FIVE
“Missed you? I didn’t know you’d gone out until half an hour ago.”
“Your loving words soothe my soul.”
“I know that look, perv.”
“I adore your affectionate pet names.” He reached for one of my hands and pressed a kiss to my palm, which, I had discovered in the last couple of years, was a sizeable erogenous zone.
“I have no time for sexual shenanigans right now,” I warned the ridiculously gorgeous man smiling at me even as the tingles started in my palm and radiated . . . um . . . downward. “Something’s wrong with Jessica.”
“Ah. Laura’s been here, then?”
“No, of course not. Okay, yeah, but that has nothing to do with this.”
“Hmm.”
“Something’s really wrong,” I insisted.
“Hmm?”
“And it’s Tina’s birthday, did you know? I didn’t know. She’s, what, a century and a half?”
He fake sighed. “They grow up so fast.”
“So we have to celebrate that, too.” I got A Look and defensively added, “What? We do.”
“For the first time since you’ve known her? Really, my own? You are now compelled to acknowledge a birthday you have not once—”
“I know, I know, it’s overdue. And see, that proves my case! You are proving my case for me.”
“I devoutly hope not.”
“She does so much for us, you know.”
He nodded. “I do know.” And then, in a teasing mutter, “I was unaware you knew.” All the while we were wasting time with idle yakking, he had a hand on the small of my back and was gently steering me toward our room, where our superking lurked. Meanwhile, Jessica was getting away!
“Also, and I’m bringing this up again because I’m pretty sure you didn’t catch it last time, I have. No time. For sex. Ual. Shenanigans.” Probably shouldn’t have split “sexual” into two syllables, if my husband’s stifled giggle was any indication.
(Oh my god I love that giggle he only started with the giggling when he started sunbathing without fear of immolation and every time every damn time I hear it I want to tickle him or something to get him to do it again and how did I not notice I’m now flat on my back in our bed?)
“Dammit!” He’d literally swept me off my feet and plunked me in the middle of the superking. As I reared up on my elbows in prep to escape, he plunked himself in the middle of the bed, right on top of me. What little air there was in my lungs (I sometimes gasped or yawned or breathed out of force of habit) whooshed out. “Gggnnnn!”
“Ah, darling, your sexy moan sets my libido aflame.”
“Ged. Gedduh. Gedduh huck offme.” I groaned and tried to elbow him away as he pressed me further into the mattress. Why the hell was the theme of the week beds devouring me? Was that . . . was that supposed to be a metaphor for something? Like I had time to ponder that. “Gnnn. Dyin’.”
He was giggling against my neck and marking me with little nibbling kisses and all at once I cared a lot less about Jessica’s mysterious errands and more about getting out of my underpants.
“What’s got you all sexually charged? Besides being a man and being conscious.”
“Don’t generalize, darling,” he chided.
“Yeah, yeah . . . answer the question.”
“It was so wonderful.” He pulled back until our faces were inches apart, his eyes—a brown so deep they were almost black—gazing into mine. His dark hair was only slightly mussed, thick with a tendency to curl under at the ends, and his skin was utterly pale, not the slightest sign of a flush. So he hadn’t been feeding. It had to be something else.
Oh.
Oh God.
“No.” I shook my head so hard I made myself dizzy. Sinclair jerked back enough so that the ends wouldn’t tickle his face and laughed at my “No-no-no.”
“The only thing marring its perfection was your absence, my own.”
“Never. I told you. Never again. I’m not doing it ever again. It’s dumb and it’s cold. Horribly, horribly cold.”
“It is enchanting,” he corrected me, now mouthing the tender, shivery spot just behind my ear. “Horribly, horribly enchanting. I was enchanted.”
“Are you drunk?” I asked, staring at the ceiling while the tips of his deep brown hair brushed the side of my jaw. “I know it’s impossible but we’ve done the impossible before and it would explain a lot. I would actually wish you were drunk over what you were really doing. That’s what a bad idea I think that is.”
“The fairyland spectacle of the St. Paul Winter Carnival enchanted me.”
“And also, your dick?” Because there was definitely something enchanting pressing against the top of my thigh.
“It was all so wonderful,” he moaned, pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat. “How could you resist the sensual allure of the Moon Glow Pedestrian Parade?”
“Pretty damned easily.”
“Not to mention the Snow Slide.”
“Sinclair, it’s a carnival celebrating the fact that Mother Nature tries to kill us every winter. Why the hell would I ever—wait, Snow Slide?”
“They should rename it the Sublime Slide,” he said and oh God I think he was serious.
“You went on the Snow Slide?” And why the hell wasn’t I there with a camera? And a video crew? He was right, I should have gone if only to have the means to make a looping video of the vampire king riding down a hundred-foot snow slide over and over and over, maybe shoving various children out of the way as he repeatedly cut in line. Baring his fangs at their avenging mamas. Then up and down and up and down again. My kingdom for that gif. “Okay, you’ve made the impossible happen. Fine. But I still don’t regret not going to the cold weird sleet rodeo, or whatever they’re calling it this year.”
“I also indulged in the Beer Dabbler. Did you know they have over a hundred and fifty breweries plying their wares?”
“But you hate beer.”
“And they have a blood drive.”
“But you love—aw, nuts.” I groaned. “Tell me you stayed away from the blood drive taking place in the middle of the day at an outdoor carnival celebrating the things water does when it gets below freezing.” In fairness to them, how could they expect a vampire to take over the Snow Slide, sip beer, and then rob their blood drive?
“Of course I refrained,” he said, pulling back and looking offended. “You know I only drink from you or ruffians we subdue.”
“Okay, I know you’re an old man, but really—ruffians?” I yelped as his sharp teeth grazed my neck and his tongue followed, soothing the sting.
“Ninety is the new thirty,” was his muffled reply.
I snorted. “What this all boils down to is, ice sculptures make you horny.”
“Well, yes,” he admitted.
“I remember when I made you horny.”
“An ice sculpture of you would satisfy all my sexual needs.”
I laughed as I shivered; I couldn’t help it. The mental image was just so hilarious and gross and cracked. “I hate you.”
“In fact,” he replied, lips ghosting over mine, “you adore me.”
“I’m pretty sure I can do both.”
“Did you know”—he pulled back and gazed down at me—“ice is much more beautiful in sunshine?” He said this in a low voice, a serious tone, like it was a delicious secret he wanted only me to know. “It’s like light made solid.”
This. This right here. This is why. This is the answer to everything, every time. “I love you.” I sighed.
He smiled. “Yes.” Then struck at viper speed, his fangs punching into my jugular. We both groaned, me because being penetrated in any way by Eric Sinclair was my favorite thing on earth, and him because the smell and taste of my blood was his favorite thing on earth.
It is, oh it is, my darling, my Elizabeth.
Less thinking. More boning.
Ever the insatiable romantic.
Here was a man, a brilliant, ruthless, dead man, who lost everything almost a century ago and spent decades alone as a result. Okay, that’s not fair—Tina had never left his side. But she wasn’t a true partner, more like a beloved aunt. She had been a friend of his family for generations; they had known what she was and gave not one shit. Along came yours truly, bitchy and pissed about being dead, with no interest in being Elizabeth, the One, and not just because the whole thing was just too, too Matrix.
Dear Vampire Prophecy, every single movie about a Chosen One called, and they want their plot device back.
To say I had been happy to make Eric Sinclair’s acquaintance would be a bigger lie than just the tip, just to see how it feels. I had fought him every baby step of the way, even more so after he tricked me into making him king. Not that tricking me was ever a challenge. I still resented it, though, and it had taken a while to admit to myself I was in love with the controlling, ruthless asshat.
The ruthless jerkass had been patient. The ruthless asshat knew time was on his side.
So here we were, married in the eyes of vampires and, eventually, the State of Minnesota, boning on our superking in the late afternoon, winter sunshine splashed across the bed. I probably don’t need to explain that the first thing Sinclair had done in our bedroom was rip all the curtains down.
He drank from me and divested me of my clothes at the same time, a good trick and one I’d had cause to celebrate before. I grabbed a fistful of that thick dark hair and jerked his head up, then bit him, hard, in the sweet spot just to the left of the hollow of his throat. Warm heavy blood trickled into my mouth, which should have been revolting and wasn’t ever, not once. I think in a lot of ways that’s the worst thing about being a vampire: I am doing things I know are disgusting and/or wrong and can’t stop. Or won’t stop.
His hand gently cupped my right breast, long fingers curving around the nipple while he buried his face in my hair (strawberry shampoo + Sinclair’s love of fruit smoothies = irresistible) and trembled while I drank.
I pulled off and gasped (how many more years would I need to be dead before I stopped reflexively grabbing for oxygen?) while his thumbs stroked the undersides of my breasts. Sinclair knew the undersides were much more sensitive and responsive, because he was a clever, clever man. I arched into his hands while fumbling with his—oh. Oh, that was good. That was excellent.
How do you do that? How do you get both of us naked without me noticing?
I would tell you, but you have insisted that hearing of my decades of sexual conquests “like, totally squicks you out.”
I have not! Okay, but I probably didn’t lead with “like.” Stop that. Stop laughing in my head.
He didn’t. Bastard. Thank goodness Sinclair was the only one I could hear in my head (vampire queen perk, except when it wasn’t), because he was enough of a handful. Headful?
I reached down and found his lovely long length as he gently kneed my legs apart, his fingers slipping through the curls between my thighs, stroking so lightly it was more a brush of fingertips than anything else. And thank goodness, because the brush alone was enough to send me through the ceiling.
Sometimes we spent hours exploring each other, indulging in edge play until we were both shaking like we were enduring malaria relapses. And sometimes we didn’t.
He slid into me with a sigh and I could actually feel my eyes roll into the back of my head, which, for reasons unknown to me, my husband found intensely erotic.
Oh yes. Oh yes, ah, Elizabeth . . .
Mm-mm. I wanna drive.
?????
I gripped him with my thighs and rolled us over until I was on top, which was fun on a superking and a potential for broken bones on a twin. Then I was grinning down at him while his hands slid down my back until resting just above my ass. He shifted beneath me and grinned back.
Go on, then.
You bet.
I rocked against him, slowly at first, adjusting to the intensity, then leaned forward to grip the headboard and sped up. He’d thrown his head back, unconsciously (or not?) baring his throat, my bite already healing and his neck covered with drying blood. I ran a finger through the blood trail and he shuddered and flashed his fangs. I pressed one with the ball of my thumb and it pierced like a needle, that fast and that sharp. When he sucked, I felt it between my legs.
And speaking of between my legs, terrific things were happening there. Sinclair was quite tall, with big hands and big feet, and yep, that cliché, at least, was true. The former farm boy was built. This will sound hokey beyond belief, but it was like he was built just for me, only for me, and me for him and only for him, and no one and nothing else would ever be that suited to us.
He was gripping my hips hard enough to bruise and thrusting up, forcing a gasping moan out of me. I leaned forward far enough for his tongue to flick across my nipple, then jerked back.
Wanton tease.
Was that wanton, or wonton? Are you craving Japanese food?
Chinese food, my lovely idiotic darling—ow!
More where that came from.
Oh, please yes.
I smiled. “Now who’s wanton?”
“It seems—it must—be me.” Every pause was punctuated by a thrust and it was like feeling his cock in the middle of my chest. Which probably sounds awful but was pretty swell. I could feel my orgasm start to sneak up on me. With Sinclair, I often had stealth orgasms. It would feel far away, like I had to work a lot harder to reach it, and then all of a sudden . . . surprise! There it was.
“My God, my God, don’t stop. Ah, God, Elizabeth. Look at you.” Sinclair lived to break the third commandment, now that he could without feeling like he was gargling hydrochloric acid. “Look at you.”
I ignored that; I could be doing him wearing a Hefty bag and a baseball cap and he would find it insanely hot. Instead I focused on my stealth ninja orgasm, which was still pretending it was waaaay off in the distance. It reminded me of that scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, when Lancelot is running to the castle to kill pretty much everyone inside, and the guards watch him run and run, and he always seems far away, and then all of a sudden he and his sword are right there. Yep, I’m comparing my orgasms to a goddamned Monty Python movie. It makes sense that I’m dead. I deserve to be dead, what with all that going on in my head while having incredible sex with a sexy vampire king.
Speaking of the king, he was giving me a somewhat incredulous look, no doubt picking up on the Python weirdness going on in my brain.
Are you—?
Never ask me. Never.
He shrugged in my head (yep, that’s a thing) and tightened his grip on my hips, which was fine with me. I leaned in again, let his mouth barely brush my nipple, and when I jerked back it pulled a groan from both of us. When I heard the creaking, I realized I was holding on to the headboard so hard I was tearing it loose. I didn’t care, and Sinclair didn’t care, and the headboard definitely didn’t care, but it was a distraction. Let go or let loose?
I let loose—yanked the thing free and tossed it to the left. Probably should have thought that through a little more, since it took out the bedside lamp and the side table on its way to the floor. The crashing and thumping and broken glass worked like a hormone shot on Sinclair, and now I was riding him, brushing splinters out of his hair, and cornering my orgasm while he laughed and shook beneath me.
. . . you are . . . you are . . . ah . . .
Oh, hush up. I tried a scowl. It didn’t take. He knew his laughter delighted me.
Do not dare to stop.
Dude, I didn’t let our antique cherry headboard stop this. Nothing short of a nuke dropped in the kitchen will stop this.
I loathe when you call me dude.
Don’t care. Do. Not. C—
Surprise!
Nnnnn . . . ninja orgasm . . . ahhhh . . .
Oh yes oh God oh my Elizabeth oh—what? Did you—what?
( ) . . . ( )
Are you thinking about ninjas right now?
“Shut up, coming, I’m still coming,” I slurred, and his hands gripped, brutally tight, and then
( ) . . . ( )
he was, too. The timing was outstanding, because I could watch his face while I came down from mine, just as he rose to his. His eyes, which had been narrowed in concentration (and consternation, when he picked the Python out of my thoughts), now widened and his eyes rolled back. It was unfair, dammit, it was hot when he did it. When I did it, I suspected I looked like I was drunk off my ass or struggling with the People magazine crossword.
Please. Please, my love, my all, please. Stop thinking. Right now.
“Bossy,” I gasped as he arched so hard only his head and heels were touching the mattress.
“Nnnnnfff,” was his rebuttal. Pretty good, considering.
When he came back down, literally and figuratively, it was to tug at me until my face was tucked into the hollow of his shoulder while he stroked my back with hands that shook.
“C’n I start thinking now?”
“Dunno,” he mumbled. “Would not dare assume—ouch!”
“More where that came from.”
“So I devoutly hope,” he replied, and I could hear the smile in his tone. He pinched me back, but I let it go. One of us had to be the mature one. A sad, sad day when it was me.