by Mary Hughes
“He’s destroyed.” The deep voice was certain, and I relaxed. Until he added, “But there’s still Camille and Giuseppe, and Nosferatu himself.”
“And the Coterie will eventually replace Ruthven, I suppose. Maybe with someone worse. Nastier.”
“Perhaps with someone better. We can hope. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. We’ll just have to deal with it then.”
“We? You mean Logan.”
“And Strongwell, Emerson, and their allies. And their human partners.”
Zinnia clapped. “Ms. Schmetterling. Your turn.”
I ignored her, intent on Elias. Who knew when I’d talk to him again, with him at his “undisclosed location”? “Elena and Nixie and me? What kind of help are we? We’re puny in comparison to v-guys. Nixie more than most.”
“There’s strength of mind as well, Ms. Schmetterling. Of will, of heart. It’s time.”
The music had changed again. Not “Here Comes the Bride”—Nixie would have killed me. Apparently that was from an opera where the new couple is torn apart almost as soon as they join. Not Canon in D, either. Julian Emerson, playing cello in the string quartet, would have killed me then. (There were disadvantages to having musician friends too.) No, Julian and Nixie had picked out the Clarke Trumpet Voluntary—but they were nice enough to provide the trumpet player free.
“Time? I suppose.” I rose.
“Ms. Schmetterling. Thank you.”
“For keeping Steel Security ultra-profitable?”
“For healing Logan. Now go make it permanent.”
I don’t remember how I got down the stairs, and I barely remember walking down the aisle. I didn’t realize I was at the end until Logan took my hands, didn’t know how cold they were until he engulfed them between his large warm palms.
“Liese,” he murmured, taking a moment before we faced the pastor. “It’s okay. I’ll earn your trust, no matter how long it takes. I love you, princess.”
Logan was so smart. He knew I was still scared, that the trust Botcher had so completely crushed would take time to heal. “The diamond being real helped. And your actually showing up today helped even more. You are earning my trust, Logan—by what you do. But the words ‘I love you’?” I shook my head. “Easy to say, easier to break. They don’t mean anything.”
“No, princess. The words are important. Not yet, but some day. Some day they’ll have meaning for you. A meaning built on a lifetime together.” He took me up the stairs.
We stood before the minister and I realized it was really happening. Commitment, hell. I was tying myself to a drop-dead sexy creature of the night, opening myself to a world of hurt. I stood at the edge of the bridge of trust, and it was a swaying crumbling footbridge over a hundred-foot drop to a chasm of raging death.
Then Logan took both my hands and faced me. And when he spoke the words “I do,” I saw the truth of them in his golden eyes.
And I stepped out on that rickety bridge to meet him.
About the Author
Mary Hughes is a computer consultant, professional musician and writer. At various points in her life she has taught Taekwondo, worked in the insurance industry, and studied religion. She is intensely interested in the origins of the universe. She has a wonderful husband (though happily-ever-after takes a lot of hard work) and two great kids. But she thinks that with all the advances in modern medicine, childbirth should be a lot less messy.
Please visit Mary at www.maryhughesbooks.com.
Author’s Note
The lean-burning cogenerator mentioned in this book came online at the Museum of Science and Industry in 2003. The description of its installation, including room, contents and electrical connections, are my own invention.
Look for these titles by Mary Hughes
Now Available:
Biting Love
The Bite of Silence
Biting Nixie
Bite My Fire
At last, the perfect lover. Now what? Stake him, shoot him—or screw him?
Bite My Fire
© 2009 Mary Hughes
A Biting Love Story
Elena O’Rourke lusts for two things—her detective’s shield and a good lay. Sass-Cgal’s “Bad Girl Sex Tips” will win her the man. But keeping the shield hinges on solving a murder.
Warrior-gorgeous Bo Strongwell stands in her way.
Powerful as a Viking warship, Bo would be Elena’s one-stop solution to celibacy—except for his apartment building full of mysteries. Plus, his kisses…and nibbles…and full body tongue-swipes…keep distracting her from the case. As if a caped clown named Dracula, a hooker with a heart of gold (and boobs of steel), and Elena’s own clueless partner aren’t distraction enough.
Bo Strongwell is a master vampire who needs a cop snooping around like he needs a garlic enema. Fighting rogues keeps him busy enough without Elena trying to pin the murder on one of his kind…even if she does taste like heaven.
Two fighters for justice. One incredible attraction. A terrible secret. Drunken women dancing on the bar… It all rides on Elena solving the Case of the Punctured Prick.
Warning: Jammed with hot explicit sex, graphic fanged violence, and acid cop humor. May contain donuts.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Bite My Fire:
Bo caught me outside the Fudgy Delight, cuffing my wrist. I wasn’t a small woman but his hand made my arm look almost delicate. I stared down at where we were joined, skin to skin…another jolt of sensation rippled through me.
Dammit, I was on duty. Never before had I had such trouble maintaining a proper distance. Frankly, it scared me. “Let go!” I tugged. Pulling against iron would have been more productive. I got exactly nowhere. The man was strong as a horse.
But I was smarter. I jerked up and back, right against the break between thumb and forefinger where his grip would be weakest. I put my whole body behind it.
It worked beautifully. I yanked free.
And sailed smack into the door behind me. Old and weak, the lock gave. The door burst open. I tumbled in.
The Fudgy Delight had been a dance hall in the forties. It had a small stage, room for a couple dozen tables and a recessed dance floor. I tumbled through the door straight down a short flight of stairs into the dance pit, ended up sprawled on the lacquered wooden-slat floor. Around me, stripes of moonlight picked out café-style tables, some in the dance pit, more on the level circling it.
Bo was instantly on his knees beside me. And I do mean instantly. I was still sliding when I saw him reaching for me.
“Elena. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop you…are you all right?” His fingers ran over my limbs, head and neck, checking for injury. “Any tingling, burning? Loss of feeling?” His tone was actually worried.
Nobody worried about me. They worried about Gretchen or Nixie, but not me. As a child, I was the big girl who took care of herself. Later I was the cop who took care of herself—and everyone around her. Bo’s concern was nice.
“I’m fine.” More than fine. His skimming woke every body part he touched, incited tingling need. Burning, yes, but not the nerve-damaged kind.
“Thank goodness.” He pulled me into his arms, burying me momentarily against his massive chest.
It was like being slammed into a wall. Sweet chocolate Glocks, Mounds-o’-Muscle here was actually harder than he looked. I drew in a surprised breath, choked on it. A masculine scent, steamy and spicy, nearly dropped me unconscious. As it was I started trembling. “Uh, Strongwell?”
“Damn it, Elena, you’re shaking. You’re not okay.” He held me away from him. Zeroed in on my eyes, which must have said exactly why I was shaking.
I licked my lips. His gaze dropped precipitously to follow, his pupils dilating big as dimes. He yanked me in. Hot lips descended.
Bo kissed me.
His mouth, warm and firm, pressed against mine. Circled masterfully. A tongue licked the seam of my lips with bold expertise.
My trembling increased. My hands fell o
nto his cotton-covered chest. It was like palming velvet-covered boulders. My lips parted slightly in amazement.
His tongue flicked at the opening. Little sparklers lit where he licked, small crackles of sensation, tiny zaps that made my lips swell and throb. He kissed me, silky soft, licking little shivers at the corners and edges of my mouth until I wanted to scream.
I grabbed Bo’s head, pent-up lust twisting my fingers into his thick hair. I vaulted onto my knees. My knees and shins rapped hard wood but hunger overwhelmed any pain.
I kissed him back.
His kiss changed, his head angling, his jaw working. No deeper, but harder. Taking command, not giving me the option to stop, even if I wanted to.
Which I most certainly did not.
Suspect, yeah. Janitor, yeah. And maybe he was doing my sister, though I hoped not.
But Nixie was right, I was desperate. The last time I was intimate with a guy was at a police convention in a conference room that was supposed to be empty. Except we forgot daylight savings time. Just when the guy settled down to a workout at the Y, forty people walked in. Too bad, because his jump rope was extra long and thick. That frustrating little scene, with variations, had been going on for the last five-plus years.
So I was a bit, um, eager.
I tried to tell Bo that with my open mouth, my thrusting tongue. That he didn’t have to go slow. That he didn’t have to be a gentleman. That he didn’t have to arouse me because I was already pitched at frantic.
That my head had already catapulted to rumpled sheets and writhing damp bodies and please-oh-please filling my empty ache.
He heard. His powerful arms cinched me close. A low rumble of approval lapped at my ears. His tongue thrust into my mouth, deep, stabbing like a flaming sword. I was not small but his tongue filled me. I tasted timber ships and roaring fires. Sea spray and raids and rich plunder. He drove deep again. And again.
I grabbed his ears and tried to crawl into his mouth.
His fingers tightened in my hair. His other hand thrust into my waistband, tugged the shirt hem out. Strong fingers rasped directly onto my skin. His hand was big enough to span my entire back. I shivered.
His hot palm caressed me, burning friction. His fingers were fire, licking down my spine. Flames lapped the delicate hairs over my back cleft. The night was humid, but that made steam roar out of my ears.
I arched into him, my breasts rubbing the powerful swell of his chest. My nipples tightened, pleading mutely. Need fired deep inside. My panties dampened.
Abruptly he broke the kiss and raised his head. His eyes were closed, his nostrils flared. “Fuck, Elena…that scent…your scent.”
Thank you, Hulk It.
“And your taste.” Bo bent, nuzzled my ear, his breath tickling the lobe. “Mmm. I want to taste all of you, Elena. Every succulent inch.” He bore me to the hardwood floor, held me there with the weight of his Viking body. His hips pressed into mine.
A huge bulge prodded my belly. I gasped. Was that a cock or did he have a Viking warship in his pants?
A rush of desire hit me between the legs. My knees, still throbbing from the floor, parted. One thickly muscled thigh thrust between mine, pressed intimately. Rhythmically. Suddenly my knees weren’t the only thing throbbing.
His palms planted on either side of my head, he stared down at me, deeply, as if reading my thoughts. And maybe he could because slowly his mouth curved in a sexy, knowing smile. “We have time, Elena. Let’s do this right.” His eyelids lowered, heavy with desire. Exquisitely deliberate, he bent his head toward me.
Hot, slick lips met mine. I opened, eager for the fiery thrust of his tongue. But he slid his mouth over mine, superbly unhurried, tasting me thoroughly, drinking in my panting breath. Licking and nibbling and tonguing until I was going crazy.
Years of unfinished foreplay sharpened every smell, every sound, every sensation. My nostrils filled with the rich, dark scent of male. My ears rang with Bo’s deep sighs and my own frustrated groans. My body rocked with frissons of desire.
I circled his strong neck with my arms, wrapped my cop-long, cop-strong legs around his waist and rubbed against him in bold, needy strokes. He shifted to nibble my ear. I tightened my legs and rubbed harder, until I was practically grinding his monster erection with my pubic bone. “Enough of slow, dammit!”
At last, he growled. Deep, bone-buzzing, heart pounding. His mouth left my ear to trail wet fire down my neck. One hand slipped under my shirt, found my breast. Palm and fingers cupped and kneaded while a thumb rasped my nipple erect. “Do you like that?”
I trembled under him. “Wonderful. More.”
“More?” His tongue glided over the side of my neck. Sharp nips followed. “Yeah, I’ll give you more.”
His hands ran fire over my breasts, his mouth sucked pleasure along my neck. His hips ground slowly, inexorably into my vulva.
The heat of his body, the thrilling pressure, poured liquid excitement into my belly. I rocked harder against him, close to…something. Something big compared to even my vibrator. Way beyond frustrated foreplay. “More.”
Bo’s hips jerked. His cock swelled until it burned the entire length of my vulva. “Lord, Elena. Do you want to kill me?” He muttered it against my neck, breath hot, sharp teeth scraping skin.
So close. I wriggled under him. Perspiration dotted my skin. “More, now!”
He growled. Released his full weight against me. I only thought I was under pressure before. He smashed me into the hardwood floor. Crushed my breasts and hips with his overpowering male strength. And I loved it.
I grabbed his head and pressed him closer. “That feels so good.” My heart was pounding. My whole body was throbbing. His tongue swiped long strokes over my throat. Sharp. Hot. Shocking.
“Damn. The smell. The sound… Elena, are you ready?”
I was panting so hard my breath caught in my throat. “Ungh.” Please, do it. Whatever it was. I writhed under him, seeking…seeking…
“You want it?” His teeth, needle sharp, pressed into the skin.
Pricks of desire lit my neck. My throat was swollen with need. I forced the words through. “Yes. Finish this before I implode.”
He let out a soul-deep sigh and his teeth stabbed into my throat.
Burn, baby, burn…
I Married a Dragon
© 2010 Beverly Rae
Para-Mates, Book 2
Chrissy Taylor doesn’t believe in a lot of things. Her life, and her career as a supernatural myth-buster, are ruled by logic and skepticism. Love at first sight? Forget it—until she’s swept off her feet by Mr. Tall, Dark and Mysterious.
The next thing she knows, she’s done the most illogical thing imaginable: run off to Vegas for a quickie marriage. And Mr. TD&M’s insatiable hunger for her body is starting to feel suspiciously like an attempt to make her the one thing she fears most. Pregnant.
Even though Kaine sets Chrissy’s world on fire—literally—she can’t resist embarking on her toughest debunking mission yet. She must unearth the truth about her new husband before desire consumes the last of her reason.
Kaine Delcaluca is withholding the fact that he’s a dragon, but time is of the essence. He desperately needs an heir to save his dynasty. Plus, he has an even bigger problem. The Scepter of Fire, the only weapon powerful enough to kill a dragon, has gone missing. If he fails to find it—and knock up his new bride—within the next few days, his people are doomed…
Warning: Sizzles with graphic language, set-the-sheets-on-fire sex and snarky personal assistant machines
Enjoy the following excerpt for I Married a Dragon:
Kaine collapsed on top of me, his weight pressing down, but I didn’t mind. With a satisfied smile, I ran my hands over his back, massaging him as he lay unable to move, awakening not only the nerves in his skin, but the fantasy of what lay ahead. “Umm. You feel good on top of me.”
His low chuckle warmed my neck. “Umm. You feel good under me.”
“Then
it’s official. We feel good together.”
He rewarded my humor with another chuckle to tickle my neck.
“You know, we might want to leave this room at some point. Maybe gamble, see some shows.” He slid off me and came to rest at my side. Unable to bear not having his skin touching mine, I took his arm and slung it over my body. “Then again, maybe not.”
Kaine smiled at me, then nibbled my shoulder. “Your wish is my desire. Tell me if you want to see a show, go out to dine, go shopping, go for a swim…whatever you want. You only need to ask. I don’t want you to think I’m holding you prisoner.”
“Ooh. Does that mean you’ll put me in handcuffs?”
“If that’s your fondest desire.”
The man did have an old-fashioned way with words at times, but I liked it. I cuddled into him, deciding to give my “fondest desire” some thought. Instead, my mind wandered to the day we’d first met. It may have been Thad’s birthday, but I’m the one who had received the best present.
I’d had him pegged as having old family money. You know the type of man I’m talking about—the kind who has enough moolah in the bank so that he never has to worry about working to pay his mortgage, but not enough dough to retire early.
But, boy, was I wrong. This dude had a lot of money. I’m talking about Bill Gates or Oprah kind of money. When he’d proposed, however, I hadn’t known the full extent of his wealth because it hadn’t mattered to me. Seriously. I would’ve said yes if he’d been a janitor or even unemployed. I mean, love is the most important thing, right? (Yeah, I know. I would’ve scoffed at such a statement a few days ago, but now it seemed undeniably true.)
But I have to admit something else. As the old saying goes, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a man with no pennies. Or however the saying goes. Yep, at the risk of sounding like a money-hungry gold-digger, I was damn glad I’d fallen for a rich one.
I grew up with lower-middle-class parents who had, due to a tragic car accident, left me orphaned and living with an unmarried, barely-making-ends-meet aunt. I had, inadvertently, dropped myself into the lower-lower-middle-class by way of my rather unique and non-lucrative occupation. Not that I’d cared before, but now that I’d seen what money could buy, I wasn’t about to play the poor snob enough to snub my nose—or my wallet—at my fortunate turn of circumstances. Besides, Kaine loved spending money on me, er, us.