by Hughes, Mary
She grabbed his wrists and yanked him down onto her. Her mouth was already open and she branded him with her hot tongue. His nipples cranked up with a zing and his cock engorged with a rush of blood. “Drahý.” The word was panted. “You are wild in the bedroom.”
“With you I am. With you, I can be anything, everything I want to be.” She wrapped a leg around his hip and twisted. He found himself on his back, her seated on his hips, the damp press of her pants steaming him. She grabbed the champagne bottle and tilted it over his chest. He stopped breathing in anticipation of the thin trickle…she jerked the bottle. Champagne jumped out, splashing and fizzing joyfully onto his bare skin. He hissed his pleasure.
She set the bottle down, planted palms next to his chest and leaned into him, tongue first. Oh, she was so very clever with that strong, trained tongue. Touching it to him, dancing over his nipples, his skin, little pink flicks of tongue he could watch and anticipate and feel licking trails of fire along him.
She worked her way down his torso, peeking up when she reached the top of an arrow of rougher hair. She grinned and reached out with her tongue to continue her journey.
He grabbed her arms and flipped her. She landed on her back with a soft surprised whuff. He catapulted down her body, flipped open and unzipped her pants, and with one yank stripped her of them and her panties before she could even blink. Her pussy was already damp, her clitoris beginning to rise from her curls. He seized the champagne bottle and poured a stream directly onto her clit. She shrieked. “Fizzy?” he asked pleasantly. “Cold,” she said. “Let me warm you then,” he said, and pushed her thighs apart and French kissed her sweet pussy.
She moaned. He thrust his tongue into her and began to fuck her with it. He had immaculate rhythm and soon had her moaning and arching and plucking her nipples with her fingers. He still had the bottle and raised it to pour champagne on her breasts.
She grabbed that wrist and twisted him onto his back. Again he could have overpowered her but was enjoying this back and forth too much. Even in this they were evenly matched. Especially in this. She continued the twist to spin over him, straddling his head and taking his wrist down to his groin. Mmm. This could get interesting.
She tipped his hand and poured fizzy liquid directly onto his engorged erection. He shouted. She dropped her head to grin at him in triumph, her face upside down and framed by her breasts. His erection jacked up another size at the sight. Setting the bottle on the bed, she steadied it with one hand then used the other to grab his cock and stuff it in her mouth.
Air left his lungs. He arched hard, thrusting himself deeper into her wet cavern. But two could play at that game. He pressed the small of his back into the mattress, grabbed her hips in both hands, curled up and ate her pretty pussy.
She sucked him down in surprise. He heard her draw him into her throat…and then she upped the ante by swallowing. He gasped. She swallowed again. He nearly came. She did something with the back of her tongue and throat against his near-bursting glans and he ruptured.
He pulled from her, ejaculating in the air, and spun her beneath him. The champagne erupted from the bottle like a geyser, covering them both. He didn’t care. He dragged her knees up beside her shoulders and impaled her exposed sex with his still-spasming cock.
She gasped, her eyes flying wide. He thrust, his erection going diamond-hard in her exquisite heat. Her eyes rolled back with a moan. He drove repeatedly into her, his cock engorging to fill her, to stretch her. She gasped a sensual, almost pained nnnggh. Her legs folded over his waist and her arms embraced his neck, bringing them closer. Their skin, sticky with drink and heat, began to make little thuck sounds as he rode her. Her legs tightened, pulling him into her dark, wet depths. She was almost ready. He slowed his thrusts and ground harder, deeper into her. She was swollen and soft, her clit a hard little nose rising to meet him. Her breath rasped against his neck and in his ears her heart hammered a duet with his.
He kissed her. “Rocky, love. Wife. My heart forever. I will love you a thousand nights and ten thousand more.”
Her fingers bit into his shoulders. “Loveyoutoo.” She ground her pubis hard into him, her clit pressing wantonly. “More.”
“But on this night of nights, I will ask you one more time if I might share your life completely, in body and soul and blood.”
“Uh.” She lifted her chin, exposing the frantic pulse beating in her soft throat.
“I ask if we two might become one in the way of my kind—”
“Shut up and bite!”
He grinned, baring his fangs, and bit.
His canines mated her throat as he buried his cock to the hilt, sinking tooth and sex into her wet heat like coming home. She arched hard against him and climaxed, her pussy spasming in hard rhythmic contractions. It sucked his cock like a straw. With a roar, he erupted into her.
He kept moving to draw it out, wrapping her in his arms, embracing her with body and fangs and cock and being wrapped in the gift of her body in return. The waves of pleasure peaked and began to ease.
He bit her again, feeling the sweet surrender of her delicate flesh. She cried out as a second orgasm shuddered through her. He began riding her again, rocking and thrusting and driving. Her moans deepened. He licked the trickle of life at her neck, felt the warmth coursing into his bloodstream, more effervescent than any champagne.
He bit her a third time. Her eyes scrunched in ecstasy, her fingers clutched blindly at his hair. Her frenzy spurred his; his renewed thrusting was like a bronco. She arched into him, scrubbing her sticky breasts into his chest. Mouth open on her neck, he thrust one last time and buried himself soul-deep inside her.
She erupted in a scream. Her pussy clenched his cock. Hard clenching, like a vise. She panted and moaned through it. Her eyes were tightly shut, her fingers twisted in his hair as if she were being tossed about in a star-strewn universe and he was her only anchor. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to the painful jerk of her fingers and relentless searing squeeze of her pussy. Roaring in release, he threw himself onto that boat scudding the stars with her.
The world behind his closed eyelids flared white. Is this heaven?
An angel appeared before him, her chestnut hair and blue eyes soothing color in the almost painful brightness. She smiled. We won’t let it be anything else.
His body relaxed. His eyes opened to hers in reality. Their hearts thudded in a unison rallentando. The sweat and champagne cooled on his skin. She gave a little shiver.
He wrapped her in his body and warmed his blood. She snuggled into him with a sigh. He knew a peace more profound than even his days as human because he was no longer alone and his angel was right. Life might challenge them. But they’d recovered the diamond together; they’d bested the Soul Stealer together.
Whatever life threw at them, they’d work it out together. Through suffering and sorrow, glory and joy. Through thick and thin, sickness and health, they’d make their life’s music.
Stronger and more beautiful music, because they’d make it together.
About the Author
Hugs! I live in the United States Midwest with my alpha-husband beta-reader, two adult kids who constantly amaze me, two grandcats who demand equal lap time, a basement full of spare computer parts, and a music room with a romantic cello and a flute for twisting my fingers playing orchestral birds.
I’d love to hear from you!
Write me at [email protected].
Or visit me online!
Website: www.maryhughesbooks.com
Facebook: MaryHughesAuthor
Twitter: @MaryHughesBooks
Look for these titles by Mary Hughes
Now Available:
Biting Love
Bite My Fire
Biting Nixie
The Bite of Silence
Biting Me Softly
Biting Oz
Beauty Bites
Coming Soon:
Assassins Bite
Beauty is ski
n deep…but the beast goes all the way.
Beauty Bites
© 2013 Mary Hughes
Biting Love, Book 6
When top Minneapolis ad man Ric Holiday is asked to design a campaign for a quaint little town, his first reaction is absolutely not. Meiers Corners is too near Chicago, home of the vampire who turned him as an orphaned boy.
Then the city sends an angel-faced med student with a body made for sin to plead their case. Synnove Byornsson is the ray of sunshine Ric hasn’t felt since he was human.
Armed with determination and a micro miniskirt, Synnove is prepared to crash Holiday’s penthouse cocktail party—and to dislike him on sight. But Mr. All-Style-No-Substance turns out to have a deadly smile, a barely restrained, feral strength, and piercing blue eyes that look at her—not at her cleavage.
Unfortunately Synnove has competition in the form of a sly temptress with a counterproposal. For the first time in her life, Synnove must cash in her genetic lottery ticket and fire back with some sizzle of her own—or her beloved Meiers Corners could become the new Sin City.
Warning: Contains a doctor with a bod for sin, an ad exec with a chip on his shoulder, sarcasm, sex, and a cabin full of annoying friends. Secrets are revealed. One heart-stopping, horrific moment leads to the ultimate of happily-ever-afters.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Beauty Bites:
A shiver hit me at Ric Holiday’s hot, promising smile. Testosterone plays a starring role in sexual arousal in males, but in women its purpose is less clear…
Argh. What was wrong with me? No lusting, especially after the opposition. My cousin had charged me with a job, and while I wasn’t against sex overlapping with work per se, I’d seen it cause aggravated stupidity too often. Extended bathroom breaks and three-hour lunches, sneaking around like nobody knows when in fact everybody does and resents the extra work.
Holiday’s smile sharpened, a wicked glint of teeth edging it like a knife. Pure lust shimmered through me. Oh yeah. Lubrication is followed by vasocongestion of the vaginal walls…crap.
I had to escape that promising smile, stat.
But the path to the study was clogged with people. I was screwed, and not in the good way.
Then Ric “Moses” Holiday extended one elegant hand toward his study. The sea of black, gold and silver miraculously parted. “Off you go now.”
All that, with just the force of his personality. Ooh.
Before I got too girly over it, I paused to wonder if he had any real character to back it up. I heard sizzle. Didn’t mean he had the steak.
His smile broadened. His eyes twinkled with an I have all the steak you need.
I gasped and escaped into Holiday’s study.
It was an upscale man cave—walnut wainscoting, leather couches and recliners, a leather-and-oak wet bar, and a seventy-inch smart TV, the ultimate in flickering fires. Its impressiveness was kicked stratospheric by the 7.1 surround sound, eight speakers’ worth of movie-quality goodness.
But an upscale man cave is still a man cave, and I’m not much into sitting on skinned cow. I crossed the room to a set of French doors cracked open to an evening breeze.
My breasts tightened. Not arousal but simple chill; I’d let go of the suit coat. I pulled it closed. Maybe Holiday made a habit of loaning articles of clothing to women. None of my business, but strangely, the thought bothered me. As if, for some reason, I wanted to be special to him. Had to be hormones making my brain mushier than normal. Stupid norepinephrine. I shook it off.
Nudging the French doors wider, I inhaled. The air, lightly scented with petunias, reminded me of home, back before my mother and father sold the house to travel the world, currently in Turkey or Abu Dhabi or something. Under the floral odor was a darker scent, mellow wood smoke with the tang of something spicy, elusive but mouthwatering. Unconsciously I turned my head to take the scent deeper—and buried my nose in the shoulder of Holiday’s suit jacket.
My cheeks burned. The cooler outside air seemed less a treat and more a necessity now—nothing to do with Mr. Flamingly Handsome Holiday. But of course I was lying to myself.
Didn’t matter. Uncomfortable was uncomfortable. I slipped outside. And stopped when my mandible hit the floor.
The terrace—it was too large and elegant to be a simple porch—was the size of my whole student apartment. Its black basalt surface was swept clean. An artful scattering of potted trees and graceful, discreet statuary merely enhanced the terrace’s stark elegance.
I crossed to the far side.
The edge was safeguarded by a heavily lacquered oak railing supported by worked iron spindles. I ran one hand along the rail’s silky smooth surface. This wasn’t conspicuous consumption supported by a maxed-out credit card. This was a sign of solid wealth. Advertising sizzle apparently paid better than I knew.
The cooler air, combined with the railing’s smooth feel, soothed me. Tensions I’d carried since even before the elevator incident drained out of my muscles. What a mess my life had become, that even that obnoxious incident seemed mostly an annoyance.
Leaning elbows on the railing, I looked out onto the Minneapolis-St. Paul night. Holiday’s penthouse was high enough that the view was rooftops and stars instead of the sides of buildings. Random fireworks burst in the air. Below me, streetlights blazed. The lamps were so distant they might have been stars.
What the heck was I doing here in Rich Man’s Canyon? Despite my runway looks, I was a hometown girl, raised in the small German-immigrant-settled city of Meiers Corners, Illinois. Ric Holiday’s rich penthouse and vast terrace made my tummy shimmy. If I hadn’t heard the desperation in Twyla’s voice, I’d have thought she’d reverted to another of her endless childhood pranks on me.
But she had been desperate, and I loved her like a sister. Besides, she invoked You Owe Me A Favor, calling due everything from when I’d borrowed her best suit for my med school interviews to covering for me the time I’d broken her Grandma Tafel’s reading glasses using them to magnify bugs. Although I put my foot down when Twyla added twenty years of interest. Favor interest, really. Everyone knows you have to call “Bank” or it doesn’t count.
Twyla was actually my second cousin, our grandmothers being sisters, although Meiers Corners was so insular I was related to half the population. If my father had been a native too, that percentage would have been higher.
But Twyla had a problem. Meiers Corners’s local economy was too local; the city was in danger of going bankrupt. The solution? Tourism. The single benefit of straitjacket insularity is that we’re steeped in local flavor. We have Quaint Local Shoppes coming out Ye Olde Sphincter.
So tourism seemed a natural fit, and was indeed working great, except for getting the word out. After all, tourism without tourists was, um…M.
Which was where Ric Holiday came in. Holiday Buzz International was the Número Uno ad shop for innovative campaigns. Holiday thought so outside the box that even circles were too square. Meiers Corners needed that desperately. We’re hard workers but tend to think right angles are the epitome of chic.
So Twyla, wearing her city admin hat, called Holiday. But he said no.
So the mayor called him. Holiday said no. Our chief of police called him. Holiday said no. The mayor’s secretary Heidi called, cracking her whip. Holiday said something unprintable that translated to no. Then our top lawyer and prime negotiator Julian Emerson called.
Holiday wouldn’t even speak to him.
Twyla said enough. Time to meet Holiday face to face, to find out what the sticking point was. Then she could apply either carrot (the mayor) or stick (Heidi) as necessary.
Time, Twyla said, to confront the lion in his den.
If she’d met lithe, tawny, forceful Ric Holiday in person, she couldn’t have gotten that any more right.
I fingered the expensive material of his suit coat. There was something untamed about him, sinewy strength barely civilized by suit and tie.
A bolt of lust sheared through me, so
long and hard that I shuddered.
Which was of course when the French doors behind me opened.
“Here you are. Escaping the heat? I knew you were beautiful, but now I see you’re smart too.”
I spun to behold the owner of that deep voice. He’d changed into another suit, this one a charcoal gray that contrasted sharply with his azure eyes. In even those few moments I’d forgotten how handsome he was—so gorgeous he made my eyes hurt, my only excuse for blurting, “Did you know that seeing a good-looking person of the opposite sex makes the brain release dopamine which triggers pupil dilation?”
I slammed my stupid dopamine-dilated eyes shut. This was my opponent. I tugged his coat tighter, thought constricting thoughts, opened my eyes and tried again. “If I were smart, I wouldn’t have gotten my blouse torn.”
He glided closer. “The smartest move of all. Not your fault and yet effective, since you’re here to ask a favor. Visual aids are always useful in negotiations.” His eyes, sparkling with sensual intent, dipped to where his coat covered my cleavage. A smile, full of promise, curved his lips.
That wicked smile was a pilot light to the broiler of my body, igniting every cell, whoosh. I flushed hot, shivered with it.
But my brain wasn’t all that charmed. “Visual aids? Implying I should use sex to negotiate? That was beneath you.”
His smile pursed. “The bra isn’t a Temptress Siren Special? Retail $199. A thirty-six D unless I miss my guess, but a bit too small for you.” His eyebrows rose. “It’s not yours, is it?”
“I find it disturbing that you observed all that in a glance.” I’d thought his gaze had been on my face in the lobby.
“Good peripheral vision.” He quirked a grin. Devastatingly handsome morphed to boyishly attractive, actually even more devastating.
I squashed a groan. “Then what were you suggesting with the ‘visual aids’ crack?”
“My dear Synnove, I wasn’t suggesting anything. Merely observing.” He handed me a champagne flute. “Housekeeping is bringing you another blouse.”