Dating the Undead

by Juliet Lyons

  My eyes dart sideways, wondering if Burke is going to pop out too. “I thought you were a thief.”

  Davies shakes his head, clutching his side. “I’m undercover. Blimey, girl, you walk fast. I’ve given myself a stitch.”

  “You could have made yourself known,” I say, dropping the wrap into my basket.

  He glances around before gently steering me toward a stand of greetings cards at the back of the store. “We have to be discreet. Probably should have warned you our meetings will be like this.”

  “Our meetings?”

  Davies leans in, speaking like a ventriloquist, from a corner of his mouth. “We noticed through your V-Date account, Miss Gold, that you went on a date Sunday evening with a vampire named Marek. I’m here to collect the information.”

  “Just like that?” I ask. “In Tesco’s?”

  He nods. “One of our many mottos at the Met Police is ‘trust no one.’”

  “Intriguing,” I mutter sarcastically. I tuck hair behind my ear, breaking his eager-eyed gaze. “The thing is, I didn’t really find out much.”

  “No?”

  “Well…” I fidget with the basket, hooking it over an arm, frantically trying to separate my sources of information. “They can only die by decapitation.”

  Davies’s eyes narrow. “What else?”

  I suck in a breath, all set to ask them to remove me from the investigation, but then I remember why I was asked in the first place—Mum—and my mouth clamps shut again. At last, I say, “They are susceptible to daylight, holy water, and crucifixes in the first few months of their transition.”

  His eyes widen and he nods, urging me to continue.

  “They can’t move fast in daylight. It weakens them.” Shit, that was one of Logan’s.

  “Anything else?”

  I shake my head, stomach clenching with nausea, feeling like a traitor.

  “Well, we look forward to your next date, Miss Gold.” He smiles, pointing at the sandwiches. “The chicken Caesar salad is excellent on whole wheat.”

  I barely hear him. I’m filled with self-loathing as I watch his stocky shape retreat down the aisle toward the automatic doors. Logan may be cocksure, but he doesn’t deserve me spilling his secrets. I remember the way he looked that night on the ship—lost and vulnerable, green eyes filled with sadness. There was something about the way he spoke, a rawness, which made me certain he didn’t usually talk about his past. I sigh, my good mood obliterated by guilt, as I angrily throw the rest of our sandwiches into the basket.

  * * *

  Hours later, when I arrive home, I notice a thin halo of light around the edge of the front door. I push my key into the lock, assuming it’s Vera. Often when she’s feeling lonely, she lets herself into the flat and curls up on the sofa. It’s one of the many Vera-related reasons my rent is so cheap. I grit my teeth and push open the door, wondering how I’ll manage to get rid of her before Logan arrives.

  I hear his voice through a haze of steam. “Don’t freak out, Silver. Etta let me in.”

  Logan is standing in my kitchenette, holding a wooden spoon over a bubbling saucepan. He wears a white T-shirt that clings to his muscles and a pair of tight blue jeans. His dark hair is all over the place, messy strands curling over the tips of his ears. If it wasn’t for the Kiss the Chef apron tied around his middle, he could have dropped straight out of a rock video.

  I fling my bag onto the sofa and slam the door behind me. “Breaking and entering now as well as stalking?” I ask, folding my arms.

  His eyes crinkle around the edges as he chuckles, dimples showing. “Etta found me sitting outside with shopping bags and took pity on me. She loaned me a casserole dish.”

  I eyeball his outfit, flicking a finger at the garish red-and-black apron. “That isn’t mine.”

  Logan pulls at the material. “Etta thought it would make you laugh.”

  Rather than laugh or shout, I’m suddenly possessed by the all-consuming urge to indeed kiss the chef. I cut the short distance between us and fling myself into his arms, crashing my lips to his warm mouth. The wooden spoon clatters back into the saucepan as he lifts me into him, sliding his tongue over mine and knotting his hands roughly into my hair. He tastes of whatever it is we’re having for dinner—something with spices and black pepper—and crisp night air. As he carries me backward to the kitchen counter, I run hands over his tensed biceps, savoring tight muscles beneath silky skin. Though we are still kissing, he seems to be trying to mumble something into my mouth. I pull back, out of breath.

  “I missed you,” he says, eyes as calm as a flat, green sea.

  My own eyes widen to the size of moon craters, guilt nibbling the edges of my conscience. I open my mouth, wanting to say it too—because I have missed him, really, truly—but instead of speaking, I kiss him again, stroking his stubbly jaw with my fingers.

  When we finally break apart, he lets me slide through his arms to the floor, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. “Is this how you usually greet your burglars?”

  Smiling, I step back to unzip my coat. “Always. I find it helps with rehabilitation.”

  But he doesn’t hear me. His gaze is glued to my body as I shrug out of my jacket.

  “Oh sweet Jesus, it’s the work uniform,” he mumbles, biting at his lower lip.

  I toss the coat with dramatic flair onto a high stool, placing a hand on my hip. “What about my work uniform?” I ask, sticking my chest out.

  His jaw is slack, his gaze running the length of my body like a soft caress. “It gives me impure thoughts,” he murmurs, leaning against the opposite counter. “And I have to turn the meatballs in five minutes.”

  I snicker. “What about your meatballs? Don’t they get any attention?”

  He folds his arms and smiles, a dimple appearing, looking up at me through thick dark lashes. “Those meatballs will have to wait.”

  Holding his gaze, I move my hand to the top button on my white blouse. “That’s a shame. I was going to ask for help getting changed.” I pop open the button. “This shirt is beginning to feel…tight.”

  “Are you goading me, Silver?” he asks, staring at my fingers as they linger on another button. “Because I’ll have you know, I’ve a ton of willpower at my disposal.”

  “Really?” I say, brow furrowed. “Willpower.”

  He nods, jaw clenched. “Go on, undo another. In fact, rip the whole thing off. When it comes to cooking, I let nothing come between myself and the culinary arts.” Eyes fixed on my face, he reaches over the pan and begins stirring one-handed.

  As I slowly twist open the button over my bra, he flinches, the bulge at the front of his jeans swelling with arousal. “You like to tease, don’t you?” he asks, his voice deep and throaty.

  “I’m not teasing,” I say, although that’s exactly what I’m doing. Up until now, I’ve had no intention of actually taking my clothes off. But watching his eyelids grow heavy with lust, knowing what’s waiting for me the other side of that denim-clad crotch, it’s suddenly all I can think about. I begin to feel an ache deep in my groin, my nipples hard as pellets beneath my lace bra. I continue on to the next button, and then the next, until the front of my shirt flaps open. Now I’ve come this far, I figure I might as well go all the way. I shrug the material from my shoulders, noticing how his hand stills on the wooden spoon, and fling it in his face, watching as it tumbles to a heap on the floor.

  Just then, the little pig-shaped timer next to the cooker rings. “Your balls need turning,” I say, smirking.

  For a split second, I think my vision is blurring. The oven door opens and closes ridiculously fast and in the blink of an eye, he is gone from the kitchen. A breeze stirs the air. I spin around on the spot. The lounge is empty, but in my bedroom doorway, lying abandoned in a heap, are his jeans and T-shirt.

  I dash around the counter to my room, hit
ting the light switch on the way in, to find him sitting up in bed, my cream floral duvet pulled up to his neck.

  “What about dinner?” I ask, enjoying the way he looks in my bed, dark-brown hair splayed against the pillows, green eyes smoldering with desire.

  “I turned them,” he says, pulling back the duvet.

  I laugh, clapping a hand to my mouth at the sight of the tacky Kiss the Chef apron covering his otherwise naked body. “You’re going to have to wash that thing before you give it back to Vera.”

  He twitches a smile, cupping his groin. “It’s already a bit sticky.”

  “If you weren’t so hot, you’d be gross, do you know that? No woman would ever want to sleep with you.”

  “Good looks are a blessing as well as a curse.” Fixing his eyes on my bra, he pats the space next to him. “Are you coming in? Or do I have to drag you?”

  Needing no further encouragement, I dive onto the bed, and he loops an arm around my middle, drawing me into the hard, satiny contours of his body. We lie for a while without moving, gazing silently into each other’s eyes.

  Reaching up, he brushes a strand of hair from my face, delicately, as if I’m made of glass. “Silver,” he breathes, trailing the backs of his fingers softly down my arm. “Why is this all I can think about?”

  I gulp, heart hammering as I push aside the scratchy apron and place a hand over his heart. “Logan,” I whisper, my breathing labored, as if all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. “I think I like you.”

  His eyes widen, golden flecks flickering like dapples on a river. “I think I like you too.”

  There is silence for a few moments, and then I say, “This all just got very after-school special.”

  He laughs, pulling the apron over his head and tossing it aside. “They don’t screw each other’s brains out in after-school specials, and correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s exactly what we’re about to do.”

  I poke him playfully. “Being naked in a woman’s bed doesn’t guarantee she wants to sleep with you.”

  “What is a guarantee?” he asks, eyes burning.

  “This,” I murmur, capturing his half-open mouth in mine and melting like wax in a flame around him.

  Groaning, he holds me tight until we’re pressed together from our knees to our chests. I drown in his warm scent—aftershave mixed with bodywash—running my hands over his strong back before dipping between our bodies to caress the silky erection prodding my stomach.

  He emits a soft growl deep in his throat. “Silver,” he whispers as I stroke the sides of his pulsating hard-on. “You’re ruining me.”

  All of a sudden, I’m aware of being half-dressed. I feel too covered, too restricted. I let go, fighting to find the zipper on the back of my skirt. His hands brush mine aside as he yanks it down, sliding the black material off my hips.

  “Oh shit,” he says, hands on my thighs, fingers burning me like fire as they rub circles into my skin. “Did they have to be stockings?”

  I grin. “Sometimes I wear them instead of tights.”

  He toys with the black lace at the top, fingers skimming dangerously close to the pulsing, wet spot between my legs. A shiver tingles up my spine. “I’ll never have a moment’s peace again, knowing you’re out in the world wearing these.”

  “Good,” I say. “Now take them off with your fangs.”

  His eyes flash and he flips me onto my back. For a moment, he remains suspended above me—hair in his face, erection quivering, muscles tensed like a Greek god in a painting. I’m struck by the realization that life will probably never get any better. I mean, how could it?

  “You’re a very demanding woman, Silver Harris,” he teases, the tips of his fangs visible at the corners of his lips.

  I smile lazily, hooking a foot around the warm skin of his hip. “Just do it.”

  Arching a brow, he ducks between my legs, the delicious sensation of his stubble grazing my thighs, making me tremble all over. I inhale sharply, barely remembering to breathe as I feel the rasp of fangs, rough against my skin. When he arches backward into a sitting position, there is a black strip of nylon between his teeth.

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I ask suspiciously, resisting the overwhelming urge to reach up and force his head down again.

  “Never on a second date,” he says, removing the stocking from his mouth and coiling it between his hands like a magician’s silk. “Now, put your hands above your head.”

  My jaw drops, a thrill zipping through me like an electrical current. “Am I under arrest?”

  He chuckles, low and throaty. “Yes. House arrest. Or don’t you want to be tied up and fucked?”

  Part of me wants to tell him where he can shove his light bondage—I’ve never understood the fascination with all that yes, master, no, master business. The other ninety-nine percent of me, including the part which controls the erogenous zones, can’t think of anything better. It feels like my loins are having a Christmas party and all my nerve endings are invited. I nod mutely, my hands smacking together like magnets. He smiles, holding my wrists in one hand and gently wrapping the stocking around them with the other.

  “You could have warned me you’re a kinky bastard,” I say.

  His smile widens. “Shh, or who knows where the other one might end up.”

  We snicker like naughty children as he lifts my hands over my head, knotting the loose ends of the stockings around the rails. I say a silent prayer of thanks I chose this bed and not the leather one without slats.

  Leaning over me, bare thighs straddling mine, I realize for the first time that I am completely and utterly at his mercy—and not because of the restraints. He stares at me, eyes blazing, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing, if he feels as out of control as I do.

  “You’re not going to spank me, are you?” I whisper.

  Chuckling, he kisses me softly on the mouth. “Only if you’re really bad.”

  Why does that sound so appealing? “Put your hands on me,” I say in a deep voice I barely recognize.

  He places a kiss just below my jawline. “All tied up and still bossing me around.”

  I writhe about, attempting to rub my aching core against him, until finally, he runs a flat palm over my breasts and down between my legs.

  “You’re soaking wet,” he says against my neck.

  But I barely hear him. I’ve already checked into Hotel Pleasureville as I close my eyes, surrendering to the delicious sensation of his fingers pushing aside my panties, dipping inside my wet folds.

  “Yes,” I hiss, grinding into his hand as the pad of his thumb circles my nub. “Keep going.”

  But then he stops, a draft of icy air swirling between my legs as he pulls away. I open my eyes, wondering what the hell he’s playing at. Leaning back on his haunches, he slides my lacy knickers off, pausing to rub them on his stiffness before flinging them aside. Then he grasps my ankles and hooks my legs over his shoulders.

  “I’ve decided to go deep,” he says, his voice like barbed wire wrapped in silk.

  I can only nod as he pushes the tip of his erection around my drenched opening, moving it along my slit in a torturously slow rhythm.

  A wave of ecstasy coils in the pit of my stomach, my legs trembling on his broad, muscular shoulders.

  “Silver,” he pants, dragging his nails along my remaining stocking and raining hot kisses over my thighs.

  “Logan, please.”

  No sooner have I made my plea than he plunges into me. I gasp, the angle of our bodies taking him deeper than he’s ever been. Our eyes are locked as he circles his hips, sliding in and out again and again. I arch off the bed, desperate to be filled by him.

  On one of his thrusts, he reaches forward, pulling the flimsy ties from my wrists, and I waste no time tangling my hands into his silky hair. “Harder,” I urge, watch
ing a flash of lust light up his green eyes as I utter the word.

  Pinpricks of hot pleasure rip through my body, my breath coming in labored spurts. But even as I sense release building to a raging inferno within me, I know I will never get enough of this man.

  “Oh God yes!” I cry, feeling the snag of his fangs against my inner thigh.

  “Silver,” he cries, pumping faster, the friction of his teeth on my skin increasing with every push. Right before I explode, he bites me—sweet, exotic pain mingling with blissful waves of euphoria as crimson rivulets zigzag down my pale leg. I scream loudly, hips bucking from the bed. This time, I don’t lose consciousness, the sunset colors swirling behind my closed lids like a kaleidoscope. Another rush of pleasure follows as Logan spasms hotly inside me.

  I open my eyes.

  Panting, Logan gently lays my legs down, placing a hand on my heaving chest. He sweeps his tongue across the spot where he bit me, leaving the skin smooth and unblemished. Flopping down on top of me, he buries his face in my hair.

  “That was—” he starts.

  “Incredible,” I finish, a trickle of sweat sliding between my breasts.

  Logan lifts his head and rolls onto his side, following it with his finger before sliding a hand inside my bra and beading a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “How is your bra still on?”

  I laugh, moaning as he increases the pressure on my aching tip. “One stocking too.”

  He reaches around me, releasing the clasp of my bra and dragging the straps over my arms.

  “Logan?” I say, shaking off the lacy material.

  “Yes?”

  “What is that when you bite me? The colors and semiconsciousness? Is it some kind of venom?”

  “Not venom,” he says, stroking around the delicate skin of my breasts. “It’s more of a vision, an exchange.”

  I turn to the side, propping myself up on an elbow to allow him better access. “An exchange?”

  “I don’t know the official explanation, but I believe when a vampire bites a human, an exchange takes place. We have your blood and you get a glimpse of our life essence. There’s always a balance in life, give and take.”