Feisty Heroines Romance Collection of Shorts

by D. F. Jones

  Chapter 4

  Cordray woke to the morning sun beaming onto her face like a ray of light from God’s hand. Good thing she was a mixed blood; otherwise, she would have had quite the sunburn.

  Squinting and shielding her eyes, she winced and tried to sit up.

  Yeah, that was a no-go. Weakness pulled at her limbs. She’d lost enough blood that she needed serious downtime for her body to regenerate. And she needed blood ASAP.

  Lifting her arm so she could check the damage Blondie’s trigger finger had done, she blinked in confusion at the pale-pink man’s dress shirt she was wearing instead of her own clothes. The unbuttoned cuff trailed off the tips of her fingers by at least six inches.

  Lifting one side of the open collar, she peered at where she’d been shot. A thick white bandage had been taped over the hole in her chest, but her leaking blood had seeped through, creating a dark-red stain.

  A voice as subtly turbulent as Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks came from the hallway outside the room. “Quit busting my ass. I’ve got everything under control.”

  With newfound alertness, she took in her surroundings. The Alaskan king she was lying on could easily fit eight, and the lycan-scented sheets layered on top of her were of the finest woven cotton.

  While the smell of male lycan flooded the room from floor to ceiling and coated every surface, including the blasphemously pink shirt some idiot had dressed her in, the furnishings were sparse. A sleek gray dresser, a single nightstand on the side of the bed nearest the door, and a large, plush easy chair the color of storm clouds in the corner next to a small table. A tall, unlit lamp with a white lampshade sat behind it.

  But it was the view from the wall of windows that stopped her cold. That was not Chicago’s skyline.

  Movement in the hall outside the open bedroom door snagged her attention, and she rolled her head to the side as her lycan host stepped into the doorway, phone to his ear, and met her gaze.

  “I’ll call you back.” He disconnected in a way that made her think he’d just hung up on whoever he’d been talking to. “Good morning,” he said to her.

  “What is this shit?” she asked, grabbing a fistful of pink shirt.

  He frowned as if he didn’t understand the question.

  Maybe she needed to use only single syllable words for this grunt. “Where’s my shirt, dog boy?”

  “I had to cut it off of you.”

  Great. Another one of her favorite shirts ruined.

  “And my bra?” She arched her brow as if daring him to lie.

  One side of his mouth lifted in amusement as he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I had to cut that off you too. I hated to—” His phone blared George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone.” He glanced at the screen, then silenced the call, probably by sending it to voicemail, and tossed the phone onto his dresser. “As I was saying, I hated to ruin such a fine piece of lingerie, but it was in my way.” He bobbed his chin toward her body. “Nice ink, by the way.”

  If he thought pouring on fake charm and appreciation for her tattoos was going to soften her up, he was sorely mistaken.

  Through sheer force of will, she pulled herself upright, even as her body tried to drag her back down. The room went a bit topsy-turvy, and she weaved forward and back as her vision blurred. Yep, definitely a concussion. One that wasn’t healing as fast as it should, because she’d lost too much blood.

  He hurried forward, one arm extended. “Whoa, hold up. You were injured pretty badly and lost a lot of bl—”

  “Get your paws off me, lycan,” she snapped, her words slurring ever so slightly.

  She’d been badly injured before and had managed to survive without anyone helping her, and the last thing she needed right now was a lycan trying to play superior.

  He took a step back and cocked his head, his dark gray eyes narrowing. “So that’s how we’re going to play it?”

  “Play what?” She tried to extract herself from the ocean of sheets, only to tangle herself up even more.

  He gestured from him to her. “Me helping you and saving your life.”

  “You didn’t save my life, and I don’t need your help.” Her fight with the sheets continued, her foot getting trapped in a pocket of twisted fabric.

  “Clearly.” He folded his arms and watched her with the kind of patience a mother shows a toddler throwing a fit, knowing that all she had to do was wait for the temper tantrum to end for her tiny biological explosive to come to its senses.

  She stopped wrestling with the sheets and barked, “What are you looking at?”

  He huffed out a quiet laugh and uncrossed his arms. “Beautiful chaos. Beautiful, feisty chaos.”

  She reared back. Beautiful? Dog boy thought she was beautiful?

  “And my name is Xander”—he didn’t bother to extend his hand in greeting—“not lycan or dog boy or Scooby, Snoopy, Fido, Scruffy—”

  “Scruffy’s not so bad.” She eyed the dark, well-groomed stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  There was that smirky smile again.

  He ran his fingers over his whiskers, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Hm, Xander wasn’t half bad on the eyes.

  Dark hair, dark eyes. Tall. Really tall. Maybe even taller than her brother. And muscles everywhere. Not thick, meathead, shot-glass muscles. More like long, elegant, brandy-snifter muscles. The kind that looked better in a tailored suit than in jeans and a T-shirt.

  In other words, not at all Cordray’s type.

  Until now.

  “So, what’s your name?” he asked. “Or should I just call you Chaos?” He sat on the edge of the bed.

  She defiantly raised her chin and avoided the question, taking back control of the situation. “Why am I in New York?” That view from the window was clearly the Big Apple.

  “I live here.”

  “In vampire territory.” It was more of an accusation than a question.

  He shrugged. “I keep a low profile.”

  “Is that why you showed up in Chicago? King Bain’s backyard? You were keeping a ‘low profile’?” She could understand how he got away with living in New York undetected, because there wasn’t a strong vampire presence here, but Chicago was a completely different sitch. That was vampire home base. The streets were flooded with bloodsuckers.

  “I was just following up on a lead, that’s all,” he said, unbuttoning the cuff of his charcoal gray dress shirt.

  Was gray his favorite color? Or was he simply trying to color coordinate with his eyes? His very hypnotic, come-hither eyes.

  “What kind of lead?”

  He shrugged off her question and gave a small shake of his head. “Nothing that concerns you.” He began rolling up his sleeve. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You showed up before I could get anything and changed the course of my night, so here we are.” He folded the fabric over itself and tucked it against his naturally tan skin. “You need blood. It’s why you’re not healing.”

  Nicely done. She’d never seen anyone change the subject with such smooth indifference before.

  “Don’t presume to know what I need.” She tried to look away from the glorious veins pulsing just beneath the surface of his skin as if they did nothing for her, but her fangs were already distending.

  He cocked his head. “I think we’re beyond false pretenses, don’t you?”

  She licked her lips, staring at the pristine expanse of flesh he’d offered her.

  Lycan blood. She should have been disgusted at the prospect, but his O-negative smelled so good, and he was so incredibly easy on the eyes. And he didn’t cower away from her like everyone else. She was used to people rushing in the opposite direction when they saw her. To have someone stand their ground against her brazen coarseness was a refreshing change—and a bit of a turn-on.

  Rubbing her lips together, she scooted closer, trying not to appear too eager to get at the flow in those veins.

  “This doesn’t mean we’re engaged or anything,” she sa
id.

  He licked his own lips, watching her intently. Too intently. “Of course not.”

  “I just need the blood.” Yeah, blood. That was all this was about.

  “You do.” His chest rose and fell heavily as she took his hand.

  “So I can heal,” she added, watching the pulse throb in his carotid artery.

  He appeared to be holding his breath.

  She slowly lifted his wrist. As she did, she heard his robust heartbeat deepen and pick up tempo, as well as his lungs expand more fully as air rushed into them and his breathing intensified. There was no fear, only anticipation.

  Unsure what to make of his response, she hesitated. “Just to reiterate, this doesn’t mean we’re mated. Let’s get that straight.”

  The way he was looking at her as if he were only a twitch away from morphing into his lycan form unnerved her. His features already appeared more feral. Wild. Animal-like.

  “Lycans aren’t allowed to mate vampires,” he said, his voice deeper than before. He’d been staring at her fangs with the fierce concentration of a velociraptor locking in on its prey, but now slid his gaze up to hers. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do other things.”

  “Other things?” She tried to pretend she didn’t know what he was referring to, but who was she kidding?

  “I know how it works, Chaos,” he said with a smirk, shifting closer. “I know that blood tastes better during sex.” The gleam in his eyes made it clear he was exceptionally well versed in the ways of vampire feedings.

  The lightbulb flashed on over her head like a solar flare.

  “Ooohh, you’re one of those.”

  He gnawed his bottom lip, inching closer. “One of what?”

  She held her ground. “You’ve got a hard-on for vampires.” She’d seen this before in humans. But a lycan? “Isn’t it against lycan law to have sex with a vampire?”

  He pulled his arm from her gentle grasp and raised his exposed wrist toward her mouth, tempting her to take a taste. “I can’t mate a vampire, but there’s no law that says I can’t fuck one. Or feed one.” He began unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand. “The only question, Chaos, is whether you want it straight up”—he lifted his wrist higher—“or on the rocks.” He finished unbuttoning his shirt and parted the fabric, revealing his impressive body.

  His pecs flexed under her gaze, and the corded muscles of his abdomen twitched as if preparing to wolf-out. Coarse hair covered his chest, and as she stared in awe at the raw power rippling through him, finer, more delicate hair sprouted on his stomach.

  Xander was a visual feast.

  “Maybe I’m too weak to have sex,” she said coquettishly, glancing down at where he’d obviously patched her up.

  “I’ll be gentle.”

  God, that cockeyed smile was going to do her in. If she didn’t wipe it off his face with her fist, she’d lick it off and enjoy every moment of it.

  She drew in a hardy inhale, letting the scent of savory blood, dangerous lycan, and aroused male come together like a velvety vichyssoise.

  Using what little strength she had left, she grabbed the two sides of his shirt, spun him, and tossed him onto his back before pulling herself on top of him and straddling his hips.

  “Gentle is for wimps, Xander.” With her lips barely an inch from his and her palms digging into the mattress over his head, she whipped her tongue over the seam of his mouth.

  With a sharp intake of breath, his lips parted, inviting her to kiss him, but she pulled away. His pupils dilated until his eyes appeared black, and a growl rumbled deep within his throat.

  His hands shot up with lightning speed, grabbed her under the arms, then whirled her onto her back. He was on top of her before she could blink.

  Faint but smoldering luminescence radiated from his savage gaze, his features sharper and more pronounced. “On the rocks it is, Chaos.”

  Chapter 5

  Xander’s blood was incredible. Strong. Invigorating. Potent. After just one feeding, both the destruction in her chest and her concussion had completely healed.

  Now, twelve hours later, that disgustingly pink shirt lay on the floor, sans all but two buttons, shredded. Xander had ruined the damn thing when he’d ripped it off her during some of the best sex of her life.

  Three rounds of it.

  Three rambunctious, energetic, vocal, and—at times—somewhat violent rounds of bed-wrecking sex that had revved her engine in ways she’d never experienced.

  Mental orgasm? Oh yeah, she’d had one… during round three when he had partially transitioned into his lycan form while taking her from behind. Her face had been mashed against the mattress when he’d fisted her hair, cranked back her entire body, then thrust her face-first against the carved headboard with enough force to rattle her bones.

  And then—POW—the mental release shuddered her mind and filled her body with that oddly numb but euphoric sensation she hadn’t felt in over a decade. Every cell had vibrated, trembling deep inside her like an internal earthquake, making her arms and legs quiver uncontrollably.

  When Xander shoved her hair aside a moment later and gripped her by the nape of the neck with his fangs, letting the tips sink into her flesh, it happened again.

  A first for her. She’d never had two mental orgasms back-to-back like that. But Xander had an uncanny ability to remind her body how the physical act of sex was supposed to work, making the right biological response blaze through her despite her handicap.

  She almost smiled as she gazed at the disheveled bed, then forced it back down. There was no sense reminiscing when she had to leave.

  Xander strolled to where she stood near the sliding door that led to the balcony. He was shirtless, wearing a pair of black nylon gym shorts low on his hips. That delectable V of muscle on either side of his tapered waist pointed toward the prize that had given her such pleasure. Clumps of his sex-tousled hair stood out in every direction, but instead of making him look messy or tired, it made him sexier.

  Snaking his arm around her waist, he hauled her up against him.

  She placed her palms on his chest, letting her fingers slide into all that glorious fur. Vampires didn’t have a lot of body hair, and most human males didn’t have as much chest hair as Xander, so like everything else about him, it was a surprisingly intriguing novelty. One that turned her on.

  “Thanks for scratching my itch,” he said, smiling out one side of his mouth before running his teeth over his bottom lip as he gave her face and breasts a sultry once-over.

  “Oh, is that what today was?” She tilted her head. “Me scratching your itch?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “You scratching mine.”

  His head fell back as he chuckled, then he met her gaze again. “I like you, Chaos. You’re my kind of female.”

  She wasn’t used to receiving compliments, and before she could stop herself, she pushed against his chest and leaned away.

  He frowned, tightening his hold on her before she could escape. “What’s the matter?”

  She averted her gaze and looked out the window. A faint line of burnished sunlight lingered on the western horizon. “Look. You fed me. We fucked. It was good. Let’s leave it at that.”

  His arm cinched her waist, pressing her hips against his and drawing her attention back to their undeniable chemistry. “What if I don’t want to leave it at that?”

  Her gaze whipped around to his, drilling a silent warning into his eyes. “Get over it.”

  Sure, the sex had been incredible, but she would not make sleeping with him a habit. She needed to make sure he got a grip on that reality right now.

  His brow scrunched over his nose. “Get over it?”

  “I’m a one-and-done kinda girl, Scruffy.” She flicked her fingernail over the thick stubble along his jaw. “I don’t double-dip once I’ve had a taste.” It wasn’t true, but how would he know?

  “I can just show up in Chicago again. I can find you.” He dragged in a slow, sed
uctive sniff as if he were committing her scent to memory, proving that her natural perfume was all he needed to hunt her down anytime he wanted.

  “I won’t be so nice to you if you show up in Chicago again.” She curled her fingers around all that fur on his pecs, wishing like hell she could feel it. “I’ll make you regret it.”

  His other arm joined the first, snaking around the small of her back. “Mmm, that sounds like a date, Chaos.”

  She easily could have freed herself and dematerialized before he could stop her, but she remained locked where she was, pressed against a lycan who she should have loathed, but having too good a time to feel anything but thrilled.

  But, seriously, even if she wanted to see Xander again, how could it work? Her brother was exceptionally forgiving where she was concerned, but this? Bain would never let her get away with feeding from and screwing a lycan.

  “Look, Xander,” she said, easing away from him, “as fun as this was, it can’t happen again.”

  “Sure it can.”

  “No, it can’t. King Bain would have my ass if he knew what I’d done. And, frankly, I’m shocked Memnon and Rameses haven’t already castrated you. You obviously have a vampire fetish. I can’t imagine that makes them happy.”

  She’d heard that Memnon and Rameses ruled with iron fists, unyielding when it came to their laws and traditions. And while having sex with vampires might not have been illegal, it certainly wasn’t traditional.

  He scowled and let go of her. “Rameses and Memnon don’t control me.”

  “Why? You a lone wolf?”

  He tilted his head as if he didn’t appreciate her backhanded accusation. “I just live my own life.”

  “So do I, but even I know when not to cross the line.”

  He slid one hand over her hip as he closed the space between them again. “You seemed all too eager to ‘cross the line’ with me earlier. Three times, in fact.” He trailed the back of his finger down her cheek, her chin, and the front of her neck. It was a good thing she couldn’t feel it, or she might have reconsidered her position.