by Jackie Ivie
Stuart selected one of the chairs and fell into it, feeling leather wrap about him, as subtly and gently as his bed did. And then he was swiveling in place and checking cabinets.
“If I’m having a psychotic break-down, the least I could do is dream a theater room like this. I suppose we have surround sound, too. The only thing missing is the cold beer. Or Scotch. Bugger that. Where’s the remote?”
“Why?”
Sounded like that word came from between set teeth. Stuart glanced at her before resuming his search.
“Because this is the most perfect dreamscape I could’ve imagined. Except for the fact I get airsick, of course. And the secondary fact I can’t find a remote. And fact three, it’s darn chilly without my coat. Oh. But that’s right. You’ve got my wardrobe secreted in here somewhere, don’t you?”
Stuart was on his feet and around the screen in the next second, noting absently how quickly he moved and how graceful it felt. He let the observation go. For now. The hall behind the screen was drape-lined, lit by the same recessed lighting, and had two doors on either side, and ended in a double set of doors with very large handles.
“The left.”
His head heard it, but he wasn’t certain his ears did. Stuart shrugged and opened the door on the left and struck masculine gold. The chamber was enormous…for a plane. Then again, he hadn’t seen the size of this jet. He’d been rushed up the stairs, too embarrassed at his shredded clothing to look anything over. Besides, she’d been right in front of him with that pencil-skirt covered ass right at his chin level.
Focus, Stuart .
Yeah. Focus. He’d been diagnosed with adult ADHD. That’s right. No dream was complete without that. And it was kicking in. Great.
The bed matched the room from the looks of it: King-sized…maybe even Grand King sized, with a large circular headboard painted in shiny black lacquer. The bed was turned down, showing blood red satin sheets that jumped out against the pristine white comforter; thick with down if the quilting was any indicator. It was masculine heaven and even done in the color scheme of his own flat. Stuart shrugged out of what was left of his shirt and crossed to one of the black lacquered closet doors covering one wall. There was a door in the opposite wall he was going to assume led to a bath. He’d check it out later. For certain it was done in black fixtures and chrome, to match the rest of his room. The entire place was in clean, crisp colors of pristine white, deep black, and dark bloody red.
But these weren’t his clothes.
Stuart frowned as he shoved through hangers. That wasn’t fair. He’d dreamed the perfect woman into existence, and he already had proof of infidelity. Damn.
“Finding everything, Doctor Findlay?”
“These are not my clothes.”
There was an accusatory tone in his voice. Stuart winced, and felt an odd thickness to his eye-teeth and looked about for a mirror. They’d designed a room without one mirror. Not even on the headboard. Or… He looked up hopefully. Nope. There wasn’t one on the ceiling, either. How could he design an imaginary bedroom and fail to put the rudimentary equipment of a mirror on the ceiling?
“Of course not. You were wearing the wrong colors and not one of your suits fitted you properly.”
“You said my wardrobe was here.”
“Yes. I did. And yes. It is. Just look.”
“I would not have selected pin-striped jackets and black trousers. And look at this tie. Not my style and totally unsuitable—. Just what do you think you’re doing?”
She’d come around the front of him, looking up at him as one hand threaded through his hair. His mind calculated facts. She was looking up at him. She wasn’t wearing her heels. Or hose. She had black tinted polish on each toe. The woman must love black shades and that was just over-dramatic. Her hair was already the color and shade of charcoal, with ebony-hued strands throughout it. She used smoke-shaded eye-liner and had unbelievable black lashes. She’d shed her skirt. And her jacket. And had the most incredible legs, the most divine smell, that it got him primed with every passing moment. If she didn’t watch herself, they were going to be flat out on that bed and it wouldn’t matter whose clothing was in the closet.
Focus, Stuart .
He should’ve filled the prescription for the attention deficit thing. Maybe the voice in his conscience would shut up.
“This…is a clear violation of rule one,” he told her, clearing his throat mid-way.
“I know.”
The hand didn’t disappear from his hair. If anything, it clenched tighter. She stepped nearer, too, pressing really nice breasts into his upper belly.
“And…I have no mirrors.”
“You won’t need them.”
She went to tip-toes, sliding her nipples along his skin with the motion.
That’s ridiculous, Stuart. She’s still got her shirt on. And a bra. Or chemise. Or whatever gorgeous women in your dreams wear while driving you mildly insane .
“How will I be able to…tie a decent four-in-hand?”
“I’ll help you.”
She was sliding her mouth along his jaw, licking at the stubble there, and creating a riot of male need that manifested itself right against the lush skin of her abdomen. He couldn’t help it. Some things didn’t need much stimulation. Stuart held his hands right above the sweet curve of her buttocks, forcing the tremor away before he touched her, while preparing for the fight he might get.
And then he just did it, reaching for two handfuls of ass in order to lift her into the perfect position to return the kissing motions as he was receiving them. With her first tongue-flick, his knees wavered, swaying them slightly. Or maybe that was the jet moving finally. Or maybe it was his imagination, since there wasn’t anything weak and wobbly about how he held her glued to him, in order to maneuver hard flesh between sweet thighs.
“I don’t even know your name,” he whispered.
Damn it! Of all the inane things to say! He nearly groaned aloud.
She pulled back from him, gave him an enigmatic look from eyes so deep and dark he was in danger of sinking right into them, and then she smiled, putting little lines into play at the sides of her eyes, as well as showing him very wicked-looking fangs. He blinked twice. Fangs?
“You have fangs,” he informed her.
“I know. I’m a vampire.”
“Oh. Right.” He’d forgotten that part of this.
“You have them, too. Tiny ones. Just starting to erupt…like little spikes.”
She made it sound like he was pre-puberty and lacking in the size department.
“I have tiny fangs?”
He bristled in embarrassment before he could help it and his voice demonstrated every bit of it. That was just another bit of idiocy in this dream. And then she reached upward and latched onto his chin, sucking a kiss into play all along his jaw. Everything pulsed, and the jet moved abruptly, sending him with uneven steps right back into the bed.
He’d been right. They were flat-out atop the white down-filled comforter and it didn’t matter whose clothes were in the closet or anywhere else. She was atop him with her legs clamped about his hips, her hands splayed onto his pecs, and her mouth doing all kinds of wicked things to his. He felt her slice along the sensitive inner skin of his lower lip and start sucking, and he nearly came off the bed with reaction.
“What are you doing?” The voice that came out rasped and didn’t sound at all like him. It didn’t sound like he was making words, either.
“Tasting you. Loving…you. Here.”
She did some sort of motion that slid her lip flesh against what felt like his canine teeth. Stuart touched his tongue there, tasted…and then lurched onto her for more. It was like being deep in water and struggling for the surface. It was better than garnering a lung full of air when breaking the surface. He knew there was more and he was going to get it. Stuart ripped at the blouse she was wearing, and felt her fingers at his belt, unzipping his fly, and then helped her shove his trousers and boxer
briefs off. He kicked them over the side with the same lunging motion he was using to find her bra hooks and get them open. They wrestled. They fought. The plane picked up speed beneath them, and then he hooked one of her legs and tossed her onto her back atop what was now a blood-smeared comforter.
Blood?
Stuart blinked on the red staining his vision, fogging everything. He was dizzy with blood loss. Or something. Stuart shook his head to clear it. Didn’t work. He didn’t want her hurt. And he didn’t want to stop. The vision splayed before him contained more lust and beauty than anyone could imagine, and he was too far gone. She had her hands against his chest, holding him from her, while the legs wrapped about his hips gave her ballast to shove her loins at him in a cadence of rhythm that matched her pleas.
“Stuart, please? Please? Now Stuart! Now…please?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
He hadn’t the vaguest idea where he got the strength to say that. His heart was going to come right out of his chest with the force of each beat.
“You won’t!”
“But…the blood!”
“Yes! More. More!”
“There’s…supposed to be blood?”
She didn’t answer and he didn’t even care. Her hands changed to claws of intent, gouging cuts all along his chest and making him even more light-headed. Blackness surrounded his view, brought on by the siren in his arms and the motion of a jet speeding into take-off, and the absolute ecstasy of the suckling sounds she made once she latched onto his open wounds and fed.
She wasn’t getting all of it. Stuart hardened his hands about her hips, shoved her upward on the bed, angled his head to her throat, and used his tiny fangs to pierce flesh in the exact same moment that he rammed into her.
And totally lost his mind.
Moisture surrounded him, coming in a breath-stealing flow, careening over shoals full of it. He was drowning. He was pumping. He had her gripped in place for a ramming motion that was guaranteed to send her over the edge with him. He watched each and every time she reached fulfillment, gained energy and strength and stamina from her release before making certain she knew and felt it. The jet left land, sending them against the headboard with the angle of it, and Stuart rolled to take the brunt of it rather than bruise one spectacular inch of that gorgeous woman-body.
The new position just gave her a solid hand grip. Stuart grabbed for her waist as she lifted, trying to hug into the headboard, mashing him between the mountain of pillows at his back and the churning mass of woman she turned into, as she rode him until he thought his head might actually fly off.
Sweet—!
He’d never experienced anything like the pressure that accompanied every one of her lunges; each lift of her body and resultant slam back into his pelvis, rocking him with her primeval motions; and definitely not the stinging pleasure that must have come from having claw-like appendages buried into his chest. It didn’t feel like her fingers had latched onto him, but right into him.
And there was blood. Rivers of it seemed to cover her, staining the black of his vision with more red. Thick. Sweet-smelling. Mind-numbing and soul-quenching. More flooded atop it, until even the walls seemed to ooze it, staining the pristine white with red. He was blacking out, losing consciousness, fading in and out of reality with every one of her squeezes against him. And then he felt it. He was soaring every bit as fast and high as the jet. Erupting. All the pent-up pressure releasing with such power, he opened his throat and lungs and yelled at the wonder of it as his body pulsed, releasing his seed into her, until everything went black.
He heard a scream and sobbing. More of both. It was his dream woman, her voice angry and violent and demanding, forcing his mouth to make sucking motions while she sent liquid down his throat. And then he knew absolutely nothing.
CHAPTER FIVE
“New assignment.”
Vaughn’s voice came through the speaker at her elbow, rousing Sasha from a semi-trance. It was a welcome distraction. She stretched. Yawned. Put both legs fully before her and wriggled her toes. She’d never felt so relaxed and blissful. She was nearly humming with it.
“I asked not to be disturbed.”
“It’s Akron.”
“Fine.” Sasha sighed.
“He’s giving you a choice this time. Budapest or Monte Carlo.”
“Which one pays more?”
“Budapest.”
“Take Monte Carlo. I’ll be a sitting duck anywhere else.”
Doctor Findlay came from around the screen, adjusting his collar and tie, and Sasha’s bottom lip dropped. She was having trouble not only with controlling her mouth, but her breathing as well.
“Not even my mother would make me wear this.”
“What’s…wrong with it?” And why did her voice have to croak like a frog with the words?
“I look like an extra in a spy film. From the 60’s. And I’m taking a guess at that since you don’t stock mirrors.”
“You look…amazing.”
“Right. Like I believe that. This attire is dated. Where did you procure it? Salvation Army?”
“I had all your wardrobe designed, Stuart.”
“Then it’s your taste at fault. And how, pray tell, would you have known my measurements? My exact measurements? Hmm?”
“My taste is impeccable. You look spectacular. Truly. I’m drooling.” And saying odd things her mind wasn’t clearing first.
“Your tailor is a disgrace.”
“I’m serious, Stuart. You really do look…perfect.” Her voice dropped on the last word.
“I feel like a game cock on display. A Findlay wouldn’t be caught dead in this. There’s no room in this jacket for even breathing. Let alone trying to move my arms. And these pants? Fitted slacks like this went out with disco. There’s no way I’d be dreaming and outfit myself like this. A thick robe, some cold beer, and a remote – yes. This? No. Which does mean all this is your fault.”
“Monte Carlo, then?”
Vaughn’s voice floated out into the space through the intercom. He was laughing. If Sasha could blush, she’d be blushing. Stuart didn’t do more than put his hands on his hips, which just showcased how narrow they were, while the jacket sleeves molded to every muscle on his arms.
“Yes.” The word trembled.
“Very good. Expect touchdown at 4 am. Given wind speed.” The intercom went silent.
Stuart cocked a smile, and Sasha had to look away.
“What time is it anyway?”
She couldn’t help it. Something about him drew her. She glanced back as Stuart settled into one of the chairs with an ease and grace he’d lacked before. There wasn’t one ripping sound coming from anywhere in his attire. It fit perfectly. It was exactly as she’d ordered it decades ago, during one of her lonelier episodes, when she’d thought of her mate.
But nothing could have dreamt Stuart into being. Sasha darted her glance away again before he caught her. This was such unfamiliar territory. She detested it. She’d hated men for so long, it didn’t seem possible. The man was truly jaw-dropping, pulse-stirring, and something else. He was sensual now. Every move in his body defined and carried that exact description.
“So…why are we going to Monte Carlo anyway? If we’re gambling, I need funds. I’m sure they have ATMs there. They do, don’t they?”
“I have a job to do.”
“You’re working?”
Sasha nodded.
“This should be good. What is it you do?”
“I’m an assassin.”
He hooted, then sobered. “Of course you are. What else would a vampire be doing?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Oh please. Do I look that naïve? Although it is a very original idea for a career. And fairly entertaining. So tell me. What did he do?”
“Who?”
“The fellow we’re assassinating. I assume it’s a fellow. We aren’t going after a woman are we?”
“ We aren’t doing
anything, Doctor Findlay.”
“Oh no. If you think I’m letting you out of my sight, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Sasha felt warmth pumping through her entire body, carrying emotion she’d thought long-lost and buried. She could feel heat even in her toes. It was more than frightening. It was damn near terrifying.
“I mean honestly. Let’s recap, shall we? I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what decade this is. I don’t know who you are – or what you might be; why I’m here with you; where my clothes are. And finally – and this is very important: I am definitely dreaming. Anything else is an improbability of universal proportions. Hmm. I should’ve put that conjunction of words in my dissertation. I might have gotten a better grade.”
He’d ticked each point off on newly elegant fingers. She was so grateful she hadn’t looked higher than that, allowing him to glimpse what might be on her face and in her eyes that she had to blink away an instant rush of actual tears. Stupid Sasha. Stupid man. Why hadn’t she just killed him when she’d found him?
Because he’s your mate . And nobody chooses that. He probably thought her scowl was over his list of items. She hoped so.
“So. Who are we killing?”
“Richard Cunningham.”
“From the sitcom? I’m really loving this dream.”
He grinned at her and Sasha could kick herself for looking. A black-and-white documentary of World War Two was playing on her 60-inch screen. There wasn’t much sound, though. She moved her gaze to it as if fascinated.
“So, tell me. What did poor Cunningham do to get himself on a hit list anyway?”
“He owes the wrong people. And then, he tried to romance the funds from the wrong family’s daughter.”
“Sounds like a complete fool. He has my sympathy. Can’t we just rough him up a bit? Maybe beat some funds out of him?”
“ We are not doing anything.”
“So you say. But continue. Please. I’m totally entertained, and since all you’ve got playing is the History Channel, it appears I have to find my own entertainment. Speaking of…why are we watching the History Channel?”