Jeanne Stein - Legacy

DRAW A QUICK, SHARP BREATH. HER BODY IS MORE beautiful than I imagined. Reflected light from the fireplace bathes her in a golden, flickering aura. It catches highlights in her hair and throws them back like quick, bright sparks. She’s slim where she should be, trim waist, sculpted hips and thighs, and lush where she should be, perfect breasts, firm, round ass. She has no pubic hair, no body hair at all. In spite of the woman’s body, it gives her an air of innocence, of vulnerability. I want to cover her nakedness. Ask her to slip the gown back on. To protect her.

Sandra lets me look at her, drink her in. She knows I have no choice, that I can’t look away. She fills my mind, whirlwinds my senses.

In the next instant, everything changes.

Now I’m panting with desire. My blood races, my skin heats up with such intense passion, I’m on fire, from within and without. The vampire is dangerously close to taking what it wants. The human Anna, the Anna whose common sense is screaming to get out of here, is slipping away. I no longer want to protect Sandra. I want nothing more than to cover her nakedness with my own. To explore her depths with fingers and tongue. Taste her. Find her pleasure points and make her cry out with the same aching need possessing me.

“What are you waiting for, Anna?” She opens her arms, inviting me closer. “You want me. I feel it.”

I do. More than I’ve wanted anyone since—

Her eyes burn into mine. Her eyes but different. Familiar. Threatening.

“It would have been so good, Anna. I waited so long for a worthy companion. I reveled in finding you, in showing you what could be. I loved you. I loved you.”

Her voice. Her voice but different. The words spoken with anger, disappointment, unbearable sadness.

My god.

I take a step back, mind reeling. Sandra’s face, Sandra’s face, is devoid of expression. Only her eyes are different. They’re his eyes, sparked with life. They’re his words. His last words.

Avery.

I MAKE NO CONSCIOUS DECISION TO FLEE. ONE moment, I’m staring into Sandra’s face, into Avery’s wide, unforgiving eyes and the next, I’m racing out the front door, into the night, away from the apparition.

I know in my head what I saw wasn’t real. My heart, though, is sending adrenaline pumping and thundering the message to get away. The animal fights for self-preservation. I’m in my car and spinning out of the driveway, tires screaming in protest, and miles down the road before rational thought returns.

With it comes the shaking. It starts with my hands, jerking on the wheel, then my body spasms with such a visceral physical reaction that I have to pull over. I stumble to the side of the road and retch until my ribs throb with the effort. I vomit blood, black, thick, burning my throat like acid.

I fed from Lance last night, but blood is absorbed directly into my system. There’s no detour through a digestive tract like food in a human. Where this blood is coming from, I don’t know.

I don’t care. I’m too sick too care. Too weak from the exertion. I fall to my knees, clutching my stomach, head falling forward to the pavement, and pray that this sickness will pass.

From far away, like sound muffled by water, I hear the approach of a motorcycle, the deep, guttural roar of a Harley. Fear that it might be Sandra brings me staggering to my feet. I get back behind the wheel of the Jag and slide down until I’m hidden, waiting for the bike to pass.

It does.

I sit up and stare at the figure riding away from me.

Long, black hair flows from underneath a helmet. A broad, masculine back hunches over the handlebars.

A stranger.

Not Sandra.

Relief, then a deep feeling of futility washes over me. What did I do? Did I think Sandra would not have recognized my car at the side of the road? Was slinking down in the seat supposed to protect me?

I lean my head against the steering wheel. I have to get control of myself. I don’t know what happened back at that house—at Avery’s house—but I do know I’ll never let it happen again. I’ll never go back.

I also know that Sandra’s hold over me is broken. Whatever magic she possesses, I won’t give the bitch a second chance at me.

My heart has stopped its wild pounding. My body no longer jerks and quakes. It’s time to go home.

I’VE NEVER BEEN SO HAPPY TO BE HOME. IT’S EARLY, only ten o’clock but I head right upstairs. I brush my teeth until my gums bleed, and then I rinse until I can no longer taste the blood. I strip off my clothes and climb into bed. I lie there, covers pulled up to my chin, trying to make sense out of the day. How could things have gotten so crazy? What happened to me at Avery’s? How did Sandra make it happen?

I think about Frey’s book. Maybe the answers I need are in that damned chapter seventeen—the one I haven’t yet read. I start to get up, to get it, when I realize I’ve left it at the office. Damn. I don’t have the energy to get out of bed and drive back to the office.

A car alarm shrieks. I jump at the noise, sitting straight up in bed. Has Sandra followed me here?

Then I collapse back into the pillows. Damn it. It’s out on Mission, not the alley in back of my house, and it’s certainly not my car, locked in the garage.

Locked.

Did I lock the doors downstairs? The windows?

Frantic drumming starts again in my chest.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I throw off the covers, no longer wanting to sleep. I grab my purse and dump the contents on the floor. Start shuffling through the contents.

There it is.

I snatch up my phone and dial the number printed on the card in my hand.

Please let him be home.

“Hello?”

“Lance. It’s Anna. What are you doing right now?”

There’s a lilting laugh. “Coming to see you?”

I release a pent-up sigh of relief. “How soon can you get here?”

I GREET LANCE AT THE FRONT DOOR WET FROM A shower, towel twisted like a sarong around my body.

He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt, flip-flops on his feet. He doesn’t say a word, lets me draw him inside. When the door is closed, he kicks off the flip-flops, pulls the tee over his head. He reaches for the towel.

I stop him. The memory of being sick beside the road is still fresh in my memory. “I don’t want to feed. I want the sex.”

He smiles. “I think I can accommodate you,” he says. He unzips his jeans, peels them off. He’s already hard. This time when he reaches for the towel, I let him snatch it away.

His hands start their exploration while his mouth covers mine, his kiss urgent and savage. One hand holds me at the hollow of my back, pressing his body against mine, letting me feel his hardness against my thigh. The other goes to work, massaging my breasts, pinching my nipples, tracing a path down my stomach. I try to hold back, to control the tidal wave building too soon, but when his fingers find their way inside me, desire, hunger and turbulent need take over. I pull Lance down to the floor, lock my legs around his waist and force him between my thighs. Only when he’s inside, matching his movements to mine, do I relinquish the lead. His movements become deliciously slow and deliberate. Teasing, languid. He’s watching me through the veil of his hair, his eyes glowing.

The pressure builds. For him, too, I feel his sex swell, filling me.

Still, he holds back. He wants me to cry out for release and when I can no longer bite back long, shuddering moans, he brings me to the brink and over. With a single thrust, he comes so deep inside, I feel it to my very core.