This chapter contains mature sexual content.

Isla, Thinks We're Alone Now

"There I am, minutes from sunrise, sprinting down Broad Street, eyes burning from the garlic paste and with some other fool's pants around my ankles," Greg, barely able to contain his own chuckling, paused to take a sip from his fourth margarita.

I didn't bother to hold back my ugly, quaking laughter. Not since tequila came out my nose and splattered that leather jacket as, per my insistence for more details, he timidly recounted his 1950s tryst with the widow Estelle Mulversmitt, a near 200 years his junior in age yet thirty years his senior in appearance.

"When Dmitri, that old bat, swoops in—"

"No."

"Yes!"

"As a bat?"

"As a fanging bat, and just completely overturns the cab. Mess of a wreck. Takes out a fire hydrant with it and there's just water, gushing, all over the street!"

"And the bottles?"

"Broken! Every one of them. That's when I knew I needed to quit."

Greg was animated. More so than I'd ever seen him. Laughing. Grinning. Combing his fingers through his misbehaving hair. Dare I say relaxed even.

"And when was this?" I asked.

"1925."

I whistled. "And how long have you been a vampire?"

"Long enough."

"Oh, self-conscious about your age?"

He gnawed a plastic straw between his pearly teeth, fangs sharp and gleaming, eyes twinkling playfully. "You have a thing for older gents?"

"I did give the ghost of a Revolutionary War soldier a hand job behind the Liberty Bell once."

The straw fell out Greg's mouth and fluttered down to the sticky floor. For a moment, I thought he died. Again. His body became so still as he studied me with those bright, inquisitive eyes. But after only a few seconds his shoulders shook, and out his mouth came a strangled laugh.

It was infectious. Like a festering wound, but way better, like a, a, um—I'd think of something better when I wasn't so buzzed (no, not drunk, I could hold my liquor better than this vampire, who I suspected was in grave danger of seeing those margaritas come back up his gullet again later anyway). But his laugh, deep and rumbly and contagious made me laugh too. Until my stomach hurt and I was gasping for air.

"It was his final wish before moving on!" I croaked. "Although come to think of it he was probably just a creepy old horn ball."

I blotted my eyes with a knuckle, not realizing I laughed so hard I cried till my makeup stung the corners of my eyes. Greg gently reached out and wiped a tear away with the pad his thumb. The coolness of his fingers was light and refreshing against my skin. He didn't shy away. Or apologize. Or excuse himself. Not even when I pressed my cheek into his hand. He instead trailed his touch over my ear, feathering his fingertips through my dried-out, bleach damaged hair.

A needy, aching heat pooled low in my belly, making me fidget. Bet he could sense the change in my pulse, feel the way he made my breath hitch in my throat—where his eyes were pinned, giving me pleasant chills that danced and twirled and only stoked the fire rising inside me. I whimpered like the thirsty flirt I was when he stole back his hand, wishing he'd trail those nimble fingers all the way down my chest and lower, tickle my thigh, slip beneath my skirt so easily he'd choke at how ready I was to take him.

Imagining my tongue tipping into Greg's mouth, I actually gargled, and spewed the stupidest question. "How'd you become a vampire?"

He froze. Cleared his throat. "Well, you see when a vampire and human exchange blood—"

"Yeah, I know the mechanics, I mean, like, was it Dmitri?"

"Gag. No."

"Then how'd you die?"

"Slowly."

I swallowed my own reckless tongue. Balls. Come on, girlfriend, you know you can't just go around asking the undead how they died. It's impolite.

Just as I was about to open my mouth to apologize the song on the jukebox switched over.

Greg made a sweet little mmm noise in his throat (bet that's the noise he'd make as I stained his collar with my lipstick) and adorably twirled a finger in the air.

The crowd in the bar had thinned. Finally. I'd lost out on several earlier guesses with my frail, mortal hearing impaired by all the noise of the prime-time crowd. Or so I claimed. As Rihanna serenaded us with all the love she found in hopeless places, I sucked on the husk of a lime and pondered, scrutinizing Greg's sly smile (and trimmed chest and tight jeans and messy hair).

"Nope," I said. "Not your song."

He tongued one of his very conspicuous fangs and slid my half-finished cocktail into my hand on the bar. "Drink."

"No. This wasn't you!"

"Them's the rules."

"Do you seriously take me for a girl who plays by the rules?"

"Do seriously take me for a boy who can't appreciate the musical genius of nine-time Grammy winner and National Hero of Barbados Ms. Robyn Rihanna Fenty?"

Had to admit, his 'I'm wounded' face was heckin' adorable.

I spit the lime out onto the bar. "She is a literal siren you know."

"Drink," he cooed, eyes flashing an eerie blue for a flicker of a moment, accentuating that hard K in a way that made quiver. A pleasant, liquid warmth trickled lazily down my spine, coaxing me to relax. Encouraging, but not commanding. Promising.

I did as I was told, finishing off the last dregs of my cocktail.

Greg sucked on his lower lip in a poor attempt to hide a satisfied smirk. "Good girl."

His liquid warmth turned my spine to jelly.

Then, as if suddenly realizing he wasn't playing fair, Greg downed the last of his own acid reflux inducing excuse for a margarita.

Clearing his throat, the vamp flipped open that precious little notebook of his. "So that's five for me, three for you."

"Nuh uh!" I pouted, reaching for the book.

But the vampire pulled it safely out of my reach. He was quick. Of course. Hope not everything he did was that quick. I resisted the urge to fling myself over his lap and fight him to see more of those doodles of his till I tore pages out, but this wasn't Christmas, and I wasn't fighting my sisters for the last Boston Crème donut. I'd embarrassed Greg earlier by finding that picture. I couldn't read a pulse, but I could tell, he had the deer in headlights look. Felt sorry enough for stealing a glance I hadn't yet worked up the courage to tell him I liked his drawings, and that he was talented.

"How dare you accuse me of shotty note keeping, I am a professional!" We both snorted. "See, I correctly guessed five straight songs for you. No Scrubs, Despacito, I Think We're Alone Now—"

"Tiffany is an underrated treasure."

"Can't argue with that, but I can object to you Rick Rolling the bar twice."

I giggled, stupidly proud of myself for pulling that stunt on him. Greg must've found it amusing too. A wide, toothy smile spread across his face. He watched me with rapt attention, as if my honking was the most fascinating thing he'd ever consumed.

"Yeah," I said, "but I got you on the Fleetwood Mac song, and No Doubt's Spiderwebs, and La Vie En Rose, you older gent. How'd you think you could slip that one by me? You've got, like, three hundred years on everyone in this joint."

"Is that why you so wrongly presumed I was responsible for the Rat Pack block? Don't forget you missed Abba by the way."

"Well you can still lay all your love on me all you like, babe."

Greg tsked. The song changed. "Did you Rick Roll the bar thrice?"

"Yep!" I said proudly. And who says thrice?

Sal cast me an annoyed look as the rest of his remaining patrons groaned about the terrible music in this place. I shrugged, a poor excuse for an apology, but it was worth it to get Greg all riled up like this. It was a cute look on him. And was just too easy.

"You are beguiling," Greg sighed, scribbling.

"You like it."

"Last call, doll," Sal grumbled. "Got to close out."

Alrighty, could've been hearing jawn, maybe the jukebox skipped a little, but I swear on a centaur's ass I heard Greg hiss a teeny bit when Sal called me doll. Is that comforting and admirable, or an overprotective red flag?

I whipped my head around, awkwardly and suddenly realizing there were no other remaining patrons in the bar. Greg checked his watch – worn leather strap, tarnished analog face – and it was creeping past two in the morning. Huh. Time sure flies when you're playing with vampires.

"Yeah, Sal, shit, my bad. Take it out of my, uh, salary."

Greg gave a me a quizzical look for a moment, before pulling out his wallet and addressing Sal. "Put everything on my tab, thanks."

Sal looked between us. Eventually I shrugged. He took that as a sign to accept Greg's payment. Despite being occupied with the bill, my—the vampire in the room watched me carefully as I climbed back into my coat. I also spied that Greg left Sal a generous tip, which I'm sure the old guy appreciated. He nodded his thanks as he slipped me an overstuffed envelope.

I didn't peek inside. I knew Sal was good for the cash he promised. No need to insult the man by counting the bills right there in front of him, in his own business. "Ever consider making Big Tony a house cat?"

"Get out of here!" Sal said. "He's a free spirit. Needs to roam."

"He'll live longer indoors."

"Ha! Have a goodnight youse two."

"Goodnight, Sal."

"Goodnight, sir," said Greg.

I hadn't noticed the vampire gently holding my elbow, keeping me balanced as I hopped off the barstool, until he let go. It was only for a moment. Just long enough for him to get the door for his lady. I giggled. The world became a bit fuzzier and off kilter as the frigid air slapped my face. I looped both my arms through one of Greg's and allowed him to guide me down the front steps.

"Balls! It's cold!"

Greg reached across me to pull my coat a little snugger around my shoulders. He frowned when he realized the zipper was broken off. "What was that about?"

I tensed, playing it off as a shiver from the cold. "Normally I charge per séance, remember?"

"Thought you said Madame Margarita's show was closing?"

"Hm. I'll revise that statement. Back for a limited engagement, Madame Margarita is offering an ultra-exclusive show. Curtin closes after I pay my wicked landlady."

"Do you intend to make yourself sound like a prostitute so often?"

"Ha!" I said, hopping up and down a smidge on my heels, staying mobile for warmth. "Ow, my feet hurt!"

"What is it? Glass?" Greg untangled himself from my grip and placed both hands on my hips, steadying me. Panic shimmered in those pretty eyes. His voice became adorably high pitched when he was worried. "Thought you said you were alright?"

"Chillax." I draped an arm over his shoulder and leaned heavily against him. His scent enveloped me, just like the other night. Woodsy. Pine and birch and sandalwood like. Seemingly instinctually he hugged me a little more snuggly against him. "Just blisters. I ran home in heels last night."

"I can walk you home tonight," he softly said into my hair. "Or call you a cab."

"Your place is closer."

My back hit the side a brick wall in an instant. Flashes of the other night at Irwin's¸ of my ass scraping against the ledge as Greg kissed me, twinkled like stars in my vision. Except Greg wasn't kissing me this time. He'd pressed his whole body against mine. Rigid. Bracketing me between his arms against the wall. His cool breath tickled my neck, just below my jaw. A guttural sound escaped him as my pulse quickened barely an inch away from his fangs.

I tilted my head a little further to the other side.

"If I take you—" Greg swallowed. "If I take you back to my place, Isla, I'll—I'm so thirsty."

My ribs seemed to hug my lungs just a bit tighter at the sound of the vulnerability tucked inside his silky voice.

I skimmed my palms up his firm chest, weaving them beneath his jacket, around his back, and tugged him closer. He ground his hips into me. My skirt bunched up. Goosebumps broke out along my exposed thighs from the chilled air. I brushed my leg up between his. Greg growled and I could feel – well, more like couldn't feel – the evidence of his thirst. Had he not sated himself since the last time we tried this? Even I recharged my vibrator.

"I can help with that. Always wanted to try neck stuff."

He grinned into the underside of my jaw. "Oh, Madame, but the paperwork."

"Eh. What's one more unfiled piece of paperwork for me." I paused. "Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't have to," he whispered. "I'd make you feel good, Isla. So, so good."

"Uh huh," was all my mushy brain could muster.

"Like, a hot fudge sundae melting on your tongue on a summer night, good."

The spell waivered. I laughed. "It's pretty cute how horny you are for snacks."

He tensed. "Sorry."

"I'm a snack."

"Hmm," that noise. So soft and sweet and pleasant. "You are."

Greg kissed me. Right over my artery. Soft and gentle. Like snowflakes landing on your eyelashes. One of his arms snaked around my waist to hold me upright. That jelly feeling had overtaken me again, making it difficult to stand against the careful attack of his lips. He left a line of slow, meticulous kisses down my throat and back up again, allowing his fangs to catch the chain of my necklace.

"I'm sorry. I'm a fool."

Wow.

"Okay, tell me how you really feel about me."

His chuckle was dark and rich and chilling. It vibrated through his chest and into mine, we were so close. "I'm a fool because I allowed you to get into a murder van. I know I put you in danger at Dmitri's and am so, so sorry, but when you cut your thumb on my teeth you tasted so good, like wine, and all I could think was what were we doing here? Why? When I could have opened you over my desk instead."

A small, shaky gasp escaped me. Hot damn, Greggy could dirty talk! All my muscles spasmed as a pleasant shudder crept over me. My core ached. Needy and empty and hot and already coiled so tight it wouldn't take much for me to come undone. I throbbed everywhere. My stockings had become sticky and suddenly that gorgeous, liquid heat that had been slowly coursing through me all night burned so hot it hurt.

I could have opened you...

Oh, I was open alright.

I grabbed Greg's free hand and guided him between my legs, desperate to be filled in any way he could damnit.

There it was again. That sweet, soft, little mmm. Right in the back of his throat. And I was right. His cool fingers both soothed and stoked my fire as he traced a path up my leg, under my skirt, easily navigating his way up my silken stockings. Taking his sweet ass time, I might add. He toyed with me. Tickling me through damp fabric. The friction was about to make me combust.

I thrust my pelvis into his hand.

Greg cupped me. His lips latched onto my throat again. No fangs. No teeth. But his tongue traced hot, wet lines along my thumping veins with every kiss.

"Please," I sighed. "I can't wait for your desk."

A ragged breath escaped him as Greg pushed my panties aside and entered me with one finger. I gasped. His coolness felt good. Soothing the heat inside me. I ground against him. The vampire moaned, whispering frantically against my ear. Some of it wasn't in English. The broken, barely strung together bits that were repeated warm and wet and good, good girl.

And then Greg curled another finger inside me.

I moaned. Too loudly for a couple secretly getting nooky on a city street in the wee hours of the morning. But to heck with it.

My pleasure mounted quickly. A knot low in my belly that tightened and tightened and tightened until it threatened to snap. I needed it to snap. I couldn't take it anymore. This sweet, delicious, agonizing pressure. He could sense it. I knew Greg could hear my erratic heartbeat just as plainly as he could my panting breaths.

"Please," I begged. "More."

His withdrew his fingers. Jerk had the nerve to snicker at my whimper. The loss of movement, his friction, his steady hands curling and pressing into me in just the right places when I was so, so close stung worse than any pain I'd ever known.

"Don't stop, you prick! Ah—"

As if waiting for my outburst, he thrust into me again. I unraveled. Pleasure flooded my every sense as I came apart. A warm, gooey, boneless feeling cascaded through me. Like a hot fudge sundae melting on my tongue on a summer night. I squealed. Bucked against Greg's hand. Dug my nails into his shoulders.

"Good girl," he purred, cupping the back of my head with his free hand.

He poised fangs against my neck.

Before the rapture was even over, a stupid, unwelcomed, horrific wave of nausea smacked me. Nazira's warning echoed through my brain. If one of them bit you. Fairy tits was that supposed to mean? I didn't know, and yet, it was enough to make me lurch away, just a few inches, before Greg could pierce my skin.

He stiffened. I couldn't see his face. Those pretty eyes of his. But I'd bet they looked sad. Had I just led him on? Saying in so many words he could bite me and backing out at the last second? Balls. Blue, blue balls.

"I'm sorry," I panted, voice barely audible. "I didn't mean—"

"It's okay."

But it wasn't. I could hear the heavy disappointment in him. Greg relaxed his shoulders. Took his hands off me carefully. He pulled away just enough to separate us, to put a flimsy layer of cold air between our bodies. I shivered.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Greg mumbled. He was biting his lip. Hard enough to cut – though no blood seeped out. Those sparkling blues wouldn't meet mine. "Isla, I won't force or enthrall you, I promise. You've done nothing wrong."

"Gross. Get a fucking room," a gruff, angry voice shouted to us. "You stink like sex and death."

Oh, for finding a troll's haunted dick at a yard sale's sake. Where the fuck had Kyle just come from?