Haunted

CHAPTER 10

THE COTTAGE IS SPIT-SHINED. CLEAN SHEETS ON the bed, fresh towels in the bathroom, some cheese and bread in the refrigerator in case Stephen is hungry, a new exotic preparation guaranteed to make that big moment even bigger sitting on the nightstand.

I’m looking at that now, shaking my head. This may be overkill. We’ve never needed any outside stimulant to make that big moment bigger. I’m not sure we could take it if it did.

I slide it into a nightstand drawer, feeling foolish for having spent money on such nonsense.

Besides, I’m more than ready for Stephen. We’ve been apart for two weeks.

For the tenth time in as many minutes, I glance at my watch. I’m picking him up at the airport at two. It’s one. I’m nervous—no, it’s more like anxious, and I have no idea why. Since we met, we’ve been inseparable. Only when he’s sent on assignment, like this one with the president, have we slept apart. When he’s in town, we’re either at my place or his. Every night.

I suppose we’re in that first flush, “can’t get enough of each other” phase. We met under very unusual circumstances. Stephen had been kidnapped by the tribunal—still not exactly sure what that bunch is all about—to ensure my presence at a trial where I had to defend myself against a charge of murder. The victim? The black witch Belinda Burke. It didn’t exactly turn out the way my “prosecutor” intended. In fact, when all the facts were known, he was in as much trouble as I was. But as is so often the case with otherworldly beings, it didn’t end with a verdict of not guilty. That same prosecutor attacked Stephen and me when we returned to Earth. We killed him together.

That’s what I meant when I told Frey a life-and-death battle against a godlike demon tends to forge bonds. During the entire time we were together on that “adventure,” Stephen didn’t flinch or turn away from what I was. And when we were safe, back on Earth, he stayed with me.

Is that love?

Yes.

I think so . . .

I don’t know.

Damn it, Frey.

I give myself a mental thump. Bringing John-John here, giving me a glimpse of what the three of us could share, has burrowed into my subconscious like a tick. Frey is smart. He knew exactly what he was doing. After that one conversation, he never again mentioned love or sharing a life with him. He didn’t need to. The time he and John-John and I spent together was magical. It implanted the notion that it was possible for me to have a family, a family that included a child. A notion I’d given up on.

Cunning.

From downstairs, the trill of my cell phone.

I jump up and run to get it.

“Hey, you,” a familiar voice says. “Where are you? I thought you were coming to pick me up?”

I shoot a startled glance toward the mantel clock. It’s after two. Shit.

“Oh my god, Stephen. I’m sorry. My watch must have stopped.” A lie. I was lost in my daydream.

“Well, get over here, girl. I can’t wait to see you.” A pause. “No. I have a better idea. I’ll take a cab. It’ll be faster.”

“Are you sure?”

“Just make sure you’re naked and ready when I get there.”

“I’m ready now. I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too. See you in a few minutes.”

Perfect timing, Stephen. You’re just the antidote I need to chase Frey’s fantasies right out of my head.

I ROLL OVER AND SMILE DOWN AT STEPHEN. HIS EYES are closed but I know he’s not sleeping. His lips are curled in a little smile. Satisfied. Spent.

His head rests on the pillow, his right arm curled up behind it. He doesn’t look any worse for the two weeks he’s been gone—a little thinner maybe, but that only accentuates the square cut of his jaw, the razor-sharp cheekbones that look so good on camera. His hair is mussed, longer than I’ve seen it, golden blond touched on the temples with silver. It gives him an air of quiet confidence, of maturity that in spite of his young thirty-some years, attracts viewers and makes his evening news show one of the most watched in Southern California.

I brush a lock of that hair gently off his forehead. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? God, you must be. We’ve been at it for hours.”

He opens his eyes and grins up at me. “Have we? You make me lose track of time.” He glances toward the slider. “When did it get dark?”

I laugh and sit up. “I have some bread and cheese downstairs. Not much. But I figured you’d want to go to dinner at some point.”

He pulls me back down against his chest. “Not yet.” His voice is gruff. “We have two weeks to make up for.”

I slide my hand down between his legs. “You’re hard.”

His hand travels down my stomach, fingers stroke, probe. “You’re wet.” He brushes his lips against mine. “Can you go again?”

“Chosen One, remember? Stamina woman.”

He lifts his chin. “What about you? Are you thirsty?”

An offering. I realize I am. I nuzzle close, touch the spot with the tip of my tongue. I listen for his heartbeat, for the pulse of his blood. His excitement builds. I feel it, not only in the hardness of his erection, but in the quickening of his blood.

I straddle him, pin his shoulders to the bed with my hands, his hips with my knees. I lower my own hips, advancing, retreating, until I have him completely inside me and he’s groaning with impatience. He wants to thrust up, but I don’t let him.

Until the moment I break the skin. His back arches, he gasps and moans. But he doesn’t fight. He surrenders. To the pleasure, to the rhythm, to the vampire.

His blood tastes of cold desert air and snow. Simple food. A bit of fear. Longing. I’m there in his sleepless nights.

The realization that I’ve become a part of him fills me with sudden alarm. Then, confusion. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted?

He’s nearing climax. His body tenses, his hands grip my hips and he forces me down, deep. I’m swept up, too. I stop drinking and meet his movements with my own—frenzied, turbulent, using the overpowering physical sensation of a mind-numbing climax to shatter the uncertainty.