Bustin'

by Minda Webber

  His wary expression faded as he finally grasped what he was seeing. Sam's lovely golden hair was a mess, and she was lying on a barrel of wine, her back braced by some sort of cushion. She was slurring her esses, and she had a bottle of wine balanced on her big toe. Sam wasn't just in her cups; she was in her casks. And he had evidence of her transgression in spades. "You're drunk!" he accused.

  "Brilliant de-deduction, Sherlock." Hiccup.

  "You're drunk on the job and you have a bottle of wine on your toe," he added judiciously as he came to stand by her side.

  "Your powers of observation are a-astounding. Maybe you should be a spy. You could spy for America on the Russians. Or, as a Russian spy, you could spy on some other countries. But not on America. That wouldn't be American. And we wouldn't want that. Even though you're Ru-Russian, you do want to be an American, even if you are a spy, right? Can vampires be spies?"

  "I believe you Yankees call this drunk as a skunk," Petroff said. Lifting his eyes to the heavens, he slowly shook his head.

  "Ha! Skunks don't drink, they just stink. Hey, that rhymes. And I'm not drunk, merely in-intoximated," she said seriously, her prim demeanor belied by another hiccup. "Intoxicated."

  Ignoring her, he asked, "Why do you have a bottle of wine on your big toe?"

  Never at a loss for words, she answered, "I was ne… negoat… negotiating with Jules. You know what a sot he was in human form. Well, in ghost form that goes ditto. It took three bottles of wine for him and one for me to get him to agree to move. He's leaving tonight, three sheets to the wind."

  Hiccuping again, she pushed her hair out of her face. "Probably he's already gone. Vanished. Gave up the ghost digs. Rode the old ghost train out of the castle. He tried to drink me under the table, but. I foo… fooled him," she explained grandly as she pointed to the barrel she was sitting upon.

  Petroff's lips twitched. Gesturing to her foot, he asked, "I'm a bit confused. You got him to go because you stuck a wine bottle on your foot?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, again slurring the 5. "He told me his hobby was building those ship-in-the-bottle things. I said I could do it, too," Sam explained. She looked sadly at her foot with the large green bottle attached. "But I didn't have any b-boats."

  Swallowing back a laugh, he had a flash of understanding. "I get the picture. You used your big toe in lieu of a ship. And now it's stuck."

  "And now it's stuck," she repeated. "My gosh, you are bril… brellant. Oh, damn. Smart," she corrected as she leaned over to pat him on the shoulder.

  "Even more than you know."

  Sam grinned lopsidedly and pointed at him, missing by about two feet. "You should say 'thank you' and 'you did a swell job, kid.'" She hiccuped.

  "Sam, oh Sammy," he admired. "You did a fine job of ridding the castle of two of the ghosts. If only you hadn't managed to get yourself plastered in the process."

  "Oh, damned with faint praise! Come on, Petey, admit it—I did a fantastic, fabulous, fu-funking fine job. Oh, whatever! Now you'll want me to do any other critter removal you may need in the future. I will of course be de… delighted. I am the number-one Paranormalbuster in Vermont. Hell, the best in the whole northeastern part of the U.S.—maybe even the world!"

  Hiccuping and smiling brightly, Sam patted herself on the shoulder and almost fell off the cask.

  "Sam, you're good. But you're not that good. Monsters-R-Us is just as formidable," the Prince replied.

  Sam's smile froze on her face, and she hiccupped again while shoving her hair out of her eyes. Those eyes flashed fire as she snapped, "Mea culpa, you lout. I have two ghosts down and gone, to your one in the hand—or should I say in your castle!"

  Smiling enigmatically, he remarked, "While you were working on the chef, I hammered out a solution for Rasputin. He's also leaving," the Prince bragged, proud of the deal he had made with the appalling apparition, and also proud that the castle would now be ghost-free. Business was good. Life was good. All that could use a lift was his sex life. Well, not a lift, he thought wryly; Samantha Hammett managed to "lift" him just by breathing. Still, she was inebriated, and he didn't take advantage of drunken ladies.

  Yes, he was relieved that the galloping gourmet, the bad mad monk and the atrocious artist were all gone. Of course, he was reluctant to tie up the loose ends too quickly if that meant Sam would leave tomorrow morning. He had sampled her Bustin' skills; now he wanted to sample her bustier skills.

  "How?" She appeared all ears—well, and breasts and legs. Her curiosity was rampant in spite of her sluggish mental processes. "That malicious monk was the worst of the bunch."

  "I promised to send him to the land of milk and honey," the Prince explained.

  Sam looked confused.

  "Not really milk and honey, but to his own personal paradise. A land of champagne, caviar and orgies. Hollywood."

  Sam's expression changed from perplexed to proud. "You're almost as smart as you're handsome!" she said. And with another hiccup out of the way, she leaned clumsily over and kissed him passionately on the chin.

  Undeterred by her lousy aim, she added grandly, waving her hands in the air, "Nobody gets the better of Sam Hammett!"

  Her second try had better aim: Her lips burned into his, making his heart pound like thunder. He could feel the beating of her heart, too. She tasted like berries and wine—tart and sweet and wonderful.

  Kissing Pete felt wonderful. Sam ran her hands over his broad shoulders, thinking how safe he made her feel. He made her feel all woman—and horny as hell, if hell could get horny.

  Sam had decided earlier to let the vampire make love to her. As she'd pleaded with Jules the wine in her bottle went down, along with her willpower. In her line of work, all she ever really had was the moment. If she was burnt to a French fry by a fire-breathing demon, killed by a lunging gargoyle or slimed to death by a plasm-pitching ghost, she would deeply regret not taking Pete up on his offer.

  "Let's go to bed," she suggested as their kiss broke, feeling a connection that she had never before felt, a fierce compulsion to be all she could be for him. To share her thoughts and hopes with him and to hold him close and deep within her, giving of herself at the same time she received everything he had to offer.

  He didn't make a move, only stared at her with grim determination.

  "Where's all that seduction you've been throwing at me? Gone with the ghosts?"

  "Let's get that bottle off your foot first," he offered instead. He wanted her desperately, but not drunk. He was ruthless when crossed, a hard, calculating man to do business with; but he didn't take advantage of women, even ones as adorable as Sam. Although, why he should consider her cute when she was got up to the gills, a deceitful wench wearing a big fat wine bottle on her toe, he couldn't quite figure out. In fact, he was stumped.

  With a hard yank he jerked the bottle off her foot. A resounding pop filled the air and Sam screamed.

  "Ouch! You big bully, you did that on purpose!"

  "Of course I did. I had to get the bottle off," the Prince explained patiently, without any trace of remorse.

  "Well, I won't go to bed with any vampire who hurts my big toe, even if his kiss knocked my socks off." And with those faintly damning words of praise, Sam closed her eyes and went to sleep.

  Petroff picked up the sotted female, sighing as he realized what a hard day's night this was going to be. It appeared that Samantha Hammett was never going to go easy into any bed, let alone his.

  Carrying her to her room, he pulled back the covers of her bed with one hand and gently deposited her on the mattress. Trying hard not to think about what he was doing, he removed her jeans. He sighed again.

  Sam was short in height, but her legs were perfectly proportioned for her size and well muscled. She was very toned and fit. He bit his lip, his body at full attention.

  This was murder: standing here staring at her luscious legs and the paradise between. Cursing softly in Russian, he unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons and slip
ped her sweater off her shoulders. She was wearing a low-cut lacy bra in dark blue, which matched her lacy panties. Pale, rose-colored nipples peeked through where the lace was sparse.

  Oh, she was beautiful, half-naked and he was hungry, horny and dying to do what a man did when a woman was dressed only in her underwear: unzip his Levi's and hump away.

  But reaching for his zipper, he struggled with his conscience, damning both himself and Sam. He couldn't take her like this.

  Sam woke up to see the Prince standing over her, his expression taut. She smiled sleepily. He was better than the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus all rolled into one, and she could only imagine the gift he had for her. "You're pe… peeping."

  He seemed genuinely offended, his voice harsh. "I'm not peeping. Russian princes don't peep."

  Sam looked down at her half-clad body and giggled. "Looks like you're peeping to me."

  "I wasn't peeping," he repeated huffily. "I was helping you undress. I reasoned that you would be more comfortable undressed."

  "Imagine, a Russian vampire prince getting all hot and bothered about peeping." It had clearly wounded his dignity, and she regretted that. "Jeez, I'm sorry I accused you of peeping, and I'm sorry I fell asleep. But I'm not sleepy now." She yawned.

  He arched a brow. "You drank too much. Now go back to sleep." His expression dark and hungry, he turned away. His conscience had won against his nether brain, and he was not a happy prince.

  She yawned again, patting the bed beside her. "I don't want to be alone. I want you to make love to me. All night long. All through the night, and with that rather impressive bulge I see making a dent in your jeans, Peter." She grinned at her own silliness.

  Unfortunately, the Prince didn't share her smile. It appeared that he was hard to make laugh. Well, he was at least hard.

  "I told you time and again that my name is Petroff!" he warned grumpily, watching every move she made. His body was tense and aching.

  "Peter, Peter, vampire feeder. Had a guest and couldn't keep her… satisfied." Sam giggled.

  "Is this some kind of new American torture? You get drunk, ask me to have sex with you and then insult me with childish nursery rhymes?"

  "What can I say? I'm a fun kind of girl." For a man who had been hunting her since the moment they met, his reluctance struck Sam as rather old-fashioned. It was sweet, but just plain stupid.

  "Hellfire!" he said. "You're a pain in the ass and other more important regions. Besides, I thought you didn't get involved with your clients, mix business with pleasure." But if she jiggled her breasts just, one more time, he just might forget honor and give her the most wickedly wonderful ride of her young life, his conscience be damned.

  Sam shrugged, her hair falling into her eyes. She pushed it sloppily back. "You are technically no longer a client. The business is done. You are ghost-free as of tomorrow."

  "Hmm. It would appear so," he agreed.

  She stared at him, then asked softly, "Did you know you're a hunk? Even if you are undead. Every now and then I can still see some of the boy in the man and the man in the vampire. And I'm lonesome," Sam pouted. She pushed herself up on her elbows, causing her breasts to squeeze together, a feast for the eyes and mouth. She hoped the Prince was paying attention. With rapid movements made messy by her inebriated state, she patted the mattress beside her one more time.

  "I don't take advantage of women," he said, his voice hoarse with need. "But I must admit, you don't seem as drunk as you were in the wine cellar."

  She wanted him, but she was suddenly sleepy and a little bit dizzy. "I have a weird metabolism. Alcohol moves fast through my system. Give me a couple of hours and I'll be good as new. So if you come to bed now, you can wake me later with a surprise. How about it, Peter?"

  He growled at the use of his name and the image she created with her hot little mouth. Still, he held his ground, searched her face for the truth. He could both see and smell her lust for him. The dizzy, unfocused look she was wearing earlier had receded. Now she merely looked tired.

  She dropped back down on the pillows, opened the covers and sighed, "For Pete's sake, come to bed."

  He almost shredded his clothes getting undressed. For Peter's sake he would come to bed. He grinned as he climbed in, then laid down beside Sam and pulled her close, holding her tight and breathing in her spicy sweet scent. She was again asleep. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was close to midnight. He would give her three hours and then she was in for the longest, hottest ride of her life.

  All for Pete's sake. Wasn't Pete a lucky boy?

  For Pete's Sake

  Sam awoke to the silken glide of Petroff's tongue lightly stroking her own. He continued to kiss her expertly, stroking erotically, his hands reaching up to cup her breasts, his thumbs and forefinger plucking at her nipples. Sighing, she arched toward him, feeling his long, hard arousal alongside her thigh. His size had her pulling back and yanking down the sheets and blankets that covered them.

  "What is it?" he asked, his voice heavy with lust as he stared down at her. The bedside lamp glowed softly, revealing his handsome features, taut with desire. He didn't want to ask, but felt obligated to make sure that sex was truly what Sam wanted.

  Pulling the sheets past his hips, Sam glanced down at his erection; huge, hard, enormous. Gulping loudly, she blurted, "Wow, Peter. I can see you were certainly appropriately named."

  Then she giggled, surprising him. Women did many things in his bed, but laughter was usually not one of those activities.

  "Peter the Great. How true!"

  Taking in what Sam was staring at, Petroff began to chuckle. This woman was a breath of fresh air blowing through the cobwebs of his jaded past. "It's just the luck of the draw."

  She snorted.

  Gazing down at her, he tweaked her nipples, loving their responsivity. He said, "I like your style, Samantha Hammett."

  Before he could say more, Sam slid her fingers down his stomach and grasped him. She began a slow gliding motion up and down, which reduced his chuckles to harsh breathing.

  "Now, who's had the last laugh?" she taunted smugly. But upon those challenging words, Sam was flipped on her back, and Petroff pinned her.

  Again he took her mouth in a passionate assault, his caresses scorching her skin. His strong fingers slipped through the pale curls between her thighs, playing in the dampness he discovered there. He groaned. She trembled.

  He kissed her neck, nipped it. She pulled back, warning, "No biting. No drinking!" No matter how in heat she was, Sam wasn't going to be anybody's after hours snack. Nor would she be their main course.

  His eyelids were heavy, his features taut with arousal. At first he seemed confused by her words, but then he nodded abruptly and returned to torturing her nipples with his mouth, and his fingers played havoc between her thighs.

  With the expertise of many long years and numberless conquests, Pete found the hidden spot now plump and tingling between her thighs. Skillfully he plucked and played until her head was thrashing from side to side, and her release built and built.

  A rainbow of sensation took Sam, shooting her skyward as his hand worked and he bit down gently on her nipple. Screaming, she came apart, soaring to the stars in a burst of purple-white light. Petroff growled with pleasure at her passionate nature and hoarse cry of ecstasy, and quickly slipped on a condom.

  Running her fingers over the powerful muscles in his back, she urged the Prince over her. He widened her legs, placing his heated flesh to her own, nudging the entrance to her wet, hot haven.

  Feelings of primal desire urged him on. He wanted to mate with her over and over, to imprint his hold on her, to mark her as his territory. The thought brought him up short. He wasn't possessive of females and never had been; yet suddenly he knew that he didn't want Sam to be with anyone else. He didn't like the idea of another living or undead soul to know the spicy, hot splendor of her welcome.

  Sam felt him move into her and winced slightly since he was so big. For a moment it
was close, but he thrust gently, easing into her bit by bit. Lustily she sighed at the way his hugeness filled her in a way she had never been completed before. They were like two pieces of an apple that had been cut apart and were now placed back together, fitting perfectly. He was tender yet strong, and the look in his eyes told her that she was the only woman for him. He made love to her with a skill unsurpassed.

  Suddenly she felt him slow, almost halt his wonderful thrusting. Moaning at the delay, Sam reached up and nipped his neck, and her hands massaged his taut buttocks.

  Whatever control he had been practicing shattered. With a roar, he thrust hard, taking her breath away, stunning her. He felt so good inside her, so right. "Oh, more Pete. More." This man was the man of her dreams—even if he wasn't really a man but a vampire. She could fall in love with his charm, his haughty arrogance, his dry wit, his intelligence… and his great big peter. Not to mention the way he used it so skillfully, making her feel bliss—a word she had always known but hadn't really experienced before tonight.

  He would have corrected her use of his name had he been saner, but all Petroff wanted at the moment was to ride Sam until they both expired of exhaustion. With a powerful rhythm he stroked in and out, in and out, thrusting deep and hard. Sometimes he kissed her, other times he nipped her neck. Sometimes he sucked on her nipples until she was screaming in pleasure.

  At one long, deep thrust, her climax finally hit her like a freight train. She arched up, bucking, her head thrashing, and thoughts fleeing as she came apart; her body went limp from exertion and relief.

  Feeling her inner muscles tighten repeatedly, Petroff let himself go too, his seed spurting, his climax powerful, shaking him. He felt weak as a newborn. Samantha Hammett was an incredible lover for such a devious female, and so giving for a woman wrapped in deceit; passionate, wild and so very, very hot. She was his kind of woman in many ways, but not the ways that counted for long term relationship. Which made him angry with himself and her. He wanted more than one night. He wanted many, many nights with her, but that was impossible since she was who she was.