He swept his hand out, drawing her gaze to the deep pantry filled with dry goods and empty jars. It was nearly the size of her bedroom in the insanely expensive cubbyhole she called an apartment. And the ceiling was so high, stocked to the rafters, that they actually had a sliding ladder leaning against one of the shelves.
Thomas caressed her jaw with his thumb, bringing her attention back to him. “There’s no sound equipment, no cameras here. Just you and I. Talk to me, Margo, please.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking frustrated. “If I were Saint or Mac, I’d have a way to know what you’re thinking. Know why you look like you regret what just happened.”
“If you were Saint or Mac, I wouldn’t be in this pantry.” She spoke without thinking, flinched as she saw his pleased expression. Shit. Why didn’t she just tell him she only regretted he’d stopped? That she’d wanted to smother herself in chocolate and whipped cream and be his dessert? She sighed. “What I mean is— Hell, I don’t know what I mean. I think we should go to bed. Separately. To separate beds. Alone. We can talk about the reason we both know I’m here in the morning.”
Work, keep saying it, this is for work. Contract not coitus. Contract not coitus.
“I smell you.”
She crossed her arms defensively and looked at him askance. “I’m sorry?”
Thomas shook his head, his eyes going dark as he took a deep, lung filling breath. “Just, now that there’s no distraction, I can really smell you. It’s rich. Spicy and sweet. Like pumpkin mousse or, well, I’ve never smelled anyone quite like you.”
Pumpkin? “You smell nice too. I’m assuming we both shower. What’s your point?” She was being belligerent, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She was having a hard time accepting how easily she’d lost control. The old Margo would no doubt have thrown caution to the wind, damned the cameras and danced for him on the table, perhaps torn off his buttons with her teeth. Which was one of the reasons she’d been buried beneath mountains of to do lists and restrained hairdos for the better part of a decade. The old Margo was nothing but trouble.
So was Thomas Lyons. His pupils had dilated, his strong features had sharpened and his cheeks looked flushed. He looked…feral. Wild. Like he was ready to pick up where they’d just left off, whether she liked it or not. Her slender thread of control began to fray once more. She should leave now. The pantry. The castle. The country.
Thomas blocked her way to the door. Did his fangs look longer? More intimidating? He towered over her, backing her up until her shoulders hit the ladder. He took her wrists in his hands and lifted her arms over her head. She gripped the rungs of the ladder, clinging instinctively, fascinated by the predatory look in his eyes.
“My point,” his voice was rough, needy, “is that you aren’t going anywhere, kitten. Regardless of what your mind is telling you to regret or run from, your body is speaking loud and clear. And it wants what I want.”
“What?”
Thomas leaned into her, his lips lightly caressing her neck as he whispered, “More.”
“I will always love you.” Not just a figure of speech when you're undead.
Big Girls Don’t Die
© 2009 Crystal Jordan
In the Heat of the Night, Book Two
Six months ago, Andre St. James committed the ultimate one-night-stand party foul by turning Cynthiana into the spawn of Satan…also known as a vampire. He insisted he knew they were meant to be together forever and ever, so why wait for her to be on the same page with him to suck the life out of her?
What. Ever. The only thing the two of them share is chemistry that blasts off the charts. So she drop kicked him out of her life and told him to never come back. He listened. Until now.
Andre knows Cyn has trouble dealing with his take-no-prisoners approach to life, and that turning her against her will was a mistake. But he’s got patience born of centuries of immortality, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get back into her good graces and stay there forever. Including wait until she has no choice but to turn to him.
After all, no one understands forever like a vampire. He’s loved her from the moment he saw her…and he always will.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Big Girls Don’t Die:
My hands clenched on the steering wheel. I had to get to my cousin. That’s all I could think. Please, please let Desi be okay. I loved that little girl so much. I was going crazy right now. Worry gnawed at me like a hungry werewolf. One quick look at the speedometer told me that I was about ten miles over the speed limit. They wouldn’t pull me over for that, would they? I pushed my convertible Mini Cooper a little faster.
Flicking a glance down while I punched the speed-dial, I tried to get Misty on the phone for a progress report on Desi. It was a few hours to Las Vegas from Los Angeles, but if I hurried I could be inside the hospital before dawn. Something else to get pissed at Andre for. No reflection, no sunlight.
My stomach rumbled. Oh, yeah. Cravings for blood. Another lovely side effect. When was the last time I had fed? I meant to have something substantial before I went to Eclipse, but Andre had sort of interrupted that plan. I’d barely taken any blood from him, so my stomach felt as if it was digesting itself right now.
“Hi, this is Misty and Desiree, leave us a message—”
“Damn it.” I huffed out a breath and tossed my cell phone on the passenger seat.
My gaze swept the barren landscape along I-15. There wasn’t anything for as far as I could see except dirt and stars and a few ragged Joshua trees. When I glanced back at the road, a large white jackrabbit hopped in front of my car.
“Shit.” I jerked the wheel and swerved to miss it, but the crunch of bone sounded as it bounced against the underside of my car. “Oh, that is just nasty.”
And then my tire blew up. Rubber popped. The Mini Cooper’s back end spun out. My heart stuttered as my pretty little car made grinding noises when the metal of my tire rim hit pavement.
“Shit, piss, motherfucker. Oh God. Oh God.”
Skidding off onto the soft shoulder of the road, the car finally came to a stop. I sat there and panted while my heart rate galloped. My knuckles showed white on the wheel, and I had to force myself to relax my grip and reach down to shift into park. My hands shook on the door handle when I hauled myself out to go look at my tire. I walked around the car to the passenger side and kept an eye out for crazy-ass drivers who might be too blind or stupid to see the emergency flashers on my car and hit me. Oh, yeah. That was the flattest tire I’d ever seen. Little bits of rubber hung off it and flopped on the ground.
“Spare tire, Cyn. Put it on and get the hell to Vegas.” Popping my trunk, I—What the hell?—Where were the jack and tire iron? I had forgotten to check for them in this car when I bought it from the used car dealership last week. Now that I needed ’em, they were nowhere to be found. Fan-damn-tastic. Time to call in reinforcements.
I opened the passenger door and fished around for my cell phone. Please, please, please let me have cell phone service. I was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, not daring to look. My breath whooshed out when I saw I had full bars. I pulled in a deep breath while I dialed my roadside assistance number. The number was programmed into my phone, just in case. You never knew when a Rambo-wannabe jackrabbit would hang on to your bumper and use his last breath to shred your tire. Fucking bunny.
I punched in all the appropriate numbers and listened to a recorded voice tell me to call 911 if it was a life threatening emergency. Well, duh. “Hello? I have a flat tire, and I need someone to come put on my spare—”
The woman dispatcher’s professionally concerned voice cut me off. “Okay, ma’am. Are you in a safe area?”
I looked around at the miles and miles of dirt. “I’m kind of in the middle of nowhere, but I guess I’m safe.”
“Good. Now where are you exactly?”
“I’m not sure. I’m eastbound on I-15 about a hundred miles west of Las Vegas. I don’t see a
call box or any mile markers.”
“So, you’re east of Las Vegas—”
“No, I’m west of Vegas going east toward Vegas.” I rolled my eyes.
“What city did you just pass?”
Did I just speak English? I swear I’d told this woman I had no idea where I was. I was worried about Desi, not about where I might pop a tire. “I’m not sure. I know I’m about a hundred miles west of Vegas.”
“All right, ma’am. We’ll dispatch someone, and they should be there in about twenty to thirty minutes.”
“Thank you!” I could be with Desi soon, then. I shivered as the cold desert night air hit my bare shoulders and legs. Hurrying back to the driver’s side, I slid into my seat.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang. Oh, good. Must be the tow truck driver.
“Hello?”
An older female voice responded, “Hi, Ms. Trent. I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to dispatch anyone until we know your location. Can you tell me exactly where you are?”
I blinked. “Um. I already told the last lady I talked to.”
“Can you tell me again?”
Okay, stay calm. I’d only been on the side of the road for about half an hour. Everything was fine. “Sure. I’m not one hundred percent sure of where I am, but I’m eastbound on I-15 about a hundred miles west of Las Vegas.”
“Are there any mile makers nearby?”
“No.” And I sure as hell wouldn’t wander around in the frigid ass desert to look for one.
She was silent for a long moment. “Um. All right, ma’am. We’ll dispatch someone, and they should be there in about twenty to thirty minutes.”
“Sounds good.” I sighed and dropped the phone on my lap.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.
“Hello?”
A pleasant male voice answered. “Hi, Ms. Trent. I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to dispatch anyone until we know your location. Can you tell me exactly where you are?”
What will happen when the hunter becomes the hunted…
Tempt Not the Cat
© 2009 J.C. Wilder
A woman whose chances for love were destroyed…
After surviving a brutal kidnapping, Erihn Spencer has spent the past eighteen years living in the shadows. Scarred both physically and mentally, she spends her days writing romance novels dealing with the type of relationship she’s avoided. The night before heading into the mountains to start her new novel, a stranger approaches and shakes her world with one perfect kiss.
A man who could be her savior…
From the moment Fayne kisses her, the desire to possess this shy beauty is irresistible. Thrown together in a secluded house in the mountains, he’s torn between his need for her and the secrets that are destined to force them apart. As Erihn struggles to break free from years of self- imposed isolation, he finds he is the one who is now trapped by his desires, his dark self.
Their worlds collide and old secrets lead a bitter enemy to their door.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Tempt Not the Cat:
She moved like a cat, dainty, her feet barely touching the floor.
Fayne leaned against the bar, his pint of Scottish ale forgotten. Through the wide arch leading into the coffeehouse, his gaze followed her as she wove her way through the tables filled with chatting patrons.
Her hair was long and loose, ending just below her backside. To most people, it would appear to be brown but his preternatural eyesight detected glints of red and gold in the long strands. Unbound, it obscured her profile reminding him of Cousin It from The Munsters. Okay, not exactly flattering but the resemblance was undeniable.
Dressed in a long skirt the color of dirt and an enveloping cream-colored shirt, she was as diametrically opposed to the other women in their barely-there summer dresses as chalk was to cheese. Covered from head to toe with her modest, slightly oversized clothes and long, shaggy hair, she looked as if she were trying to hide from something.
Maybe everything?
His chest tightened. He loved puzzles. Curiosity had certainly almost killed this cat a time or two, but that didn’t stop him from his favored pastime. Puzzles drove him mad and women were his favorite riddle. He reveled in their femininity, their scent and their innate sensuality. Basked in the hidden mysteries of their shapely limbs and secretive eyes. Overdosed on their voices and wrapped himself in their beauty while rejoicing in their strength.
In short, he loved women.
His eyes narrowed when the stranger stepped onto the stage. Reaching up to adjust the microphone, her slender fingers curled around the base as she raised it to the correct height. With one slim hand she pushed back her hair, allowing him a glimpse of her profile. Dark brows, a lovely cheekbone and a slightly snubbed nose, her skin was creamy pale and her mouth was lush.
He licked his lips.
The woman glanced to her left and smiled at her friends as they jostled for better viewing positions on the low-slung couch and chairs. A shy smile curved her mouth and a gentle blush swept her skin. She ducked her head as if embarrassed.
Even from here he could sense her nervousness. For some of the preternaturals, emotions could be detected by either taste or scent. With the room crowded with people, for most it would be difficult to pick up on any one person. But not him. Her scent was unique and it had already imprinted itself in his brain, becoming part of him.
Lemon.
Paper.
Flowers. Blue Lady roses to be exact.
And a healthy dose of warm feminine flesh.
Something dark stirred in him, gently nudging the leash of his willpower. The moon was waxing, and the urge to mate was growing stronger. It’d been over ten months since he’d last taken a woman, and the demands of the approaching full moon were taking a toll on his restraint.
After the debacle with the vampire Mikhail during winter solstice last year, Fayne’s pleasure-seeking life had been derailed by the unexpected inclusion of a six-year-old mortal child. He smiled at the thought of the boy he called son, Max. Few things were more important to a were-cat than physical gratification and their own creature comforts, but his son was his top priority. Max came first with him.
Period.
End of story.
Even though he loved Max and would sacrifice anything for his welfare, for the next few weeks Fayne was free to do as he pleased. Max was off with his friend Bliss in South America on an archeological dig and having the time of his life.
Certain that his son was well taken care of, Fayne had other pressing matters to attend to. With only a few more days until the full moon, time was growing short and he had to act fast. He glanced at the women sitting with Shai and Jennifer.
To Shai’s right sat a stunning brunette with dark red claws. She was lovely, but there was something brittle about her. Across from her sat Melanie Reynolds, the movie actress. She wore a barely-there pink leather dress, and her breasts were in danger of escaping. Too overblown and very married—two things he avoided.
There was something to be said about subtlety. As he’d prowled through the years, Fayne realized that he appreciated the subtle woman. The one who lightly dabbed perfume on the back of her knees rather than bathing in it. She wore high-collared shirts and demure lace bras rather than crotchless panties and garter belts. A confident woman didn’t need to proclaim her femininity to everyone around her, it simply was what it was. The women most men would overlook intrigued him the most. The shy ones who didn’t command center stage and constantly play the ‘me me’ game. Women who glanced away rather than returning his gaze boldly. Of course they always looked back again, just in case they were mistaken and he hadn’t been looking at them. The subtle shyness, the faint blush of color on their cheeks when they realized it was them who held his attention. They all had their stories to tell—their darkness and their light.
He lived to ferret out their secrets.
Turning, his gaze landed on the woman standing on the stage. This beautiful l
ittle wren wasn’t so much understating her sexuality as being completely unaware of it. She’d buried her feminine curves beneath layers of ill-fitting clothing and long, heavy hair so that most men would overlook her.
But not him.
What did she look like with no clothing on? Did she prefer serviceable white cotton lingerie or was she the kind of woman who dressed like a schoolteacher on the outside while wearing miniscule thong panties?
His groin tightened.
Either worked for him as lingerie had a tendency to get torn off women’s bodies when he was around. Be it cotton or silk, the only thing he wanted to see it on was the floor.
Glancing over at Shai’s friends, he smiled. No, he’d found his mate. He smiled as he turned his attentions back to the woman on the stage. She’d do perfectly.
It was time for the cat to prowl.
My Demon Saint
R. G. Alexander
Would you like to play a game?
Shifting Reality, Book 2
Saint is half human, half demon…all trouble. With his roommate Thomas mated to Margo, and Mac on one of those long, lonely, feeling-eternally-sorry-for-yourself vampire vacations, Saint is on his own and restless.
A lovesick shifter’s request to locate a woman isn’t exactly his idea of fun—he’s no matchmaker—but he agrees. And finds not only his quarry, but a whole lot more than he bargained for: a top player in his own online game that, until now, has somehow escaped his notice. A woman so tempting that when she touches the keyboard with her fingertips, he can feel it right down to his bones.
Housebound for the last few years due to an accident, Ume’s only distraction from the endless physical therapy sessions has been an online role-playing game. When she logs in this time, though, something is different. She finds herself lost in the game—literally—and falling for a mysterious warrior on her way to face the Demon King in his lair.
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