by Heidi Betts
After she dropped the phone and continued to apply pressure to his neck, she started patting his face in an attempt to wake him up.
“Ian. Ian, can you hear me?” She fought to keep her voice steady and not let panic take over, but could feel the warmth of his life’s blood seeping through the layers of her coat and between her fingers.
Suddenly, he jerked, his eyes flying open, but they were wide and unfocused.
Her heart lurched in her chest, hopeful. “Hold still, baby,” she told him, tears clogging her throat. “The ambulance is on its way.”
She stroked his face, his slightly stubbled head, the unmarred side of his throat. He struggled to raise his arm, grappling for her, and she quickly took it, twining the fingers of her free hand with his. His mouth opened, as though he were trying to speak, but all that came out was a sick, gurgling sound and a bubble of red that seeped slowly from one corner.
“No.” She screwed her eyes shut, silently begging him not to die, hoping his injury wasn’t as bad as it seemed, even though deep down she knew…she knew.
In the distance, she heard sirens, and prayed they were for him, prayed they would reach him in time.
“Hang on, Ian,” she whispered. “Just hang on. Please. I love you. I love you so much.”
His lips continued to work, still trying to form words, sounds. The thin trickle of blood grew thicker, running down his cheek toward his ear.
With a gasp, his body arched off the ground, and she clutched his hand even tighter. He coughed. Once, twice, spitting blood as his eyes slid closed.
And then he was still. So still.
“No. No,” she railed, voice watery as she began to cry. Her eyes filled, clouding her vision. “Please, God, don’t take him. Please, don’t.”
If she were still a vampire, this never would have happened. She could have taken out those low-rent assholes in the basement and gotten Ian out without another scratch.
If Ian were still a vampire, he never would have been hurt like this, never would have been abducted to begin with. And even if he had, he would have been able to fight back, to heal.
She hated this life. Hated being a human, hated that Ian was human. She didn’t want to be here when her old life was so much better. When she could have Ian to herself, alive and well and immortal.
In a flash, she remembered the last time she’d been with Ian in their old life…the night they’d watched It’s a Wonderful Life, and she’d wondered, What would their lives be like if they’d never been turned?
And now she knew. It wasn’t better. It wasn’t Ward and June Cleaver and happily-ever-after; it was atrocious. The most horrific of nightmares that she would give anything to wake up from.
She wanted to go back. She didn’t know how she’d gotten here in the first place or why she was suddenly playing the part of Georgette Bailey in It’s a Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Life, but she wanted to go back.
Letting her head fall to Ian’s still, unmoving chest, she closed her eyes and let the grief pour out of her in great, wracking sobs.
Take me back, she thought.
She knew it was useless and wasn’t even sure who she was trying to ask for such an impossible favor, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“Help me, Clarence, please,” she begged, falling into the ever-so-familiar dialogue from Ian’s favorite movie.
Please! I want to live again. I want him to live again.
Please, God, let me live again.
SIP EIGHT
I want to live again!
Angelina sat up, the scream ripping from her throat and shattering her own eardrums. Her eyes were open—she thought—but everything around her was dark. And tears, great, fat rivers of wetness rolled down her cheeks.
“Ang! Angelina, wake up!” Hands shook her shoulders and she whipped around, trying to make out where she was and who was with her.
A second later, a light flared and she found that she was in her room. Her real room, and Ian was beside her in their big, soft king-size bed. She inhaled sharply, the air getting stuck in her lungs for a moment before rushing out on a sob.
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Ian.” She launched herself at him, hugging him so tight she nearly crushed his sternum. And then she jerked back, eyes wide.
Running both her gaze and her hands over his magnificent body, she checked him everywhere. His face, his throat, his chest, arms, stomach…his throat again, both sides.
He was perfect. More than perfect, he was completely unharmed. No blood, no bite marks. Not a scratch or a bruise or even a tattoo.
But just to be sure…She grabbed his lips and pried them open.
“Excuse me?” he mumbled past her awkward hold.
Fangs. Beautiful, dangerous, pointy-tipped fangs.
She felt for her own needle-sharp incisors with her tongue, then double-checked with her fingers.
“Oh, God. Thank You, God.”
Ian’s brows knit. “Are you okay? You’re acting really strange.”
She nodded, but had one more terrible, horrifying thought.
“Pinch me,” she said.
His eyes narrowed even more. “What?”
She lifted her arm, gesturing to the sensitive flesh at the inside of her upper arm. “Pinch me,” she told him again. “Really hard. Please.”
He looked as though she were asking him to go vegan, but did as she asked. With two fingers, he reached out and squeezed a thin bit of skin, adding a twist for good measure.
“Ouch!”
At her cry, he let go immediately, face coloring slightly with remorse. He opened his mouth, and she knew he was about to apologize for hurting her, but she didn’t want his apology. That pinch of pain was the sweetest, most wonderful thing she’d ever felt.
And so was…Bringing her arm to her mouth, she used the tip of one fang to slice open her wrist. Not deep, but enough to draw blood.
For a moment, she watched the thick red fluid bead on her skin, then leaned in and licked it off. Mmmm, it tasted wonderful, the way blood should to a vampire. And her saliva worked exactly as it was supposed to, sealing the wound almost instantly so that the cut was no more than an angry pink line marring her flesh.
Lifting her head, she smiled so wide, she thought her face might break. “Oh, Ian, I love you!”
She threw her arms around him, knocking him back against the pillows. He hit with a hmph as she landed on top of him, his hands going automatically to her waist.
They were both naked beneath the covers, the same way they always slept. The knowledge made her grin even as she kissed him stupid.
When she came up for air, Ian was staring at her funny. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She nodded vigorously. “I’ve never been better, believe me. I’ve never been so happy to see you, or to be in this room, or to know that we’re going to live forever and you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”
Straightening slightly, she arched a critical brow. “But don’t think that means I’ll be a pushover. I’d better be the only woman in your life—today, tomorrow, and for the next thousand years. Otherwise, your forever is going to end a lot sooner than mine.”
That odd expression crossed his face again and darkened his chocolate-brown eyes. Lifting a hand, he cupped her cheek, and stroked her with his thumb.
“When I look at you, there are no other women. There never have been.”
Emotion clogged her throat, and her lashes grew damp again. Because she didn’t think her mouth would work well enough to form words, she used it to kiss him instead.
What started as a soft brush of lips quickly turned into something deeper and more passionate. She stroked his chest, luxuriating in the rock-hard pectorals and pebble-tight nipples, the ridges of his ribs leading down to his six-pack abdomen.
His growing erection brushed between her legs as he grasped her hips, and she teased it, rubbing her warm, wet folds back and forth across the tip. He groaned, fingers flexing before he did
a bit of teasing of his own by cupping her breasts and flicking the turgid tips.
She gasped, throwing her head back and letting her lashes flutter closed as desire swamped her. The sex between them had always been good—better than good; it made triple-X skin flicks look like Pride and Prejudice on Valium.
But after what she’d been through—dream, nightmare, Dickens’s “Ghost of Christmases to Come”—she didn’t even care, as long as it was truly over. After what she’d been through, having him belong to another woman and then die in her arms, being with him this time was somehow…different.
Hotter and more tender, deeper and more meaningful. She never wanted to leave this bed again, never wanted to stop touching him, kissing him, reminding herself of how much he meant to her.
Whatever had happened, it had cleared her head like a bucket of ice water, putting everything into crystal clear perspective. She didn’t care about a ring or wedding vows. They were all ribbons and bows on a package that was already so perfect, it didn’t need wrapping.
Ian’s fingers slipping between her legs to part her slick folds slammed her back down to earth and reminded her that there would be time to analyze her dream-slash-otherworldly experience later. Much…later.
She tipped her head back, letting Ian kiss her throat. Her long, loose hair brushed the small of her back while he trailed tiny little sucking bites along her flesh, his fangs scraping, but never breaking the skin.
Wrapping her fingers around his thick, rigid penis, she centered herself over the plum-shaped head. With the prick of his teeth at her jugular, she lifted his wrist to her mouth, biting down just as she lowered herself onto his pulsing cock.
He filled her, stretched her. His blood in her mouth, his fangs piercing her throat completed her. The sensations made her body sing, like she was clutching the frayed ends of a live wire in her bare hand.
They fed while they moved, long, deep pulls to match the long, slow strokes of their bodies. But as the flow of their blood slowed, the speed of their bodies increased until they were bucking against one another.
Their mouths met, breaths mingling. She could taste the tangy flavor of her own blood as she twirled her tongue around his, and knew he was tasting the very same thing.
Grasping his hands, she twined their fingers, then bore him back on the bed, pinning his arms on either side of his head. Her knees clamped tight to his hips as she rode him, faster and faster, racing toward completion.
The room filled with both the sounds and scents of their mating, their passion seeping into every pore of her skin and muscles and bones. It didn’t just warm her, it turned her into a blazing furnace of lust and need.
She met every upward thrust of Ian’s hips with a driving rhythm of her own until they were sweating, pounding, gasping groaning. Almost without warning, the orgasm hit, rocking Angelina to her core as she screamed Ian’s name. A second later, he clutched her hands hard enough to break bones and came with a ragged shout.
Collapsing across his chest, she reveled in the warmth of his skin, the heavy beat of his heart beneath her ear, and the feel of her tender internal muscles rippling around him.
Five, maybe ten minutes later, he shifted with a moan, rolling her onto the mattress. She expected him to leave her there and return to his back, putting a few inches of space between them as their ardor cooled and they tried not to slip into a complete comatose state.
Instead, he moved with her, covering her body so that his weight pressed her down. Not crushing, but definitely reminding her of why they didn’t make blankets out of sandbags and cinderblocks. The man was two-hundred-plus pounds of pure, mouthwatering muscle.
He wasn’t trying to smother her, though, or go for round two. He was reaching past her, stretching until he could pull open the top drawer of the nightstand and dig inside.
A second later, he leaned back, propping himself up on one elbow while he stared down at her. One hand supported his head, the other placed a small, square box on her stomach, just beneath her breasts. It was wrapped in pretty red, metallic paper and topped with a perfectly tied bow of thin gold ribbon.
Angelina’s fingertips went cold while her heart struggled to pump blood through her veins. She licked her lips and swallowed past her suddenly dry throat.
“What’s this?” she asked in a voice that sounded sandpaper rough.
“I was going to wait until later to give it to you. Till we were downstairs near the tree, doing the whole Christmas breakfast, exchange-of-gifts thing.”
“What is it?” she asked again, afraid to get her hopes up. Almost afraid it was another dream. Or worse yet, a dream within a dream, like that movie 1408 where poor John Cusack thought he’d escaped the evil hotel room and had a shot at happily-ever-after only to be sucked right back into his homicidal nightmare reality.
One corner of Ian’s mouth tipped up in a grin. “Open it and see.”
With shaking fingers, she lifted the box, untied the ribbon, and removed the lid. Inside was another box, this one black velvet, slightly rounded on top.
Her heart kicked against her ribs, and the nervous chill in her hands spread to her lips, along with a tingling numbness. Taking the ring box out of the gift box, she pulled back the lid…
And sucked in a breath at the most exquisite diamond solitaire she’d ever seen. It sparkled like the North Star, even in the dim light of the room and through the sheen of tears filling her eyes.
Brushing his lips against her temple, Ian whispered, “Will you marry me?”
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Looking from the ring to Ian’s soft sable eyes and back, she managed a weak, “Are you serious?”
He inclined his head, his face a study of solemn lines and firm features. “I want you to be with me till death do us part.” One of his dark brows winged upward and his lips softened in amusement. “And considering just how long that could be, I think you know I’m not kidding around here. So if your answer is yes, put the damn ring on your finger. If it’s no…”
He flopped back on the bed, splaying his arms and legs as though he were about to be drawn and quartered. “Just stake me now and get it over with. Put me out of my misery.”
She knew he was only teasing, but considering what she’d just been through—or just dreamt she’d been through—she didn’t find it funny. In fact, it sent a shaft of fear so deep into her soul, she wasn’t sure she would ever shake free of it.
Flipping over onto his chest, she kissed him hard, then met his steady, somewhat confused gaze. “Don’t say stuff like that. Ever. Don’t even joke about it.”
Grabbing the ring, she tossed the box aside and slipped it quickly, firmly onto her left hand. “Yes, I’ll marry you. If you’d asked me a hundred years ago, my answer would have been yes. If you asked me a hundred years from now, my answer would be yes. And if you never asked me…”
She brushed his mouth with her own, then followed the contact with her thumb, tracing the supple line of his lips. “My answer would be the same. In my heart, I’m already your wife, and you’ve always been my husband. For me, there will never be another.”
Emotions, tender and strong, flashed through his eyes a second before he drove his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her down for a long kiss full of love and devotion.
When he released her to catch her breath, he murmured, “You know, you might have mentioned all that before. Do you have any idea how intimidating it is for a guy to go ring shopping and work up the courage to pop the question? Half the time, I swear it would have been easier to spend the night in a tanning bed.”
Feigning annoyance, she rapped him in the chest with the back of her hand—and made sure to use the one with the giant, three-carat diamond on it. “Oh, stop whining, you big baby. I’m worth it, aren’t I?”
Growing immediately serious, he framed her face with his hands and pulled it close to his own. “You are worth everything, Angelina. I love you more than life, more than eternity, more than a nic
e, warm glass of O-positive after a long night of resisting the urge to chomp on dirtbags before tossing their asses in jail.”
When she chuckled even through the glimmer of tears filling her eyes and throat, he winked at her and pressed her knuckles—ring and all—to his lips. “And now everyone will know you belong to me.”
Angelina cocked her head and offered him a watery smile. “Was there ever any doubt?”
He smiled back, flashing straight white teeth and a set of sexy, spiked fangs. “Nope.”
And then he kissed her, reminding her that the life she led with the man she loved was a wonderful one, indeed.
BRAVA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2010 Heidi Betts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6166-3
