Patrick jerked awake, his heart smashing against his breastbone, his sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his legs. Christ. Not again.
He sucked in a long, shaky breath, flicking his gaze around his darkened room. Yes, it was his room. Not a deserted beach.
Raking his fingers through his hair, he sighed, forcing his heart to slow. A dream. Just a dream. The same dream he’d had for as long as he could remember—running along the beach. Dead bodies. Being hunted by something unseen. Something dark and sick—but a dream all the same.
No. Not all the same, Patrick. This one was different somehow. This one had—
He frowned into the darkness. The woman. The woman in the baseball cap from the beach. Letting out a frustrated breath, he rubbed his face with his hands. Fair dinkum, he must be losing his mind. Not only had the recurring nightmare been more vivid, more insistent, his messed-up psyche had gone and incorporated the mysterious woman from the beach into his dream.
Patrick shut his eyes and bam! There she was. Face still shadowed by the peak of her cap, eyes still concealed by large, black sunglasses, long black hair tumbling over straight, fine shoulders. The woman who may or may not exist. The woman making him—
Something touched his chest. A feather-light caress that felt like cool fingertips stroking his bare skin directly above his heart.
He leapt from the bed, smashing his fist against the light switch barely a second after his feet touched the floor.
And saw the woman from the beach.
Standing beside his bed.
Looking at him.
Fred noticed three things straight away. Patrick Watkins was looking directly at her, he was stark naked and he was semi-aroused.
By the Powers, he’s huge.
“Who the hell are you?”
His deep, angry growl made her jump. She stared at his face—his face, Fred, his face—her mouth dry. “You can see me!”
“Of course, I can see you. And I saw you at the beach today.” Sharp green eyes narrowed. “What the fuck did you do to my drowning victim?”
Fred clenched her jaw, giving the human before her a level look. “For your information, your drowning victim was a pedophile.”
A shimmer of disgust ignited in Patrick Watkins’ dark green eyes before he clenched his own jaw. “Mr. Peabody was alive until you touched him.”
Fred cocked her head to the side, trying like hell to ignore the fact that the man seemed to have forgotten he was naked—and still partially erect. Ignore it? How do you ignore something that impressive? “Yes, I must say, you did a very good job resurrecting him from his initial passing. But it was his time and no interference, no matter how skilled or stubborn, would have saved him.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “Interference? His time?” Anger flared in his unwavering stare. “Who the fuck are you? The Grim Reaper?”
Fred inclined her head slightly. “Just call me Fred.”
“Well, Fred.” Patrick took a step toward her, the anger in his face growing dark. Menacing. “I’d saved him. I don’t care how bloody sexy you are, or who you think you are, he was alive until you touched him. What the hell did you do to him?”
Fred’s heart stopped for a split second, before pounding triple-time. Sexy? A grin stretched her lips and a wild flutter erupted between her thighs. He thought she was sexy.
He also thinks you’re a murderer.
She pulled a face, crossing her arms across her chest. Her nipples brushed against her forearms, sending a little jolt of damp electricity into the pit of her belly and she bit back a curse. How was it possible this one mortal male made her so horny? “I really can’t explain it all to you,” she snapped, irked by her body’s irrational response and Patrick Watkins’ not-so-irrational agitation. “Just know Peabody is in a much more deserving place now he’s gone.”
Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “So, what? You’re a vigilante?”
Fred ground her teeth. “As I’ve already said, I can’t explain it.”
“Try. Before I call the cops.”
Fred couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. “The cops?”
Black anger flashed across Patrick’s face. “Look, love, you’ve got exactly twenty seconds to give me an answer, or I’ll knock you on your arse, tie you to the bed and let the authorities deal with you when they get here.”
A hot, wet wave of sinful pleasure rolled through Fred at the idea of Patrick Watkins tying her to the bed. Damn. She’d never gone down that path of sexual gratification before, but the Australian lifeguard made her body fantasize about all sorts of things it hadn’t before. All of them very, very wicked. “Patrick Watkins,” she said, unable to stop her gaze roaming over his naked body. “I would like nothing more than to see you try.”
Another wave of fury—and something else far more primitive—charged his expression. “Okay. If that’s the way it’s going to be.”
He moved. Much quicker than Fred expected. Much quicker than any human should. One moment he stood glaring at her from beside his bedroom door, the next he was slamming her against the wall, his fingers locked around her wrists, his hips rammed into hers.
Immediate and absolute pleasure tore through her. Dark, intoxicating, submissive pleasure. Her sex constricted, her breath caught in her throat. She’d never been handled so. Even her Roman had treated her with kid gloves, like he’d been too scared of her to truly show how much she’d aroused him. Patrick Watkins however, knew no reason to be scared of her. And it made her sex flood with cream.
By the Powers, she wanted to fuck him and be fucked by him.
The licentious thought whipped through her head and, before she knew what was going on, her jeans, boots and t-shirt vanished. Leaving her just as naked as the man pressing her against the wall with his hard body.
He froze, his fingers digging into her wrists, his cock grounding against her belly. “What. The fuck. Is going on?”
Christ, she felt amazing. Even as Patrick’s mind struggled to process the unreal shit currently tormenting it, his body reveled in the firm but lush softness of the woman pressed against it. Whoever Fred was, whatever Fred was, she felt like sin.
And as a result, he felt on fire.
He stared at her, stared into eyes the color of blue ice. Without the concealing sunglasses, her eyes were almost hypnotic, framed by thick black lashes and a face almost impishly beautiful. She was undeniably, incredibly sensual in a mysterious, exotic way and his cock grew stiffer. It liked what it saw—and felt—a lot.
His erection nudged her belly and a soft moan slipped from between her lips. She licked them, flicking the tip of her tongue over the soft, full swell of her bottom one before catching it with white, even teeth. He watched, enrapt. A surge of heat flooded his balls at the simple seductive action and his cock twitched again, growing longer and harder. It pushed against the firm flatness of her stomach, insistent. Eager.
Jesus, Patrick. What’s wrong with you?
The woman’s eyelids fluttered closed for a second, another moan—softer and longer—sounding in her throat before those arresting eyes of hers returned to his again, holding his stare as she pushed her hips forward.
Her smooth thighs slid against his, the curve of her sex rubbing the root of his shaft. The thick ebony curtain of her hair tumbled over her bare shoulders as she lifted her chin a little, almost daring him to…what? He sucked in a sharp breath, tasting her subtle musk on the air.
An insane urge to crush her mouth with his surged through Patrick and he frowned. “Who are you?”
“I told you.” Her voice was a husky murmur. “Call me Fred.”
Her breath fanned his lips in a whisper of warm air. Her eyes challenged him from behind a few tousled strands of her hair. He could feel her heart beating against his chest. Could feel the hard points of her nipples rubbing against his flesh. She shifted under his weight, her crotch aligning with his in perfect symmetry. His cock—the most honest and truthful organ of a man’s body—jerked. Engorged
with blood and undeniable desire. Thicker and harder than ever before.
Something deep and long repressed ignited within his core. Something hungry and powerful. Closing his fingers tighter around Fred’s wrists, he growled.
And she captured the wild sound with her mouth.
Her tongue plunged past his lips and he met it with his own, lashing and battling the wonderful invasion. She tasted of secret spices and cool allure. He should be pushing her away. He should be calling the cops or the men in white jackets, but there wasn’t a force strong enough in the world capable of tearing his lips from hers at that very moment in time. He thrust deeper into her mouth, wanting to explore its delicious sweetness.
Pressing his body harder to hers, he raked his hands down her arms, scoring a line along the subtle dip of her waist, over the curve of her hips and back up to her ribcage. The full swell of her breasts were compressed against his chest and he brushed the backs of his fingers along their sides, drinking in her moan as he continued to kiss her. She shifted beneath him, maneuvering in his hold until he felt the dampness of her arousal stroke the base of his throbbing cock. His head spun and his blood turned hot. She wanted him. As much as he wanted her.
Refusing to break the kiss or contact with her lower body, he captured her breasts with his hands. Their heavy weight spilled over his squeezing fingers, sending a ribbon of liquid power into his groin. Jesus, none of this made any sense. In fact, he was probably still dreaming, but what a dream. If his mind really was unhinged, he was more than happy to go along for the ride. As long as this woman—Fred—was in the passenger’s seat, his to hold and kiss, he’d spend the rest of eternity in a padded cell.
A low, raw growl in the back of Fred’s throat sent another surge of lust straight to his cock. She writhed against him, fighting his hands on her breasts even as she wrapped one long leg around his hip. Immediately, the soft heady musk of her desire filled his breath and his pulse quickened. Bloody hell, this was insane.
She rolled her hips, sliding her spread sex up his rigid cock, painting its length with her cream. Hot, wet pleasure crashed through him. He jerked his mouth from hers, staring hard into her pale blue eyes.
“Anytime, Patrick Watkins.”
The ambiguous invitation slipped from her lips. He didn’t need to ask what she meant. The heat in her body, the scent of her desire told him.
Dragging his hands from her breasts, he grabbed her hips, yanking her arse from the wall and sinking his fingers into her butt cheeks. Without preamble, he hauled her from the floor and spun about, throwing her onto his bed before she could utter a sound of resistance.
She slammed against the mattress, ink-black hair fanning around her head like a dark halo. He stood at the foot of his bed for a moment and gazed at her. Pale, flawless skin, firm, toned muscles, full, high breasts, small dark nipples, soft black pubic hair shaped in a shallow crescent. The familiar silhouette held his attention and his heartbeat quickened, his cock growing painful with fresh blood at the sight.
Crescent? Like a scythe?
“Do you like it?”
Her question raised his head and he met her stare. “Yes.”
Without breaking eye contact, he placed his right knee on the bed between her legs. His cock felt like a rod of steel, so erect the edge of its distended head bumped his abdomen with every move he made. He shifted his weight onto his bent knee, smoothing his palms up the bed until they were beside Fred’s waist, leaning slightly over her body as he raised his left foot from the floor.
She watched him with ice-blue eyes. Unreadable eyes. Her breath came short and shallow through parted lips. He slid the outside of his left knee along her inner calf, a slow, deliberate journey toward the junction of her thighs and its mesmerizing crescent, inching her legs further apart as he did so. A soft, almost inaudible whimper sounded in Fred’s throat and her eyes fluttered closed.
Jesus, she is gorgeous.
The thought whipped through Patrick’s head…a split second before she opened her eyes and gave him a smoldering look. “No offense, Patrick Watkins, but this is taking too long.”
With inhuman speed, she jackknifed her body. Her long firm legs locked around his thighs, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Before he could react, he was on his back, pressed flat to the mattress, Fred straddling his hips. “I really want you to fuck me,” she stated, lowering her body closer to his as she threaded her fingers through his and held his hands locked beside his head. “Right now.”
Patrick stared up at her…and the door slammed open, the sudden crack of wood splintering against drywall like an explosive shot.
Ven stepped into the room, his light green stare locked on the bed. “What the hell’s going—” He froze, and Patrick saw recognition flood his face. “You!”
In the space of a heartbeat, he transformed. From a good-looking, slightly pale man, to a terrifying, malevolent creature. He lunged straight for Fred, knocking her off Patrick in one blurring leap, his hands locking around her throat, fangs extended, eyes burning baleful yellow.
He smashed her against the wall, white plaster dust showering down on them both as he shoved her high off the floor one handed, bringing her face level with his own. “What the fuck are you doing to my brother?”
“Jesus, Ven!” Patrick scrambled off his bed. “What the hell are you doing?”
Ven swung his head around, fixing Patrick with a very demonic glare, his yellow eyes an inferno of icy rage. “I told you something was after you, brother.”
Patrick blinked, stunned disbelief killing the powerful sexual hunger in his blood. “What? This woman?”
Fred squirmed in Ven’s hold, her fingers digging into his wrist. “Hey!”
Ven shook his head, the demon fully surfaced. “This woman isn’t what she looks like, brother.” He turned back to Fred, baring his fangs with a low, menacing hiss Patrick had never heard him make before. “This is Death.”
Fred bared her own teeth—white, even teeth that looked like they would cost a fortune at a cosmetic dentist. “I prefer Fred, fang face.”
Something punched Patrick in the gut. At least, it felt that way. He swung his stare between his vampire brother and the mysterious woman from the beach.
“Death?” he said. For the first time in his thirty-six years he did not want to listen to what his gut was telling him. “As in the Grim Reaper? Musty old cloak, rotting bones and antediluvian scythe?”
“Hey!” Fred said again, sounding far more indignant than she should, considering her situation.
He ran his gaze over her, not questioning his brother’s actions at all, just his motivation. If Ven believed the woman was a threat, he wasn’t going to argue—yet. After all, she had killed Peabody with just a stroke of her fingers and her clothes had seemingly vanished without a trace, but Death? “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, Steven, but have you looked at the woman you’re holding?”
“I saw her, brother.” The vampire turned to stare at him, the knuckles of his fingers growing whiter as his grip tightened around Fred’s neck. “The night I died. As I lay on the filth-strewn ground with you desperately trying to revive me, I saw her. She took my soul.” He turned back to Fred, pressing her harder to the wall, his fangs grazing the high angle of her cheekbone with each word he growled. “And now she’s trying to take yours.”
Fred rolled her eyes, and for the first time Patrick noticed she didn’t seem overly fazed by Ven’s strangulating grip. “I’m not trying to take his soul, you moron. I was just…” A soft pink blush flooded her cheeks and she faltered.
Ven glared at her. “Just what?”
Patrick stared at them both. The whole scene was surreal, like something from a late-night television program aimed at teenagers, yet with a bigger budget for the special effects, and tangible, potent sexuality beyond their adolescent experience. The paranormal he could swallow. He’d given up disbelieving in spooks and demons when Ven had walked into their parent’s home six hours after dying, bu
t his overwhelming, powerful and completely undeniable sexual response to the woman Steven claimed ended his life? How could he be so aroused so quickly?
He flicked his gaze to the naked woman still pinned to the wall by his brother and a tight tension pulsed through his cock. Bloody hell, what was going on with him?
Snatching his boxer shorts from the nightstand, he yanked them on, scowling at Ven and Fred who were scowling at each other.
“Just what, Death?” Ven growled again, knuckles growing whiter still.
Fred squirmed, the pink in her cheeks growing a deeper shade of red, before she lifted her chin in a clearly defiant angle. “I was just checking him out.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows at her. “Checking me out?” An itch began in his gut and he frowned. “You mean…”
Still imprisoned in Ven’s demonic grip, Fred closed her eyes and shook her head. “This is getting ridiculous,” she muttered.
Her eyelids snapped open, revealing eyes a blinding pure white. She spread her fingers wide and suddenly, as if he were a rag doll, Ven went flying backward across the room, slamming into the far wall with a solid thud.
“Ooff.” The grunt burst from Ven’s mouth, the first sound of discomfort and pain Patrick had heard his brother make since he’d become a vampire. He watched him drop to the floor before turning his stare back to Fred.
Or should that be Death?
She stared back at him, eyes ice blue once more, a black pair of leather pants, black biker boots and a black Bob Marley t-shirt covering her body the moment she rammed her fists to her hips. “I mean,” she growled, “I was having what you Australians call a perv. I saw you on the beach and thought you were worth checking out again.” She flicked a look at Ven, now stumbling to his feet, Patrick noted, with a stunned and very pissed-off expression on his face. “Of course, I didn’t know you had a pet vampire guarding you.”
“I’m his brother,” Ven snarled.
Death, The Vamp and His Brother Page 4
