Vampires & Werewolves: Four Novels

by J. R. Rain

  Franklin waited discreetly near the doorway until Kingsley dismissed him. The gaunt man nodded, a gesture that was meant to be somewhat dignified; instead, it came across as sort of herky-jerky, as if the man didn’t have complete control of his head.

  No surprise there, I thought.

  When the butler was gone, I turned to Kingsley and said, “Are you ever going to tell me Franklin’s story?”

  The attorney was gazing at me with heavy-lidded eyes. The air around him was suddenly charged. No, supercharged. His brown eyes crackled with yellow fire, and he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a creature stalking me from the deep woods.

  “Maybe someday,” he said. His voice was thick and sort of husky.

  “Was he in an accident?” I asked, suddenly a little uncomfortable. I quickly reached for the wine and sipped it, keenly aware that Kingsley was staring at me intensely.

  “I’m sure parts of him were in an accident,” said Kingsley. He had reached out and lifted some of my hair off my shoulder and was now stroking it delicately between his oversized thumb and forefinger.

  I drank more wine, suddenly wishing like hell that I could get a serious buzz going.

  “Parts of him?” I asked, suddenly more nervous than I had been in quite some time. “What does that mean?”

  “It means...I will tell you later.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  He had slid closer to me, looming over me. I could feel his hot breath on my bare arm. I could feel his eyes on me. Crackling sexual energy radiated from him. I seemed to be caught up by it, sucked into it.

  This wasn’t meant to be a booty call. In fact, over the past month I had barely even kissed Kingsley. But now I felt myself curious about something more. Excited by the thought of something more. Terrified about something more.

  But....

  “I don’t think I’m ready,” I said, not wanting to meet his eyes. I loved those big brown eyes.

  “You’re trembling,” he said.

  “And you’re breathing on me.”

  I saw him smile out of the corner of my eyes. He was still playing with my hair.

  “How long has it been since you’ve had a man touch you?”

  “A man? What’s that? I’ve heard about those curious creatures.”

  He grinned some more. “How long has it been since you have made love, Samantha?”

  “That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

  He laughed loudly, a sound that erupted from him with such force that I jumped. “And sharing our supernatural secrets isn’t personal?”

  “Don’t use your attorney double-speak with me, Kingsley Fulcrum. I’m just not comfortable talking about it.”

  “Then I retract my question. I was out of line.”

  But he didn’t stop touching my hair. Didn’t stop staring at me, but I sensed that some of his supercharged energy, which had been erupting like solar flares from the sun, had died down a little. Also, his breathing wasn’t so ragged, either.

  I set my wine down and curled up next to him, holding his waist tightly. Kingsley reached down, wrapped a heavy arm around me and softly kissed the top of my head.

  Twenty minutes later, when I felt comfortable and safe, I said, “Six years.”

  “Six years what?” he said groggily. I think he had been dozing lightly on the couch.

  “It’s been six years,” I said again.

  He didn’t say anything at first, but I heard his heartbeat quicken. Finally, he whispered, “Too long.”

  I nodded and took in air I really didn’t need.

  Kingsley moved me aside gently and stood. His knees popped. He offered me his hand. “Come,” he said. “I’m exhausted. Let’s talk in bed.”

  “Bed?”

  “Yes.”

  I protested some more—or tried to—but he had already snatched my hand and was pulling me through his opulent home and up his staircase, and to his bedroom and bed.

  The horny bastard.

  Chapter Thirty

  We were in bed.

  I was still wearing my jeans and tee shirt. Kingsley was in a pair of black workout shorts and nothing else. We were both on top of the covers. Kingsley had his hands folded behind his head and was staring up at the ceiling. I was on my side, propping my head up with my hand, watching him. In the night, I could see him clearly. He was a little static-y; meaning, there were some limits to my night vision. Light particles flitted through the air like snow flakes caught in a car’s headlights. I was used to the light particles. I barely saw them anymore.

  Kingsley was a beast of a man. His body was thick and powerful and nothing like the men you see grace most muscle magazines. There wasn’t a lot of definition. Meaning, he was just pure muscular mass. Maybe a few pounds overweight, but he wore the weight well. No, he wore it perfectly. In fact, I was certain his hulking frame would have looked emaciated if he was at his ideal weight. Tufts of hair ran down the center of his chest and spread over his flat-enough belly. I never much liked hair on men, but with Kingsley it came with the territory.

  “So is that a line you use for all the girls you have over here?” I asked.

  “What line?”

  “‘I’m getting tired, talk to me in bed’. That line.”

  “No,” he said. “But it’s a good line, apparently. I’ll have to remember it.”

  I slapped his chest. I could have been slapping a side of beef. “Asshole.”

  “So, has it really been six years, Samantha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your choice or Danny’s choice?”

  “His choice, but then again, that part of me sort of shut down and never came back, either. But if he had wanted to make love to me, I would have done anything for him. What was mine, was his.”

  “But he didn’t pursue it.”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he ever touch you again?”

  “Not like that.” I told Kingsley that sometimes Danny and I would get close. Sometimes we would kiss passionately. Sometimes we would be on the verge of making love, and then he would just pull back and shudder. Once or twice he vomited.

  “Vomited?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Not something a wife wants to see after kissing her husband.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  We sat quietly some more. Kingsley’s eyes were open. He continued looking up at the ceiling, or at nothing. His chest reminded me of a powerful, idling truck engine.

  “So, have you lost all interest in sex?”

  “Well, I don’t consider myself sexual,” I said. “I consider myself, in fact, a monster. Monsters don’t have sex.”

  “When was the last time you orgasmed?”

  It was late. We were alone in bed. We were talking softly to each other. My innate need for privacy cringed at the question, but we were adults here, and it was a legitimate, if not too-personal question. I didn’t have to answer it, but I did.

  “See my comment above.”

  “Six years?”

  I nodded. Kingsley, I knew, could see me in the dark. No doubt he saw my gesture, or sensed it.

  “Hell of a long time,” he said. “Do you miss it?”

  “I don’t think about it. Quite honestly, having orgasms is pretty far down there on my list of things to worry about. Besides, I don’t think I can anymore.”

  “Why do you say that? Have you tried?”

  I knew my face was red. A crimson-faced vampire. Go figure. But what can I say? I never talk about my sex life. Not even with my sister, who was one of the very few who knew my supersecret identity.

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t tried.”

  “You haven’t wanted to or haven’t tried?”

  “Both. I haven’t wanted to even try.”

  “Because you feel you are a monster. And monsters don’t have sex, or orgasms, or real lives of any type.”

  I said nothing. What was there to say? That part of me was dead, I
was sure of it.

  Kingsley rolled over on his side and faced me. “You have been punishing yourself a long time, Samantha, for something that wasn’t your fault.”

  “I’m not punishing myself,” I said. “I’m dealing with it the best I know how. Besides, I don’t feel sexy. I feel cold and gross, and what man would ever want to touch me?”

  Kingsley suddenly put his hand on my hip as if to answer my question. His hand nearly covered my entire left hip. Jesus, he was a big boy. And then he did something that even I wasn’t expecting. He gently nudged me to my back and as I fell backward, he slipped his hand between my thighs and opened my legs. His hand, through my jeans, felt remarkably hot.

  I reached down and stopped him. “I’m not ready for sex,” I said. “I may never be ready for sex.”

  “Who said I wanted to have sex with you?” he said, winking at me.

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “Just seeing how dead that part of you really is.” He ran his warm palm up the inside of my thigh, over my jeans.

  “I think you should stop.”

  “You think?” he said quietly, perhaps even huskily.

  His hand continued up my inner thigh and I heard myself gasp. The moment I gasped Kingsley smiled again. The light particles around him were zigzagging like crazy. Like moths on crack.

  “Please,” I said.

  “Please what?”

  And then his hand lightly touched me between my legs and I reached down and grabbed his hand. I made a half-hearted effort to push it away, but his hand wouldn’t move. Still, I didn’t release his hand even as his thick middle finger gently stroked the fabric of my jeans. I wasn’t sure if he knew what he was stroking, but the big son-of-a-bitch had found the right spot.

  Lucky guess.

  I gasped again and made another effort to push his hand away, but this seemed to only inspire him to work his middle finger faster.

  “You deserve happiness, Samantha Moon. You are not a monster. You are a sexy woman who has been dealt a very strange hand. But I have a surprise for you.”

  “What?” I heard myself ask. My hands were still on his hands. It had been so long since anyone had touched me down there. So long. Hell, I had forgotten what to do with my own hands.

  “That part of you didn’t die. In fact...” And now his one hand was expertly undoing my jeans, button by button, as if he had done this hundreds of times before, which he might very well have had.

  Now he slipped his hands inside my jeans, and his strong, curious fingers found their way under my panties, and now they were moving down with a mind of their own, gently parting me open.

  His middle finger touched me almost hesitantly, perhaps testing my readiness. Jesus, I was ready.

  And then two things happened simultaneously.

  Kingsley lowered his mouth to mine, kissing me harder than I have ever been kissed in my life, and his thick middle finger slipped deep inside me.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I had an orgasm last night, I wrote.

  Good for you, Moon Dance.

  My first in six years.

  Must have been a hell of an orgasm.

  I cried, I wrote. I didn’t think I would ever have another one.

  I am happy for you, Moon Dance. But why would you think you couldn’t have one?

  Because I hadn’t had one in six years.

  Did you try to have one?

  No, not really. Danny wouldn’t touch me any more, and I lost all desire to touch myself. It’s hard to feel sexy or sexual when your husband finds you repulsive.

  And so you touched yourself last night?

  My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I knew what I was about to write next would hurt Fang. No, I wrote. I was with the werewolf.

  There was a long pause. My IM box remained static, with no indication that Fang was even typing. Finally, an icon appeared in the box showing that he was busy typing. A second later his response appeared on screen.

  I am happy for you, Moon Dance. He’s a lucky man.

  A few months ago, after years of corresponding via chatrooms, Fang had expressed his love for me...even though we had yet to meet in person or even talk on the phone, for that matter. I wasn’t sure what to think about that. I had never met anyone off the internet, let alone dated from the internet. Besides, Fang was my friend, wasn’t he? He knew all the gory—and I do mean gory—details about me.

  I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings, Fang.

  I’m okay. Really, I am.

  Well, you’re a big man.

  You have no idea.

  Are you flirting with me, Fang?

  Me? Never!

  I’m not so sure about that.

  There was a short pause. I would never flirt with another man’s woman.

  I snorted, although he couldn’t see me snort. And who says I’m another man’s woman?

  I assumed....

  You assumed incorrectly. I am still not there yet. Still not ready. I paused in my typing, thought about my words, then added: I’m not even sure I’m close.

  Do you still think of yourself as your ex-husband’s wife?

  Maybe a little. I still feel connected to him. Maybe it’s the kids that make me feel connected to him.

  Even though he has rejected you in every way?

  Well, it’s only been a few months, you know. I guess I still need time to heal.

  We were silent some more. Lately, I had been thinking of taking up smoking. I hadn’t yet, but what the hell? It’s not like I was going to ever die of lung cancer, right? Anyway, right about now I could picture myself sucking on the end of a cig just to do something with my hands. I wondered how my body would react to the nicotine.

  Well, there was only one way to find out.

  Fang was writing something to me, and so I waited. As I waited I looked over at Monica, who was lying on her side and reading a novel. A vampire novel, no less. Maybe I should read one of those. Maybe I could learn a thing or two.

  Fang deleted his message and started over. What he deleted, I will never know. A moment later, his message appeared: Promise me one thing, Moon Dance.

  Okay, I’ll try.

  Before you commit to the werewolf—or any man, for that matter—please promise me that you will meet me first.

  But I’m not committing to anyone, Fang.

  Just promise.

  Okay, I will consider it. But I have to admit, I’m confused. I thought we were friends.

  For a friendship to work, both people have to want the same thing. Both people have to want to be friends.

  I wrote, And if one of the friends suddenly wants something more than friendship?

  It changes things, he wrote.

  I don’t want things to change, Fang. I like talking to you. You are my outlet. You are my friend and my therapist and my confidant.

  I want to be more, Moon Dance.

  We were both silent for a long time. The hotel made typical hotel noises: a door slamming somewhere, the ding of the elevator around the corner, the endless drone of hundreds of air conditioners working hard against the warm Orange County night. On the bed nearby, Monica licked her fingers and turned the page. As she did so, her shoulder flexed a little. A narrow cord stood out on her neck. I found myself absently staring at it. Even from here, I could see it pulsating.

  You there, Moon Dance?

  Yes.

  I want to meet you in two weeks.

  I sat up suddenly. My heart, nearly useless in my chest, slammed hard once or twice against my ribs. My mouth instantly went dry. Two weeks?? I reached for a nearby bottle of water and sipped from it, staring at Fang’s words. Finally, I answered him.

  Okay, I wrote. Two weeks.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  We were at our favorite bar in Fullerton, called Hero’s.

  I was with my sister, Mary Lou, and my client, Monica. The three of us were sitting on vinyl stools in front of a long, brass-topped bar. Our favorite mixologist was tending bar, a
young guy of about thirty. The fact that he was also kind of cute contributed to the “favorite” part.

  We were all sipping white wine. My sister Mary Lou was probably doing a little more than just sipping, since she was already on her third glass. It was Friday evening and the bar was hopping. This was also Casual Friday, apparently, and so Mary Lou, who worked for a small insurance agency in Placentia, was wearing jeans and a bright yellow tee shirt. For the uninitiated, Casual Friday is a sort of mini-national holiday for office workers everywhere. Occurring only four times a month, Casual Friday is commemorated by the wearing of jeans, tee shirts and sneakers, and the consumption of store-bought donuts and bagels. Homemade brownies are also acceptable. From what I understand, the day usually begins with a general air of optimism and hope, and deteriorates rapidly into a serious need to drink something strong and hard. I often reminded my little sister that every day was Casual Friday for me. And I did so now.

  “Are you trying to depress me?” she said.

  “Not clinically,” I said. “But a tear or two is always nice. Besides, I have to gloat about something. There’s not much else to gloat about these days.”

  Mary Lou didn’t like her job. Unfortunately, she never did anything about it, other than bitch. My philosophy is this: Life is too short to work another minute at a job you don’t love. Unless, of course, you’re a vampire. And then that philosophy goes out the window.

  Anyway, with my client sitting with us, my sister and I kept our conversation to mundane topics. Just three fairly cute girls, sitting in a bar, wrapped in secrets and pain and heartache.

  Good times.

  Mary Lou knocked back drink number three and waved the bartender over. He caught her eye, nodded, and reached under the counter for the bottle of wine. As he did so, I caught my sister adjusting her bra.

  “Why are you adjusting your bra?” I asked.

  “I’m not adjusting my bra,” she said. “I’m adjusting my boobs.”

  “Happily married women don’t adjust their boobs in front of cute bartenders.”

  “Happily married women have boobs, too,” she said.

  “They also have husbands.”