger, raw and pure, filled them. “Yes.”
Emma gulped in air. The husky timber of his voice caressed nerves she didn’t want to own. “I won’t become a vampire?”
His dimples winked at her “No. Vampires are born, not made.”
Fear and her damn curiosity blended until she could only whisper. “Okay.” She held out her wrist and shut her eyes. And waited. The breeze picked up outside the cave, rustling pine needles and leaves inside the small entrance, and she shivered. Finally, she opened her eyes in exasperation. “What?”
Reaching out with his good arm, he lifted her chin with one knuckle, waiting until her gaze met his. “I want your neck.”
Low and rough, his voice skittered need through her midriff. Talk about direct. “Um, well, why?” Her mind reeled and she fought the urge to drop her gaze to his mouth. She lost the fight. He ran a tongue along those full lips and need rippled through her. How did he do that?
He waited again until she focused on him, her eyes widening on the pure confidence shining in his. “I’ve been waiting to taste you for centuries—I don’t want you extending your wrist to me and looking the other way.”
“What do you want?” She shouldn’t have asked that. God.
For answer, he reached out with his healthy arm and lifted her until she straddled his lap. She should’ve protested, but the easy strength and warm hand on her hip caught the breath in her throat. Fascinating. Such true, raw power. She pressed both hands against the undamaged muscles of his chest, balancing herself. His erection lay thick and hard beneath her, and she fought the urge to clench her thighs against his legs.
He stared at her through half-lidded eyes, his hands going to the buttons of her cotton shirt.
“What are you doing?” she breathed.
“I don’t want to get blood on your shirt.” His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts over the plain white bra. Fire flared within those silver depths and she fought a moan.
“That’s enough.” She covered his hands with hers.
With a nod, he gently placed her hands on his thighs before clasping the shirt and drawing it down both arms. The lower buttons remained engaged, and the material trapped her arms at her sides.
He pinned her with a gaze so full of hunger she couldn’t speak. “You’ll give your blood?”
Emma nodded, her focus narrowing to the man before her.
Sharp fangs emerged from his canines and he growled, reaching one arm around to cup her head and pull her to the side. Her neck stretched and vulnerability battled with arousal down her length. Every muscle in her body tensed to flee. His other hand grasped her hip, flexed, then slid up to her now bare shoulder, entrapping her.
There was no escaping him.
Tugging her closer, he buried his head in the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She tensed, waiting for pain. Instead, he pressed one tender kiss to the rapidly beating pulse. She felt it to her core.
He inhaled, running his mouth along her collarbone and up to her ear, where he nipped. “You smell like spiced rum and peaches,” he breathed against her skin, his hands holding her firmly in place. “Some dreams I could smell you, but not this strongly. Never this fully.” He rose up, drawing in a deep breath. “Never so much I’d do anything to have you.”
Quick as a whip, he struck.
His fangs pierced her skin, and Emma cried out, shutting her eyes.
Her blood boiled.
Raw need flared her flesh to life and a hum began in her core. What was happening? Without caring enough to stop and think, she pressed against him, so hard, so full. His mouth pulled harder, and her nipples pebbled into pinpoints of need. Something contracted in her womb, begging for him. He drank more, and she exploded into a thousand pieces. The room sheeted white and an orgasm tore through her with the force of a furious tornado. She went limp, held upright only by his hands.
Sealing the wound, his tongue lashed across her skin and she shivered, nearly dazed. He held her in place and lifted his head away from her, his gaze piercing her heated face.
She should be embarrassed, but a warm haze clouded her vision, her brain.
“Emma?”
She lifted heavy lids to focus.
His eyes burned hotter than molten steel. “I want you.”
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Winter, 2008
“Couldn’t you just have fired her?” Tristan looked down at the motionless body of yet another of Finola’s personal assistants.
Finola lifted her herbal relaxation mask from her eyes and made a rueful face. “I suppose. But if you had seen what she’d done,” she sighed deeply, “well, you’d have had a hard time thinking rationally too.”
Tristan, still contemplating the body, raised a dubious eyebrow. “I highly doubt it.”
Finola sighed again. “That’s true. You are so much more judicial than I am.”
Was that what she was going to call it? Tristan would have gone with sane, but tomato/tomahto.
Finola retrieved her crystal champagne flute from the glass end table beside her massage chair. She sipped her Dom Perignon White Gold Jeroboam. A sure
sign Finola wasn’t pleased. The champagne always came out when she was feeling stressed. He’d call it petulant, but there was no point mentioning that to Finola. Best to just let her soothe herself with her $40,000 bottle of bubbly.
“Honestly though, Tristan,” she said once she’d drained her glass and poured herself another, “she was utterly incompetent. I mean, she couldn’t do a single thing right. And it wasn’t like I was asking for the moon. I just expect that when I ask for something to be done, it be done on time.”
Tristan, only half-listening, made a sympathetic noise. What the hell was he going to do with this one? Getting a grown woman down from the fifteenth floor of a busy building out to the even busier streets of Manhattan wasn’t easy, even for a demon.
Really, he was the one who deserved the damned champagne.
“I simply asked her to get me the fabrics that an artist in Milan was creating specifically for the Alber Elbaz photo shoot. This was not an unreasonable request.”
“When is the photo shoot?” Tristan asked, considering the white hand woven Persian carpet in Finola’s office. It was big enough to wrap the body in, but Finola would have a conniption that he was using her handmade, original flown in directly from Nain, Iran. But then again, this was her doing. He couldn’t help if her damned rug was another casualty of her temper.
“It’s tomorrow,” Finola said, a hint of peevishness making her tone a little defensive. “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be easy. But it was absolutely doable.”
Tristan looked from the carpet to the body then back to the carpet. “What time did you tell her about this absolutely doable feat?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wave her hand, “Oh, I don’t know, Probably one-ish.”
His gaze shifted from the rug to the cabinet behind Finola’s desk. That would be heavy all on its own, and with a body in it . . . he returned his attention back to the carpet—also heavy, the best bet.
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