Insatiable

vampires?”

Lucien returned his hand to the stem of his wineglass, staring at the ruby liquid within it.

He knew it was important to look everywhere but into her eyes. He was afraid of how much he

might give away if he looked into those eyes that seemed to see so much…and yet so little.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I just thought, the other night, at the church…”

“Oh,” Meena said. She took another sip of her wine. Her glass was almost empty. “That?

Aren’t you the one who keeps saying it was only a few little bats?”

His own words, thrown back at him. He supposed he deserved that. “But you believe St.

Joan heard voices,” he said. “Voices telling her the future. How can an educated woman like

yourself believe this and not in creatures of the night? Or”—he smiled—“do you prefer only to

believe in happy things, like your preference for happy endings?”

The look she gave him was so sharp, it could have cut glass. “Joan’s story didn’t end

happily,” she said, reminding him. “And I like a good horror story as much as the next person,

so long as they kill off some men, too, and not just girls. But the voices Joan heard were real .

There’s clear and substantiated proof they were real. She won battles that would otherwise

have been lost because of what those voices told her in advance of them, allowing the French

generals to strategize in ways completely different than they did before Joan came along.

People’s lives were saved because of what those voices told her.”

“And,” Lucien said, his gaze still on his glass, “there’s no such proof that vampires are

real.”

“There’s plenty of proof that some corporations are making a fortune off audiences who

like to think they’re real,” she said. “Including Lust ’s advertisers. Why do you think our

sponsor is so adamant that we get in on the action? The money’s very, very real. But soulless

undead who walk around biting people on the neck and drinking their blood, who can’t go out

during the day or they’ll burn to a crisp and who have to sleep in coffins? Please.”

“Some of the mythology has been exaggerated over the years,” Lucien said with a slight

quirk to his mouth. “Some authors—including your Mr. Stoker—may have taken liberties.”

“And who can turn into bats?” Meena added.

“And some haven’t,” Lucien said a little stiffly. He refilled her wineglass, which she’d

finished off. “So, just to be sure. Even though you’ve never met one—because they don’t exist,

of course—you want nothing to do with vampires?”

Meena bit her lower lip. Lucien couldn’t help noticing the way the blood rushed into it,

making it even lusher and redder than before. “That does sound a little prejudiced,” Meena

said. “Would you think ill of me if I admitted that I don’t like werewolves—or hobbits—

either?”

Lucien reached out and laid his hand over hers where it rested on the bar. Her skin

looked temptingly smooth and soft. It felt as good as it looked. “I could never think ill of you,”

he said.

“Oh,” she said, raising her glass to her lips with her free hand and taking a fairly large

sip of her wine. “Trust me. You could. You don’t know everything about me. Yet.”

Her voice sounded a little sorrowful.

“And if I told you I was a vampire?” Lucien asked, tracing a little circle on the back of

her hand. “Would you hate me?”

“Ha,” Meena said, laughing. “You’d make a terrible vampire.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I would?”

“Of course you would,” she said, still laughing. She put down the wineglass, then

slipped her hand out from under his to take hold of his tie instead, swinging toward him on the

barstool until her knees were between his thighs. “You had plenty of opportunity to bite me

that night with the bats—and then again in that big, dark, deserted museum—and you didn’t.

Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

She placed her other hand on his barstool, directly between his legs, so she could balance

herself as she leaned forward and, using his tie to gently tug his head down so it was just

inches from hers, she said, in a voice so throaty from the wine that it was almost a growl, “The

thing is, I’ve already been with a boy who bites…figuratively speaking, of course. I was kind

of hoping to avoid guys like that in the future.”

Lucien wondered just who, exactly, was in danger here. Her eyes were twin pools, dark

as midnight.

He felt as if he were drowning.

And he didn’t think he minded.

“I’ll never bite you,” he whispered. “Unless you give me permission to, of course.”

Then he was pressing his lips against hers.

And Lucien wasn’t certain if he’d failed…or succeeded more spectacularly than he could

have hoped. He’d told her what he’d felt honor-bound to share.

Was it his fault she didn’t believe him?

Yes. It was. Because he hadn’t offered her the proof she’d said she needed.

But Lucien wasn’t about to do that now…not when her hand was resting so dangerously

close to his inner thigh. The part of him that was a man may have longed to be redeemed by

her.

But the part of him that was a monster wanted something else entirely.

The man would have to wait.

His arms went around her waist, dragging her to him with a possessiveness that seemed

to surprise her, if the little gasp she let out against his mouth was any indication.

But he’d gone past the point of civility. He pulled her from her stool and onto his lap,

crushing her against him, draining with his lips and tongue what he couldn’t drain with his

teeth…the essence of her, what he hoped—what he’d dreamed for so long—might save him.

He knew from the soft sound Meena made—whether of protest or pleasure he didn’t

know, and the signals he was getting from her mind were cloudy, as usual—when his lips

came down over hers that this kiss was even more proprietary than the one inside the museum

had been, as if he were claiming ownership of her.

But he couldn’t help it. There he’d kissed her reverently, as if he were afraid she might

break.

This was a different kind of kiss…a demanding kiss, a kiss that, he knew, was laying his

soul bare in front of hers….

And yet at the same time laying claim to hers.

And Meena didn’t seem to mind. She hadn’t flinched or tried to push him away when

he’d pulled her toward him. The opposite, in fact. She’d parted her legs to straddle him

beneath the wide skirt of her dress, only the black lace of her panties and his suit trousers

separating their skin, her arms going around his neck. She clung to him, the heat emanating

from her mouth and slim body seeming to consume him. He could feel her heart pounding

against him through the thin material of her dress, a rhythmic pulse coming from her body that

raced in his temples and drove him to kiss her harder than ever…

…then slide his mouth over her lips, down her chin, toward her throat. He reached up to

lay a hand over the curve of one of her breasts and felt her heart beating beneath his fingers,

racing like a greyhound’s, before lowering his head down to where his hand lay, replacing his

fingers with his lips, pressing his mouth against the silken flesh he revealed by pushing away

the neckline of her dress, then the lacy cup of her bra.

Meena reacted by threading her fingers through his hair, straining to bring his mouth

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