“I was a foster kid. No family. And we can adopt. Maybe save a kid or two who needs a family.”
He said it as if it were all so simple.
Her eyes captured his. He had to know how serious this was. The kind of commitment he was making. “You will live for eternity. E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y,” Spencer spelled. “You can’t ever go back to being human again, Larkin.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders and grinned again. “But then I get to spend E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y with you, right?”
Spencer couldn’t help but smile back. “Yes, yes, Larkin, you do, but I really think you should give this more thought. You’re thinking with something that doesn’t have a brain,” Spencer said as she pointed to his crotch.
Larkin reached for her hand and dragged her back into his arms. “I am not either. I’m thinking I could do a lot of good with all those acute vampire senses as a cop.”
She frowned against his hard chest. “Back home?”
Larkin kissed the top of her head. “Nope. Right here in Easton.”
Spencer’s smile was smug, but she kept her face buried in his chest to hide it. “Not a lot happens here in Easton, Larkin, and what about the counseling you said they were going to make you attend. You’d have to go before they’ll reinstate you.”
“No, but I can live with that now. It doesn’t all have to be about guns and dope, and I’ll go to counseling. I realize that little boy’s death had an impact on my life. A lot of things have had an impact on my life lately, Spencer.”
No truer words.
He gave her a nudge. “Are you a sissy vamp? You have a willing participant here, Spencer. Quit jabberjawin’ and hit me with your best shot, woman.”
“I don’t know…”
“Are you afraid I’ll be able to take you in hand-to-hand combat when I’m a vamp?”
Spencer shoved him down on the couch and straddled him. “Please. I’m older. I’ll always be able to take you.”
Larkin grabbed her hips and ran his hands along them. “Prove it.”
“Don’t goad me, Detective,” Spencer warned, fighting a giggle.
“Goad, goad, goad.”
“Dammit, Larkin, knock it off.”
Larkin pointed to his neck. “Right here. C’mon, you girl.”
Spencer’s limbs trembled. God, Larkin’s neck looked inviting. So inviting, she had to fight a swoon. “You need—to—to—think about this more—longer maybe.”
Larkin pulled her down to graze her lips with his, sending that now familiar fire of sensation throughout her body. He skimmed her mouth with his tongue, slow and simmering. Spencer squirmed above him, rubbing her lower body against his in an enticing circle.
Lord, this man made her body parts turn to butter. Then he cupped her breast, thumbing a nipple through her shirt, making Spencer groan with need. She couldn’t think clearly when he was doing that. Spencer grabbed Larkin’s wrist and muttered against his mouth, “Stop trying to charm me, McBride. It won’t work.”
He chuckled and lifted her shirt and bra, enveloping a breast with his lips before saying, “Yes, it will. You’re my life mate and you have to do what I say.”
Her hips bucked. “I do not—oh…” Spencer sighed as he nipped the underside of her breast, licking as he skimmed his way to her nipple. “There is no rule in the life mate handbook that says thaaaat. Ohhhhh…” Spencer gave in, pulling her shirt and bra off and then attacking the button on Larkin’s jeans, but he placed a hand over hers. “No nookie until you turn me, miss.”
“Are you going to hold out on me every time you want something, Larkin? Because I will not be threatened. Do you hear me?” Spencer sat up and crossed her arms over her bare chest.
He pulled her to him, brushing strands of hair from her cheek before cupping her jaw in his hands. “Listen to me. Listen well. I need you to hear what I say. Really hear me. I’ve given this a lot of thought. I don’t do anything without thinking it through. And this is my conclusion. I want you, Spencer. I want you forever. I’ve never wanted that with anyone or anything in my entire life. I want to be a part of your life, unlife, whatever, for as long as possible. I want to love you for as long as possible. I can’t do that as a human, and you can’t become a human. I’m not doing this because it’s cool. I’m not doing this because I want super powers, though I won’t lie and say that’s not pretty awesome. I’m doing this because I love you and I don’t ever want to be without you.”
Her fists tightened on his shirt and her throat threatened to close up with emotion. She lifted her head and looked at him. “How am I supposed to say no to you?”
He smiled from beneath her. Turning his head, he pointed to his neck again. “You’re not. Now, give it to me, baby.”
Spencer was hesitant and afraid. “I’ve never done this before, Larkin…”
“I wonder if it hurts,” he mused out loud.
Her stomach turned. She didn’t know if it hurt. She didn’t want to hurt him. “Are you sure, Larkin? I mean really sure?”
“Yep. Do me.”
Spencer leaned forward and nuzzled the skin of his neck. He felt so good. So right. She let her incisors gently graze his skin and Larkin tensed beneath her, making her stiffen. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey. Swear it. Just do it. But before you do, tell me something. What happens after you bite me? Do I fall asleep and wake up a vamp, or is it like insta-vamp?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, Larkin. I think Cathy said it happens in a variety of ways and every person is different.”
Larkin kissed her cheek and grinned. “Okay, so let’s do this and find out.”
Without giving any further thought to the consequences, she did just that, sinking her teeth into Larkin’s neck, relishing the salty tang of his blood. Larkin bucked beneath her and his arms came around her to hold her close. His grip grew in strength as Spencer felt the surge of power leave her body and enter his.
Spencer lifted her head to look at him, worried she’d hurt him. Larkin’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and then he went limp. Ain’t that just like a man? she thought.
His skin grew cool to her touch as Spencer watched the transformation take place, his body taking on a strange glow. It didn’t seem like that big of a deal. He looked the same.
When his eyes popped open and he stared straight ahead at her, she began to freak. Oh, God. What had she done? Shit, shit, shit. Spencer wasn’t sure what to do next. She was afraid to touch him. “Larkin,” she whispered down at him.
“What?” Larkin’s mouth moved, but his body didn’t.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I feel fine.”
“Then move or something. You’re scaring me.”
Larkin sat up with a suddenness that scared them both. Spencer jolted above him, still straddling his hips.
“Whoa. That was weird,” he said as he rubbed his hand over his forehead.
“What’s weird?”
“I dunno. It’s like I don’t have to put the effort I once did into something as simple as sitting up. I feel a little wired. Like jerky, you know?”
Spencer ran her hand over his lips. “Open your mouth.”
He complied and as he opened wide, his incisors grew. Spencer found herself incredibly turned on by them. Her fingers itched to touch them. “Oh, my,” she whispered, amazed and awed.
He put his hand to his mouth and felt the sharp teeth that were now his for eternity. “Cool…”
Heat stirred between her legs, hot and thick, and she fought to control it. Larkin needed to adjust, not boink. “Detective?”
“Take your clothes off, now.”
“What?” Was he insane? How could he think of sex at a time like this?
“Because I’m a man,” he answered her thought. “A man with a hard-on. Take your jeans off, now.”
“What?”
“I said take your jeans off now. If I don’t make love to you until you scream, I’ll explode.” His demand was husky and thick as he chur
ned the words from his mouth with obvious effort.
Spencer pressed against the rock-solid ridge in Larkin’s jeans. Oh, my. “Does this mean no foreplay?”
“It means do what I say, now, Spencer,” he demanded. The urgent tone sent Spencer tugging at her jeans and lifting her hips to shove them down her legs.
Larkin tore at his, too, and then they were naked. His cock lay erect against his belly, thick and hard. She licked her lips, unable to concentrate on anything else but fucking.
“Now, Spencer,” he growled in a tone that she hadn’t heard before, but his command had her in its grip.
Mesmerized, Spencer grasped his cock and Larkin thrust upward into her hand. “Christ, that feels good, baby. It’s so different now…”
She’d heard that your senses increased tenfold after turning and that must be true judging from the way Larkin was squirming from her touch.
Wasting no time, she settled over his cock, pausing only a moment before she impaled herself on him, gasping on impact.
The slick slide of flesh caught them both off guard, leaving her moaning. Larkin’s hands found her hips, clenching them hard as he jammed her down on his shaft.
His coarse pubic hair scraped her clit as they rocked, creating a delicious friction that made her dizzy.
Larkin inched up to a sitting position, and Spencer clamped her arms around his neck as he drove into her with low groans. Their fusion of flesh sent Spencer into a tailspin of sensation.
She’d never experienced this with Larkin before, this driving need to be possessed by him. But she needed it. Needed him. Needed this joining of their flesh. Their bodies crashed together with each rise and fall of her hips. Heat and fissures of electricity shot to the place between her thighs, now slick with desire for Larkin.
She ran her hands over his back as Larkin suckled her neck, making her nipples bead tightly and scrape his chest. Groaning she muttered, “Try those teeth out, tough guy.”
But he hesitated, slowing his thrusts as she clenched the flesh of his back and squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know how to do this, Spencer. What if I hurt you?”
Spencer rolled her hips, arching her neck against his roving lips, shivering at the satiny touch of his mouth. “You can’t hurt me, Larkin,” she panted out. “I promise and you need to feed now.”
Larkin wasted no time, his obvious distaste for blood gone and his vampire senses well on their way to taking over. He sank his teeth into Spencer’s neck and the rush of adrenaline, the surge of lust that flowed through her veins was like nothing she’d experienced when Larkin was human.
Her head fell back on her shoulders as she clenched her teeth tight, driving against him, needing him deeper inside her, needing him to quench the unmerciful fire inside her.
Larkin tore his mouth from her neck and thrust into her one last time as he came in long fits. Spencer came too and it bordered euphoria. Sweet and sharp, the orgasm ripped through her until she was spent.
She fell against him, boneless and exhausted.
“Whoa,” Larkin gasped, smoothing his hands over her back.
Spencer nodded against his neck and grinned. “Yeah, double whoa.”
“I think I’m a most virile vampire, honey,” Larkin bragged.
Spencer giggled and said, “Don’t go getting cocky here. You’re a new vampire. You need to talk to Cathy’s husband Joel about this.”
He stiffened. “I am not talking sex with Cathy’s husband.”
“No, silly. I mean the vampire stuff. It’s going to take time to adjust.”
“Not if sex is like that it won’t.”
“Detective, being a vampire isn’t just about the sex.”
“I don’t have to work at the parlor, do I?”
Spencer giggled again. “Yep, it’s a mandatory Polanski thing.”
“I think I’ll stick to detecting,” he assured her with a grin.
“That’s probably better, Sherlock.”
“Will you be my Farrah?” he asked, kissing her lips and nuzzling her nose.
Spencer smiled, content in the knowledge that she’d probably be Larkin’s anything given the opportunity. “Yep, always, Kreskin. Always.”
The End
Preview another book by this author
Forbidden Alpha
Fangs of Anarchy, Book 1
Dakota Cassidy
Chapter 1
“Whelp, you’ve done it now,” Irish McConnell muttered as his raven eyebrow rose on the sleek canvas of his granite-hard face. It was just the one, but it was always enough to make Claire Montgomery weak in the knees.
That and the perpetual stubble on his jaw. She wanted to feel it rubbed over every part of her, feel the scratchy tingle of his whiskers against her skin.
And yep, she’d done it all right. She’d outdone done it like she’d written the book.
“You have blood on your hand,” she pointed out, grunting as she stood to face him inside Boomer’s, an abandoned bar on the outskirts of their small town of Rock Cove, Maine. Her muscles ached and her eye was a bit sore, the scratches on her arm still raw but healing quickly.
Irish held up his hand to the light, looking at it with mock disgust. “And you know how hard real blood is for me to resist, Claire. What a crappy position to put me in.”
He said it as if it were her fault he’d walked into the middle of this. As if she’d offered him the genuine article to purposely tempt him.
“Blame, blame, blame,” Claire mumbled under her breath, looking down at the mess one of her favorite dresses had become.
Irish strode toward her, taking in the scene, his skin stretched taut over his high cheekbones. “Jesus Christ, Claire.”
“Leave Jesus out of this,” she huffed, forcing herself to stay calm while wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm.
Irish looked at the mess on the littered bar floor, the neon sign blinking above his chiseled features making him look paler than he really was. His hair, like the feathers of a raven’s wing, gleamed slick and black in a short ponytail at the base of his skull.
His brow furrowed as he swiped the bottle of water she’d left on the bar, using it to rinse off the blood he’d managed to get on him from the door handle. He pulled a used cocktail napkin from one of the only nearby tables still standing and dried his hands.
Claire straightened her spine and waited for him to lose his cool. This scenario wasn’t going to happen without a heated exchange. Not if Irish was involved.
Their verbal sparring was legendary—she relished it. He made her use her brain, her words, and from the moment she’d met him, it had turned her on.
Yet Irish said nothing as he stood at the bar, roughly hewn, immorally sexy in his worn leather jacket and scuffed boots, bulky arms and thick thighs. Instead, his gaze fastened on hers and he waited until she broke first.
She always broke first. It was that stare. Penetrating her, devouring her, eating her up from the inside out.
“Say something. Say anything, Irish. Say it and be done.”
The leather of his jacket, identical to the one all his club members wore, creaked when he lobbed the napkin to the table, the sound abrasive and jarring to her sensitive ears. He pointed upward with a finger, still streaked with a crimson thread of blood. “Jesus. He might be your only hope at this point.”
Her sigh of exasperation echoed in the empty room. “Always helpful.”
Irish’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. “Did you want me to rock you gently in the corner and blow unicorn kisses at you, Kitten, or do you want me to handle this first then give you the browbeating you deserve?” he asked, waving a lean hand around the room.
She lifted her chin in pure defiance. Irish McConnell had turned her down once before, and it had hurt like someone had stuck a hand in her chest and ripped her heart out. She knew why he’d turned her down, and it was logical, sane even. Still, she didn’t ask for anything from Irish because of it. Ever.
Lifting her chin hi
gher, Claire said, “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Well, you’re getting it.” He checked to be sure the door was locked before stalking back across the length of the bar, his thigh muscles bulging and pressing against his tight black jeans, and dropping his gloves on the scarred bar top.
Which meant things were about to get really real. When there was dirty work to be done, Irish always set his black leather gloves in a safe place. They’d been his father’s, and no one touched those gloves unless they wanted to lose a hand.
Claire planted her fists on her hips and shook her head, tamping down the naked fear of certain retribution. “You’re not allowed to help me, remember? We’re on two different sides. You know, like the Jets and the Sharks. The Montagues and the Capulets.”
He grinned then, the deep grooves on either side of his lean cheeks deepening. As always, when Irish smiled, it was an unlikely surprise. Like a meteor shower or an eclipse. It was a rare gift he bestowed on few, sure to steal the breath from any woman’s lungs and leave her in a puddle of goo.
Irish wasn’t just any old vampire. He was a cranky, pissy, hard-to-please vampire. The unlikeable, gruff president of the biker club Fangs of Anarchy—and the most irresistibly delicious man she’d ever known.
“You forgot Mothra versus Godzilla.”
She rolled her eyes at him and jammed a finger in the air. “Exactly. You’ve made our differences more than clear over the years.” He’d made them especially clear last year at their town’s annual Christmas fair and charity drive. A flash of red heat crept up her neck at the memory.
“And you decided now was the time to finally listen to me? What kind of alternate universe did I just walk into?”
Okay, so it was inopportune, to say the least. But no way could Irish be involved in this. One whiff of it, and her pack would string him up at high noon wrapped in cloves of garlic on a bed of crosses. There was nothing those cavemen biker club members the Road Dogs would relish more than to take Irish out—despite their races’ tenuous truce.
Claire dropped down to her haunches to assess how she was going to manage this, her nose full of the copper scent of blood, but she didn’t regret a second of it. Not one. Not right now. It had to be done.
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