Was he in there? She knew he wasn’t working—plumbing issue, he’d said—and since she’d be feeding him in less than an hour he couldn’t be out looking for supper. Unless he needed supper of a different sort…
If he was in there, he was being very quiet. Why didn’t she hear him practicing on his little electric piano or showering or just moving around his apartment? Where was that old music he liked to play? She held her breath and closed her eyes, listening for signs of life. Maybe he wasn’t in at all. Oh, if he stood her up she’d never forgive him! Not that this was a date, or anything like it. Great shoes aside.
“I knew you were a stalker.”
Claire’s head popped up, and she found her vampire neighbor standing in the hallway, one hand behind his back, that smug and yet undeniably appealing smile on his pale face. Why did he continue to hold his hand behind his back? Was he carrying a knife, or maybe even a short sword? Not that vampires needed such weapons.
She had to think fast. Again. “I heard an odd noise,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d fallen and… and… couldn’t get up.”
His smile faded quickly. “Do you think someone’s in there?” The hidden left hand popped around as he reached into his pocket with the right. Instead of a knife or a sword, he held a very pretty bouquet of mixed flowers. “These are for you,” he said absently, all but thrusting them at her.
Claire took the flowers… not that she had any choice considering the way they were shoved at her chest… and carried them to her nose while Simon opened the door to his apartment and stepped inside, worried about a burglar he wouldn’t find. Vampires were known to be very romantic, at least in the books she read, but she would’ve expected the flowers to be blood red or starkly exotic. Instead they were springy and bright and very much not reminiscent of the undead. It had been a very long time since a man—or whatever—had given her flowers.
“What kind of sound was it?” Simon called from inside his apartment.
Flowers in hand, Claire stepped into his apartment through the door he’d left wide open. When Mrs. Tillman from across the hall opened her door to peek out—nosy old woman—Claire closed the door to Simon’s apartment. She didn’t miss the disapproving glare from her stodgy neighbor.
Claire’s eyes scanned the main room, which was laid out much like hers but was decorated very differently. Simon had a state-of-the-art CD player and an actual turntable, but no television, at least not in this room. A couple of comfortable chairs, but no sofa. Blinds instead of curtains. Framed antique album covers instead of family pictures or art. The lines were stark and clean, and he used little color in his decorating scheme. There were no mirrors, not that many men would hang mirrors anywhere but the bathroom.
There was no coffin in sight, but of course he’d keep that in the bedroom, if he had one.
“What kind of noise?” he asked again.
Claire rose up on her toes and dropped down again. “It was just kind of a thud. You know, now that I think about it the sound probably came from upstairs or downstairs. My mistake. Sorry.”
Simon glanced into the bedroom and the bathroom, he checked the doors to both balconies, and then returned to her with a very skeptical expression on his face. “Everything appears to be fine.”
Claire shrugged her shoulders and glanced back to the kitchen, which like hers was open to the main room. It was clean and uncluttered and probably for the most part unused.
“You are so odd,” he said as he walked toward her.
“I’m not odd,” she said defensively.
“You’re definitely odd,” he argued. “Don’t get me wrong, I like odd girls. Ordinary girls are boring and predictable. I have a feeling you’re neither.”
Her life was both predictable and boring, but she wasn’t about to share that information with Simon. Not now.
He glanced down at her feet. “Do you ever wear shoes?”
“Of course I do. I don’t go to work barefoot, and sometimes in the winter my apartment gets cold.” She didn’t tell him she had froggie slippers for cold days, and that often she kicked her shoes off while she worked. As long as her feet were under the desk and out of sight, who would care?
“Thanks for the flowers,” she said, trying desperately to change the subject.
Simon took the bouquet from her hand and tossed it onto the closest chair. The blooms looked so out of place there, so wonderfully bright against the black leather. “No more games, Claire. What do you really want from me?”
She opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to speak.
“No more lies about a lost earring or noise from the apartment, no more quotes from the Southern Women’s Code. What do you really want?”
She could defend herself and swear she hadn’t lied, but those eyes of his … they would see. Somehow he would know. “Honestly?”
“Please.”
She licked her lips and listened to one thud of her heart before answering. “I don’t know what I want.”
Simon moved in closer, hovering in her personal space, stealing her breath and making her heart pound even harder. He leaned toward her, his mouth heading directly for her throat. Something in her wanted to back away and clap a hand over her vulnerable artery, but another part, a deeper part, wanted to lean into him, to meet him halfway.
Maybe she was hypnotized and didn’t know it. Maybe she was moments away from calling her studly neighbor “master” and begging him to bite her.
Deep down, Claire considered the very real possibility that Simon wasn’t a vampire at all. She’d allowed her imagination to run away from her, that’s all. He was just a man like any other. Well, not like any other, but still… he might be just a man. She closed her eyes as he placed his mouth on her throat and kissed. He didn’t bite, he kissed. Her reaction was immediate and intense. It was no wonder she read and fantasized about vampires. There was no place on her body as sensitive as her neck. Well, one, but other than that… When it came to erogenous body parts that were not located between her legs, she’d prefer a man at her neck over her breasts any day. Simon knew exactly how to kiss her neck.
One fine, strong hand gripped the back of her head while he kissed her throat gently. Claire felt that kiss everywhere. Her knees went weak, her insides tightened, she grew wet… just like that.
Why had she suspected him of being a vampire? Maybe because it was easy to rely on imagination when reality sucked. No pun intended. Well, usually reality sucked, but at this moment it did not. Not at all. Simon kissed her throat and her body responded with an unexpected fierceness. Her body was pressed against his, so she knew she wasn’t the only one affected.
“What do you want?” he whispered against her throat.
“Don’t you have another question?” she asked breathlessly. Men could be so single minded. Why did he feel the need to talk at all?
“No,” he said briskly.
Claire could hardly speak at all when she answered, “I want more.”
Simon sighed. “Finally, an honest answer.”
His hand slipped beneath her skirt. She was shocked at first, but then… not so much. It was a natural if rather quick progression, and she would not pretend to be demure or hesitant when she was neither. Simon’s hand, large and warm, caressed her inner thigh and then moved up with agonizing slowness. The higher that slow hand moved, the more intensely Claire felt the caress. She held her breath and waiting for contact. Almost there… almost… bingo.
Simon touched her through silk panties and she shuddered. All the while he kissed her neck. If he was a vampire, if he really did drink blood, he could have every drop of hers as long as he didn’t stop touching her.
He didn’t stop, and Claire felt herself spiraling out of control. Control. Did she have any? Had she ever? She tilted her head back, and as Simon took full advantage of the new position by kissing a portion of her throat that he’d missed, his hand slipped into her panties to touch bare, damp flesh. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t falter. It w
as as if he knew her body well, as if he’d touched her this way before and knew exactly where and how. His hands were large and warm and foreign… and yet somehow not so foreign. Claire wriggled a bit, her panties slipped, and she spread her legs slightly. Simon took advantage of the new position, just as he had when she’d offered him a better shot at her throat. His touch changed, it shifted, and then he slipped one finger inside her.
It had been a long time since any man had touched her. She came hard and fast, convulsing, gasping, holding onto Simon so she wouldn’t fall to the floor. The orgasm itself didn’t take her by surprise—good heavens, she’d been rushing toward orgasm since he’d placed his mouth on her throat—but the intensity did surprise her. She came, and she came, and she grasped Simon hard as the waves washed over her.
“Oh, my,” she whispered when she was able.
Simon held her up, thank goodness, but he took his hand away and he no longer gave his attentions to her throat. After a moment he released her and backed away. Claire straightened her clothes and smoothed her hair. She must look a mess, and Simon… Simon looked as calm and collected as he had before he’d touched her.
A quick glance down confirmed what the press of his body to hers had told her, that he had not been unaffected. Well, didn’t this change everything? She’d started out determined to prove he was a vampire, and had ended up here, shaking from an unexpected orgasm and shamelessly wondering if there would be more.
She tried to be logical, for once. If vampires had no heartbeat then there was no blood flow, and without remarkable blood flow what she saw straining his jeans wouldn’t be possible.
“I’ve always had a thing for odd girls.” Simon collected her bouquet from the chair where he’d deposited it so indifferently. With greater care than he’d bothered with the first time around, he handed her the flowers. She took them.
“I’m really not… well, maybe I am a little odd.”
Surely vampires didn’t smile that way. This look was definitely not evil. Then again, maybe she was quick to judge Simon not a vampire because he’d just had his very talented hand in her panties.
Claire twitched and then jumped. “My sauce!”
“You left it on the stove?”
“Yes!” Claire ran to the door. “When I… when I heard that noise I had just put it on to simmer.”
“It’s probably fine.” Simon followed her, and while they were in the hallway Mrs. Tillman’s door opened a crack once again. Even though Claire couldn’t see the old woman, she heard a decided scoff from behind that door. Talk about odd.
At the doorway to her apartment, Simon hesitated. Without thinking, Claire gave a wave of her free hand and said, “Come on in.” So much for that test. She’d invited him in without thinking, and that was one of the vampire rules that seemed to be unbreakable. A vampire couldn’t enter a home unless it was invited, and she’d invited Simon into her apartment without so much as a second thought. Darn. Too late to do anything about it now.
Simon studied her apartment as she’d studied his, as she rushed to the stove and turned down the heat, then fetched a vase from beneath the sink and filled it with water. As in his apartment there was a low, open bar between the kitchen and the living area. Simon could sit on the couch and watch her, and she could keep a close eye on him, as well. She had a small shaker of garlic salt close at hand, just in case he tried to move too close too fast. Besides, he wouldn’t be so foolish as to eat his next-door-neighbor. Everyone would be looking at him for the crime if that happened. Mrs. Tillman had seen them together. No, she was as safe as she could be, given the circumstances.
If he’d intended to do her harm, he’d had his chance.
She had to admit, there was an inexplicable animal attraction about Simon Darrow that really got under her skin. Maybe it was because she hadn’t had sex in such a long time. Maybe it was because she hadn’t had really good sex in years. She didn’t count what had just happened as sex because, well, she’d come alone. No, that definitely didn’t count.
But the evening was young.
Simon was extremely attractive, pale skin aside. At the moment he looked more beautiful than ever, but of course her vision had been temporarily affected by a massive orgasm. In truth he wasn’t horribly pale, just untanned. It was clear he preferred the night to the daytime, moonlight to sunshine. Maybe it was a musician thing, not a vampire thing. The same could be true of the black wardrobe and the hours he kept.
He turned his head to look at the stack of books on her end table. “Bite Me,” he read aloud as he perused the titles. “The Return of Dracula. Night of the Undead. The Vampire Stan.”
“That one’s kind of funny,” she said, wondering how he would react to her collection of vampire novels. “It’s a spoofy thing.”
“Intriguing reading material.” He looked at her again, and impossibly those almost-black eyes darkened. “Do you have an interest in vampires?”
Just as she’d convinced herself to dismiss her suspicions and simply embrace the man, he asked that question in a voice that was less than casual. Do you have an interest in vampires?
“I suppose I do,” she confessed. “Particularly vampire romance.” She shivered a little. It was the neck thing, she imagined. Her hand rose up and touched her neck, there where Simon had brought her to the edge of paradise with his mouth alone.
Simon sighed. Claire tried to ignore his reaction as she put the water on to boil and preheated the oven for the garlic bread, but in truth the fact that he’d asked the question made her wonder… why did he care if she read about vampires or not? Obviously he did care. He was actually annoyed by the books she’d left sitting out, and that put her right back where she’d started.
Still, he hadn’t bitten her when he’d had the chance. Maybe sometimes vampires needed sex, too—lack of blood flow aside.
“You know,” Simon said after an uncomfortable moment of silence, “I’m really not very hungry. I should go.”
“No!” Claire left her not-yet-boiling water behind as Simon stood, unfolding his body with that unexpected grace that seemed only slightly unnatural. There was a mirror in her bathroom, another in the bedroom. If she could just get him to stand in front of one of those mirrors… if she could just be sure…“You need to eat something,” she said softly.
“I’m not going to starve,” he responded.
“What do you have at your place if you get hungry later?” she asked logically. “Frozen dinners? Soup and crackers? I make very good spaghetti.”
“I wish you would be honest with me,” he said, a touch of anger coloring his words. There was a pleasant melodiousness to his voice, she decided, even when he was angry. “Something strange is going on here. There was never any earring in the hallway, there was no noise from my apartment, and I’ve never heard of any Southern Women’s Code. I think yesterday you were following me, and tonight you were snooping.”
“I’m not…”
He moved in very close and placed one finger over her lips. “I talk, you listen. You’re much more transparent than you intend to be.”
Claire couldn’t move. Somehow he held her in place with that one finger on her mouth, and with his eyes. Her heart beat too hard. He knew that she’d discovered his secret, and now he was going to kill her. This time when he lowered his head he was going to bite down on her neck and feed and that would be the end of everything for her.
Claire Murphy was found dead in her apartment. The body was discovered by a nosy neighbor, Mrs. Iris Tillman, who was bothered by the gross smell. Miss Murphy has no family and she will not be missed by anyone. She didn’t even have a cat. Oh, and by the way, it seems someone had taken all her blood, but who cares?
“Maybe I am transparent,” she whispered, angry at the knowledge that she could die here and now and no one would care. “You didn’t seem to mind a few minutes ago.”
“No, I didn’t mind at all. I’ve been dreaming about getting you in that particular position for weeks. I’ve
been dreaming about more, Claire. To be honest, I’ve been watching you since I moved in,” he said in a lowered voice. “There’s no boyfriend, and you’re in bed every night very early and very alone.”
“If you work at night how do you know…”
“Shhh,” he ordered gently. “I know. I’ve also known all along that if I touched you just right you’d come apart, and you did. Before tonight, when was the last time you came, Claire Murphy?”
She swallowed hard before answering half-heartedly, “Does it count if I was alone at the time?”
“No. That most definitely does not count.”
“Hey, wait,” she said indignantly. “You’ve been stalking me!”
“Just a little.”
Claire was frozen in place as Simon lowered his head to her neck. His lips pressed there at the place where neck became shoulder, and a rush of sensation shot through her. She shouldn’t be so easy, what had happened in his apartment aside. Her insides clenched and her knees went weak, and all he had done was lay his mouth on her throat. The kiss was gentle, and yet it made her feel as if she were melting.
“I know what you want, Claire Murphy,” he whispered against her flesh, “and it isn’t spaghetti or a fictional earring.” His hand slipped beneath her shirt and raked against her back until he found her bra clasp and very easily unhooked it. “I want the same thing you do. I have since I first saw you in the hallway, more than a month ago. Does that surprise you? It surprises me. I don’t normally want things I know I shouldn’t have. I learned better long ago.”
How long ago? she wondered half-heartedly.
Claire wanted to believe that what had driven her to suspect her neighbor of horrible crimes and unnatural abilities was nothing more complicated than her overactive imagination combined with the need to be touched and an undeniable attraction, which was apparently reciprocated. Her reasons for suspecting Simon of being an unnatural being were loneliness, boredom, and the craving for what he was offering her at this very moment, as he removed her tangled blouse and bra and tossed them to the floor.
Moonlight Becomes You: a short story Page 2