by Heidi Betts
After another few seconds of contemplating, weighing his desire to stick around and catch the vamps doing something he could nail them on against the futility of wasting any more time with the group, he huffed out a breath and cranked the engine.
Between the warm air pouring out of the vents and chasing away the chill that had soaked nearly to her bones, and the respite of seeing Ian walk away from a situation he couldn’t truly comprehend or handle, Angelina had never been so relieved in her life. She sat back in her seat and began to relax, tension seeping from her muscles and nerve endings like steam from a pot of boiling water.
They drove back through town, the silence inside the late-model sedan growing with each passing mile. She could tell by Ian’s knuckles turning white around the steering wheel and the sporadic tic at his jaw that he was anything but calm, anything but happy with the decision to end their surveillance. She could only hope that the farther they got from that house, the less preoccupied he would be with it and the people inside.
When they got to her apartment building, rather than pulling up in front to let her out as he had the last time, he turned into the small reserved parking area and nosed into an empty spot. She opened her door to get out, alarmed when he shut off the engine, pocketed the keys, and did the same. Stuffing her hands in her coat and hunching her shoulders from the cold, she watched him round the trunk of the car.
“What are you doing?” she asked, afraid she already knew the answer.
“Going inside.”
She swallowed hard, not quite sure how to feel about his response.
On the one hand, it definitely wasn’t a good idea for him to come up to her apartment. There was too much history between them, and they’d done too much wrong already.
On the other, this was her Ian. She didn’t care what world or what reality they were in, he’d always been hers. In her mind, in her heart.
Even now, standing outside in the frigid night air when every bit of her should feel like it was in deep freeze, her body was humming, turning warm and molten with wanting him. She’d only been here—wherever this was—a day, but already she missed him.
Oh, literally speaking, they’d been together more than they’d been apart. But sitting in a car next to Ian, wondering how much of him was the same person she’d lived with and loved when she’d had fangs and known how to use them wasn’t the same as being with him. She missed touching him, kissing him, looking into his eyes and seeing the utmost love and devotion shining back at her.
At that moment, she would have given almost anything to be back in her house, in the bed she shared with Ian, contemplating the next thousand years of their lives together instead of standing in the cold on a strange street, in front of a strange building, where she lived alone in a strange apartment, with no particularly inviting prospects for her future.
Licking her lips, she shifted uncomfortably, not quite able to meet his coffee-brown gaze.
“I didn’t invite you,” she felt inclined to point out, even if her voice was thready and weak and she wished she had…or could, without being eaten up by guilt.
One side of his mouth quirked up in a sexy half-grin, as he brushed past her and walked slowly toward the entrance of her building. “You never do.”
SIP FIVE
They were in her apartment, toasty warm now with their coats and shoes off. Ian had helped himself to a beer from her fridge and was leaning against the sink, one arm angled behind him with his hand resting on the edge of the counter.
She stood opposite him, hands clenching and unclenching behind her back and swallowing reflexively as she tried not to drool. How could she be so turned off by the dynamics of their relationship, yet so turned on by him at the same time?
Human Ian wasn’t quite as tall or muscular as Vampire Ian. Being turned did that to a person—honed and accentuated their build, their features, their inner beauty.
But Human Ian was certainly nothing to sneeze at. He was still ripped with a capital R. Bulging biceps. Broad, well-defined chest beneath an olive-green, long-sleeved cotton shirt. Flat stomach leading down to narrow hips and a first-class ass covered by a pair of faded but snug blue jeans.
She couldn’t actually see his butt at the moment, but she’d had plenty of time to study it as she’d followed him into the building and up the stairs to her apartment, so she knew what she was talkin’ about.
In addition to his fine physique, she was glad to know the rest of him was unchanged by his mortality, as well. He still shaved his head, still had a small, blond soul patch just below his bottom lip, still had a small silver hoop in his left ear, and could still melt her insides like butter at ten paces with a single glance from his dark chocolate eyes.
That hot gaze was raking over her now, sending her butter from merely melting to sizzling. She could feel her chest hitching as she struggled to breathe, her belly and lower slowly winding like a watch, tighter and tighter.
He took a pull from the bottle in his hand, then set it on the countertop behind him with a clink and pushed away, moving forward, closing in on her. There were only about three of his long strides separating them, but still he reminded her of a jungle cat, quietly and intently stalking its prey. And she was the prey, standing immobile, watching his progress, waiting to be pounced upon and swallowed whole.
Her tongue darted out to lick dry lips. Her hands behind her back fisted until the fingers tingled.
Yes—No. Yes—No. A game of tug-o-war was raging in her head, pulling her in too many directions, scrambling her brains.
She wasn’t stupid; she knew right from wrong. She also knew that this wasn’t her reality, not really. She didn’t know what it was—a dream? A nightmare? A rabbit hole she’d accidentally fallen through like Alice in Wonderland?
But she knew him. She knew herself. And she knew what they had together in the real world, in her reality.
Was that enough to assuage any guilt she might feel after the fact, after she gave in to the rabid pulse beating under her skin and the intense passion battering her soul?
He stepped close, crowding her. His firm body leaned into hers from chest to thigh, burning her like a furnace. She tried to breathe, to draw air into her lungs, but didn’t want to press herself any closer to him. As it was, her nipples had come to attention inside the cups of her bra and she could feel the hard ridge of his erection nudging her from behind the fly of his jeans.
“I know you’re still mad at me,” he said softly, his hand coming up to frame her face. The pad of his thumb ran back and forth across her lips, sending tiny shockwaves rippling through her system.
She jerked her head. “I’m not mad,” she told him.
And it was true. She was confused, torn, but not angry.
His lashes fluttered, his eyes growing shuttered. “You know how I feel about you,” he murmured. A statement, not a question. “You know I can’t let you go.”
If she decided to leave, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, but right now, she definitely didn’t want to leave. Maybe she should. If she were stronger, maybe she would. But at the moment, he was her only link to normality, the only familiar thing in a world where everything she knew had been turned upside down.
When she didn’t respond, he took her silence as acquiescence and kissed her. His body pressed even closer to hers, pushing her back into the edge of the counter while his hands bracketed her hips and his mouth covered hers.
His lips were warm and soft at first, brushing over hers in feather-light touches. She stood perfectly still and let him, let her eyes drift closed as sensation bombarded her.
A second later, he traced the line of her mouth with his tongue, urging her to open. And she did. He swept inside, tasting her, claiming her, rocking her back until she wasn’t sure her feet were still on the ground.
She lifted her arms, running her hands over his shoulders and the nape of his neck. She loved the feel of his stubbled skull beneath her fingertips, smooth in shape but rough i
n texture.
He deepened the kiss while she continued to stroke his sexy dome, then lifted her to perch more comfortably on the counter rather than at an odd angle against it. It also put his groin smack-dab at her center, and the two thick layers of denim they were both sporting might as well have been nonexistent.
She raised her legs and looped them around his hips, crossing them at the ankles. The action dragged him even closer, grinding their pelvises together and putting him right where she wanted him, needed him most.
He tugged at the hem of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head. Her arms floated back down to his neck and his mouth back to her lips as soon as he tossed the garment away.
His palms flattened on her bare skin, spanning her waist and trailing upward to cup her breasts still inside her bra. He used his thumbs to tease the peaks through the lacy material and she moaned, groaned, tightened her legs around his hips.
Letting her urge him on, he slipped his fingers inside the bra from the top, tugging until the material rested beneath her breasts along with the underwires. They felt full and tender, and when he released her mouth to kiss a trail down to one swollen tip, she nearly shot out of her skin.
Her head fell back, and she had to use her hands to prop herself up on the counter or she would have melted right into the Formica. His tongue licked and circled one taut nipple before taking it into his mouth to suckle gently.
He kept at it for several long minutes while she tried not to orgasm right then and there. Then, just as he lifted his head and she thought she might get a small respite from the waves of pleasure washing over her body, he settled in to torture her with the same treatment of the other breast.
She let him go for…well, as long as he wanted, because it wasn’t like she had the strength or will to pull away, even if she’d wanted to.
But she did manage to lower her arms and work her fingers into the waistband of his pants to pop the button and lower the zipper only slightly. She didn’t go straight for the prize at the bottom of the cereal box. Oh, no, that would be too easy and bring things to a crashing finish much sooner than she suspected either of them would like.
Instead, she loosened his shirt and started sliding it up, over his washboard abs, the light covering of rough hair on his sculpted chest, his smooth back and bulging biceps. When she hit his chin, but kept tugging, he was forced to release her nipple—whaaaa!—and raise his arms over his head so she could yank it off completely.
He stood back for a second, breathing heavily, and she was able to admire (read: drool over) his amazing physique. He was a god, a work of art. If he’d been molded out of clay to represent every woman’s image of perfection (read: favorite wet dream), he couldn’t have been any more delicious.
For the first time, she also noticed that this Ian had tattoos. Not temporary ones he’d gotten for a particular job that would soon fade away, but the permanent kind that weren’t going to fade while he slept.
And they were hot.
Wanting to feel them, see them up close, she grabbed his arm and tugged him slightly sideways, lowering her head to study the intricate designs.
Around his right bicep were three intertwined strands of barbed wire done in solid black. It was sexy and dangerous and sent a zing of arousal heating her blood and pooling between her legs.
Turning him the other way, she found the image of an angel on his left bicep. Looking more enticing than angelic, the depiction on his arm wore a long, Romanesque gown and had dark, flowing hair that fell to her waist, ruby red lips, and sapphire-blue eyes. With a start, she realized the angel looked remarkably…like her.
Her head jerked up to meet Ian’s gaze. He was watching her intently, waiting for her to finish her slow perusal of his ink. But her surprise wasn’t reflected in his own brown irises, only a deep knowing and passion and…love.
Her lungs hitched, and she swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
Oh, my God. He might have married another woman, but he’d had her likeness tattooed on his body. Angel…Angelina. She wondered if his wife had ever asked about it—and what his answer had been.
Ian’s voice was gravelly and tight when he said, “What—are you trying to decide on my next bit of body armor?”
She blinked again, this time in confusion.
“Me?” her voice squeaked out.
One dark brow shot up and he shrugged a broad, bare shoulder. “You picked the first two, why not the third?”
Emotion slammed into her with all the impact of a freight train careening down the tracks at full speed. Her heart stuttered to a stop behind her rib cage. Her lungs froze mid-breath, then felt as though they were shriveling like empty party balloons. And a warmth started low in her body only to spread out in every direction like the rays of a blazing-hot sun.
It was a warmth she recognized with some astonishment as love. Pure, unadulterated love for this man, mixed with equal parts adoration and devotion.
She tried to swallow, but her throat was tight, her eyes quickly growing damp and losing focus. Turning slightly to the side, she sucked in several much-needed breaths, hoping she wasn’t on the verge of hyperventilating.
Spotting her purse…well, a purse; she didn’t actually recognize it, but assumed it must be hers, since it was in her apartment and she presumably lived alone. She grabbed it, dragged it closer, and rooted inside for what she knew had to be there.
Ah-ha! Her hand closed around a tube of lipstick. She didn’t care what color it was, she popped the cap and smeared a layer on her mouth without bothering with a mirror.
Ian’s brows crossed. “What are you doing?”
“This,” she said, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his firm left pec, just over his heart.
When she moved away, he was staring down at the bright red puckered lip marks she’d left behind. His gaze lifted to hers, a question clear in his eyes.
“That’s what I want you to get next,” she explained, the wispy words little more than a whisper. “My kiss directly over your heart.”
For a beat, he didn’t say anything. Then his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and his own eyes flickered with a dozen different emotions all at once.
A second later, he stepped into her, backing her up and taking her mouth with a stark desperation that matched her own. She welcomed him into the cradle of her thighs, wrapping her arms around his bare back. He nearly crushed her in a similar embrace, holding her so close to his chest, she could barely breathe.
Not that she cared. Vampires or no, neither of them seemed to need oxygen at that moment. They only needed each other.
They continued to kiss, lips and teeth and tongues ravaging while their hands made short work of the rest of their clothes. In the time it took her to unbutton his jeans and lower the zipper carefully past his burgeoning erection, he had hers undone and whisked down her legs. Pants, underwear, shoes, socks…all were yanked off and dropped to the linoleum floor.
Pushing his own denims down past his hips, he lifted her, spread her legs even wider, and entered her in one fierce, swift motion. She gasped into his mouth at the sharp penetration, but was more than ready for it. She was so wet, they might as well have been making love in the shower.
And then her gasp gave way to a long moan as he began to thrust. No preliminaries, no pretty words, just the frantic grinding of his pelvis into hers while she clung to him, scratching his back, biting his lips and tongue, digging her nails into his buttocks to urge him on.
He drove into her until the edge of the counter scored her skin and the back of her skull cracked into the cupboards. But she didn’t care. She wanted him this way—hard and fast and mad with lust. Wanted him so crazed, he couldn’t see or hear or think about anything but her.
Judging by the pounding of his heart, the heaving of his chest, and his staccato grunts of pleasure, she was getting her wish. And the end, when it came, was cataclysmic.
A volcanic eruption, atomic explosion, and dead-center lightnin
g strike all rolled into one. With a near-roar, Ian gripped her hips and plunged into her like a pile driver one last time, shuddering, shaking, spilling inside her.
The second he started to come, she followed him over, her entire body convulsing and squeezing around him until she was drained and limp. A cattle prod couldn’t have prompted her to move a muscle, unless it was the deeply internal ones still flexing around him with the sweet, uncontrollable aftershocks of a ten-point-five orgasm.
She didn’t know how long they remained propped there, pressed together like hot, sweaty pancakes, completely unmoving, the only sounds in the apartment that of their ragged, mingled breathing. Ian seemed to recover first, kicking off his boots and pants with jerky movements, then lifting her up to drape bonelessly across his chest and shoulder. He carried her out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom, throwing back the covers with one hand and tucking them both up to their chins.
As Angelina snuggled closer to his naked warmth, she knew it was wrong, that it wouldn’t last. But it felt so right. And as long as he was here with her…as long as she was here, in this reality…she intended to enjoy every minute.
SIP SIX
The nice, warm cocoon of pleasure and contentment surrounding Angelina lasted all of about two hours. After resting for a bit, they woke up to make love again. More slowly this time before drifting back to sleep.
But the next time the mattress shifted, Ian wasn’t rolling toward her, wasn’t reaching for her—he was getting out of bed and going in search of his clothes.
She didn’t get up with him, instead pretending she was still asleep. Listening to the sounds of his moving around her apartment, while in her head, she thought, This is how it must be between us. This is how it’s always going to be.
They would work together, pretending nothing was going on between them. They would come back here or go to some seedy motel for a couple hours of hot, secret sex. And then he would sneak off to return to his wife and his real home where he’d built a life and a family. One that didn’t include her.