I'm the Vampire, That's Why

by Michele Bardsley

  The click of Patrick's phone snapping shut pulled me out of the memories. We looked at each other, both of us feeling the weight of Sharon's death, feeling how it enchained us to other deaths, to other losses.

  "Is this what it means to be a vampire—witnessing these horrors over and over?" I asked.

  "I wish I could tell you something comforting that would not be a lie."

  "Yeah. Me, too."

  The sun would rise soon. I knew this not because of the changing colors of sky, but because of the weird malaise squeezing me into unconsciousness.

  Patrick scooped me into his arms. "C'mon, love. I know you're tired."

  We had to leave Sharon, alone and ravaged, beneath the broken wood shards of the windmill. It felt like a final indignity to her, to abandon the one who'd been friend to Patrick and might've been friend to me.

  It was pure psychology to suddenly feel the need for physical connection. I snuggled into Patrick's embrace and he held me tightly. He flew me all the way home and he didn't let me down until he had taken me upstairs and into the bedroom.

  I worried about Lorćan. And I wondered about my memories of the night I had been attacked… was I wrong? Had there been two creatures? Or only one? Had the last human vestiges in Lorćan allowed him to talk to me? Maybe he'd only wanted to tell us that he'd killed Sharon and that's why he wanted to meet at the golf course.

  But what if someone had managed to "listen in" on our conversation and set up Lor? Maybe whoever it was killed Sharon and dragged her to Putt 'Er There. Lor discovered the body before we arrived, panicked, and left so that he wouldn't be accused of her murder. Or maybe he'd been hurt or killed.

  "Damn," I said. "This sucks."

  "Whoever killed Sharon and Emily will pay." Patrick made sure the bedroom door was locked. "For now, we are safe. The clann are safe."

  "That means children, right? Clann?"

  "Yes."

  "What about those other words you're always calling me?"

  His eyes glinted with mischief. "I probably shouldn't admit what they mean."

  "I knew it! You're insulting me!"

  His laughter rolled over me. "You are too easy, love." He looked at me, his amusement fading. "A thaisce means 'my treasure.'"

  "You call me that? Wow. That puts the usual 'honey' and 'baby' endearments to shame. What about the other one? Kay-uh-es-whatever?"

  "We must work on your Gaelic pronunciation," he said. "Céadsearc means… first love."

  Admittedly, I was already feeling mushy toward Patrick, but to be called his first love? Forget mush. I was goo. "Why, Patrick? How can you love me? Don't we need time and dates and long conversations and… and… I don't know? We can't just love each other because you say we're soul mates."

  "I know what I know. If you opened your heart to mine, you would know the same."

  "And my children? Do I abandon them so that I can love you?"

  "Never!" He looked shocked that I would even make the suggestion. Relief flooded me. Not even true soul mate-forever love would drag me away from Jenny and Bryan.

  "Thank you for taking care of them, even though…" I shrugged.

  "Even though what?"

  "Nothing." I didn't want to hear his response to the questions I couldn't yet voice. Soon, we'd have the my-kids-are-first conversation, and soul mates or not, I figured we'd part ways. He'd lost his family and his own life in a terrible, brutal way. How did I ask a man to open his heart to that pain again?

  "I'm really tired," I said because I couldn't think of anything else that would fill up the chasm between Patrick and me.

  Patrick crossed the room and rubbed my shoulders. Knots loosened under the wonderful pressure of his fingers. Sheesh. I had no idea I was that stressed. "Are you staying with me?" I heard the whine in my voice and flinched.

  "Yes."

  "That's good. That's really good." I felt cold and so exhausted, I could probably sleep standing up. I thought about Sharon, her serene, bloated face, her unseeing gaze. Those images interposed on Emily's young face then melded onto Rich's waxen complexion. Death. So much death.

  "Do vampires dream?" I asked. "I don't remember dreaming. But I don't want nightmares. I don't want to feel sad or afraid anymore." I sighed. "That's selfish, isn't it? You know what? I'm tired of feeling selfish, too. I've been a terrible person, Patrick. You have no idea."

  He turned me around and gathered me into his arms. "You are willful and strong and beautiful, love. Do you want dreams tonight? The kind of sweet fantasies that make you forget that you are sad and afraid and selfish?"

  "Hell, yeah." I grinned. "Is it possible for you to control my dreams?"

  "Not the way you think." He stepped back and gave me a heated stare. In an instant, my clothes disappeared and I stood before him naked and shivering.

  "Stan told me vampires could do the disappear/reappear thing because of their molecules or whatever."

  "The removal and creation of clothing is something else. It's sidhe magic. The Family Ruadan's power includes magic, healing, and flight."

  "Not all vampires can fly? Hmmm. But everyone can go all misty."

  "It takes years to learn how to break down your essence into energy, transport to another location, and return to solid form."

  His gaze transferred to the bed and the covers peeled back.

  "God, that's sexy," I said. "You getting naked, too?"

  "No. It's temptation enough to sleep next to you with my clothes on."

  "Hey! I've woken up twice with a naked Patrick next to me."

  "Hmmm. The longer I'm around you, the less I'm able to control myself."

  He could easily keep me in ooey-gooey do-me mode if he kept up with those kinds of compliments. "What's that they say about Irish men? Silver-tongued devils? You kissed the Blarney stone, right?"

  "Who has need of a stone when I have the beautiful lips of Jessica Matthews to warm mine?"

  Oh gawd. Seriously, Patrick was going to turn me into a puddle. People would point and say, "Look, there's where sex-starved Jessica met her end." Exhaustion weighed on me. I crawled between the sheets and sighed at their coolness as my eyes shuttered. I felt the bed dip then Patrick's still-clothed body wrapped around mine. "Tell me, a thaisce, do you want to dream with me?"

  "Yes," I said. "Oh yes."

  I awoke in a thatched-roof cottage. The bed was a simple mattress on rough-hewn logs. In the corner was a hearth, the fire reduced to red embers. I rolled onto my side and noticed a long wooden table situated a few feet away. Above the table was a series of hooks on which hung pitchers and cooking utensils.

  Something about this setting seemed familiar.

  I swung my legs off the bed and noticed I wore a brown cotton dress with a cinched waist and square-cut neckline. Not exactly my usual sleepwear.

  After I stood up and explored the one-room cottage, I wandered outside. The sun was shining from a sapphire sky. I basked in its warmth, in its light for a long, wonderful moment.

  On either side of the little farm were rolling green hills. Nothing but lush and quiet surrounded me. Again, I felt that weird sense of déjà vu. I knew this place… and yet, I didn't think I had ever been here before.

  A few yards away, I spotted another thatch-roofed building—a barn with two horse stalls. One was filled with hay and the other was empty. As I walked inside, I spotted a tall, black-haired Irish god leaning against a post and waiting for me.

  "Patrick?"

  He looked at me, a lazy smile curling his lips. His silver eyes gleamed with pleasure. He wore a loose white cotton shirt, the kind you see heroes wear on the covers of romance novels, tight black breeches, and black riding boots.

  He was the kind of gorgeous you wanted to lick.

  "This is the dream you chose?" I asked as I walked to him. I couldn't resist touching the crisp, black hair peeking from the vee of silk.

  Lust careened through me.

  "I can have you, right?" I asked, sounding desperate and horny. "Because
we're only being naughty in our minds."

  Both my hands tucked inside the shirt and trailed up to his pectorals. His skin was warm and those muscles… Drool City, baby. I leaned forward and placed a kiss between his pecs.

  "Patrick?" I breathed on the spot then darted my tongue across it. Then I flicked his nipples with my fingernails. I felt him quiver under my palms. "Please tell me I can have you."

  His thumb slid under my jaw, lifted my chin. "As you wish."

  It clicked into place then, the familiarity of this setting. I grinned at him. "The Princess Bride?"

  "I pay attention, Jessica." He leaned forward and nipped my lips. "Is this where you want to stay?"

  "Where would you take me?" I asked. "And what would you do with me?"

  He smiled wickedly. The scene around us melted away like a watercolor that had gotten rained on. When the scene righted, we were in a new place.

  He let me go and I explored his chosen setting for our rendezvous.

  In the huge room draped by shadows, the stone walls drew my notice first. A castle? How medieval of Patrick. I grinned. I had never been in a castle before, though I'd hoped to one day travel to Europe and visit a few before I died. Well, maybe I would get to visit 'em now that I was dead.

  The only visible piece of furniture was the biggest bed I'd ever seen. Piled with pillows, the lush red velvet spread only hinted at the decadence underneath it.

  Across from the bed was a large fireplace. It too was faced with gray stone. The blaze warmed the room and created the only light. I smelled sandal-wood and cedar.

  "This is… do you own this place?"

  "I did once. The castle doesn't exist anymore."

  "And this room? Is it your make-out room or something?"

  "Oh yes. I ravished all my women on that bed."

  "Patrick…"

  "Jessica…" His gaze caressed me.

  "So you ravished your women somewhere else?"

  "All over the place," he said dryly. "By the way, did you know that you're naked?"

  I looked down. Whaddaya know. I was nekkid. I blinked and realized that my darling Irishman was deliciously nekkid, too. My gaze took in his clothing-free, lust-inducing bod. "I just want to eat you," I said.

  "Really? Because that could be arranged." He stalked me. "I know just where you could begin such a feast, too."

  I yelped and jumped away from his playful pounce. Laughing, I dove onto the bed and rolled around on it. "Oh my God. This is so soft. It feels like… like melted butter."

  "Butter?" Patrick groaned. "You. Naked. In melted butter."

  "Are we real here?"

  "Ah. You mean human. Yes, if you like. It is a dream. And everything we do to each other will feel real and we will remember it, but love, it will unfold in our minds. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. We're dreaming it. Not living it. So… does it count for the ritual?"

  "No. We must share our bodies and our blood."

  He crawled onto the bed, grabbed my calves, and pulled me to him. The red velvet skidded underneath me, the material sensuously rubbing my skin.

  Patrick knelt between my legs, his hands wrapped around my ankles, and he looked at me like I was the last chocolate in the box.

  "What… what are you doing?"

  "Ssshhh." He sat on his haunches and brought one imprisoned ankle to his mouth. His lips were soft, warm. His tongue flicked the bone, encircled it.

  Little flames of sensation erupted. It had been a long, long time since a man had touched me… since I had felt the want, the need, the desire of another. For another. Patrick's minute attention tortured me deliciously. And scared the hell out of me.

  Rich hadn't been my first man. He'd been my second. The only guy I'd ever married. The last guy I'd ever screwed. We weren't what anyone would call adventurous, but we seemed to do all right. At least, I had thought so. But what did I know?

  The fear of disappointing Patrick nibbled away at my confidence. God, what if he discovered that I was a sucky bed partner? What if I didn't turn him on? What if I did something that just... just what, Jessica? Made him go to another woman?

  No matter how many times your best friend or your therapist or your nosy neighbor says it's not your fault that your spouse was faithless, you don't believe 'em. If only I had tried harder. Been different. Attempted more.

  "What are you thinking about?" asked Patrick.

  "You tell me."

  "I'm not reading your mind," he said. "This is a dream. We're sharing a mental connection, but your thoughts are your own."

  I wanted to blurt, "Nothing! Keep doing that thing with your tongue!"

  But he deserved my honesty.

  "It's… uh, been a while. The last time I did this was with… Rich. My husband. And you know, I probably wasn't that great because he—um… with Charlene."

  "Ah." He rubbed his jaw on the curve of my foot then his lips dragged along my heel. Talk about melted butter! I felt my throat catch, my heart pound. "Jessica, what am I doing that reminds you of Rich?"

  "Nothing. He never did anything with my feet."

  "What a shame." He nipped at my tendon. My belly jumped at the sudden violence, the cruel tenderness.

  "Whoa. Wow." I grabbed hold of the velvet covers and held on. His attention turned to the other foot. More kissing… licking… nipping. "What are you doing to me?"

  "I'm worshipping you."

  What a beautiful thing to say. I turned into mush. I know, I know! I'm such a lame-o. If I had read about a hero saying that in a romance novel, I would've rolled my eyes. But hearing it from the perfect lips of a handsome man who had his mouth on my calf… well, it made me quiver.

  And damn it, I was entitled to quiver.

  "I'm sorry, Patrick. I'm really sorry."

  "Jessica?"

  I didn't want to meet his gaze. He'd know my shame, my fear. But I looked at him, anyway, and all I saw in his eyes was desire, was need… and that Emotion I Will Not Name. "Never apologize to me for how you feel or what you think or who you are." He kissed my instep. "You turn me on, Jessica. I will always want to touch you, to kiss you, to make love to you. I will never get enough of you. Never."

  His words brought daggers of heat plunging into my core. All thoughts of inadequate bedroom techniques, all images of dissatisfied husbands, all doubts of self faded.

  Only Patrick existed.

  Chapter 18

  I wiggled my toes. "You know, the top part of me likes to be worshipped, too."

  "I will get there, love." His promise sent a flutter of anticipation through me. I already felt edgy, hot.

  "I want to touch you."

  "There will be time," he said, "to do as you wish."

  He discovered my knee. He kissed every centimeter of it, flicked his tongue at its dimple. I enjoyed his exploration of what I used to think of as a mundane body part. Lord-a-mercy.

  I almost jumped out of my skin when he lifted my leg to taste the underside.

  "What's the back of the knee called?" he asked.

  "Uh… I don't think it has a name."

  "It should." His tongue wiggled across the sensitive flesh. I gasped as heat twisted from that spot all the way to you-know-where.

  "We could just call it the oh-wow spot," I offered weakly.

  He chuckled and the sound whispered on my skin. His fingers danced down my thigh, skimming close to woo-hoo zone. My breath hissed out as I was denied touch where I really wanted it.

  "Who's the Spanish inquisitor now?" I grumbled.

  Patrick was unmoved by my complaint. He continued to explore my flesh in excruciating detail.

  I opened for him as he leaned down to pay homage to the inner slopes of my thighs, his tongue tracing a sensuous pattern. My whole body ached, trembled.

  "You're so soft," he muttered. "And you smell like honeysuckle."

  "Yeah, that's me—a delicate flower." I smiled widely, an idea perking. "You know how to get honey from a honeysuckle flower, don't you?"

&
nbsp; Patrick's silver eyes were molten passion. Oooh, baby. My heart giddyupped something fierce.

  "Do tell, love."

  "You gotta pluck the flower from the stem."

  His gaze dipped between my legs. "Hmmm."

  "Then at the bottom, there is this little green knob."

  Patrick slid onto his stomach, belly-crawling between my legs. I put my calves on his shoulders as he slid his hands under my ass and pulled me close. He breathed on my… uh, flower, and I nearly lost consciousness.

  "You were saying something about a knob?" he asked, like he was a good student who was listening to the lecture instead of a bad student fantasizing about the hot teacher.

  "Uh… yeah. You pluck the knob, but you gotta be careful and patient or you'll break it off. Then, you draw out the green thingie."

  "Thingie?"

  "Whatever the long green part is… oh, shut up. You're interrupting my very educational speech."

  "Sorry." He breathed on my neglected nether regions again. The whoosh of warm air made me tingle and heat and forget what the hell I was blabbing about.

  "What do you do next?" asked Patrick. He studied me like an anatomist mapping female genitalia.

  "If you've pulled out the green thingie correctly, there is a drop or two of honey. You get to lick it."

  "All that work," he mused. "And so little reward."

  "Oh it's worth it," I said. "I'll show you sometime."

  "I have an idea," said Patrick, as if suddenly inspired.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'll show you my honey-licking technique." He looked down, as if surprised to find himself staring at a woman's vagina. "And look! A flower I can practice on…"

  The first sweep of Patrick's tongue made my hips arch off the bed.

  Holy God!

  He took another taste and another. He created a slow, sweet torment. One that he seemed to like. His moan vibrated deliciously against me. Yeah, he liked it.

  I could count on one hand how many times a guy had given me this kind of intimacy. Rich hadn't liked giving oral sex to me (though he'd loved to be on the receiving end) so I'd rarely gotten such a yowzer gift.

  "Tell me what you want," demanded Patrick in a husky tone. "Tell me what you like."

  "You. This. More." My fingers tunneled through his hair and scraped against his skull. I wanted to pull him closer and to push him away. Tremors rippled, unbearable and exquisite.