Michele Hauf - Her Vampire Husband

“Yeah, but flirting will mean a promise to him.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Woman cannot survive for more than three days without sex. I know you agree with me on that point.”

Blu rolled her eyes. She was not going to agree, much as she did. “Goodbye, Bree. Talk to Ryan for me, and call me back.”

“Love you, Miss Blu!”

Blu snapped her cell phone shut and tucked it beneath her chin. The faery was entirely too cheery and centered for her own good. If such a thing as Zen Sidhe existed, Bree was the poster fey. The girl needed a good shake—like being forced to marry her complete opposite—to give her a dose of reality.

What was the opposite of faery? Hmm…maybe a demon.

But Blu couldn’t begrudge Bree the positive vibes. Bree was the only one who actually believed this marriage had a chance.

Sliding off the vanity, Blu tugged the bikini strings loose and stood naked before the walk-in shower tiled in polished river stones. She slid her palms down her stomach and hips. It always made her feel apprehensive when a man stared and hungered after her.

Creed couldn’t keep his eyes from her. It had made her nervous so she used her snotty comebacks to disguise it. Living at the compound, she’d learned a few sharp words sometimes proved more effective than a slap that could be construed as rough foreplay.

She smoothed her palms up to cup her breasts. A glance over her shoulder studied her body in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the back of the door.

Let the vampire look. She was the one who would decide if a look could turn into a touch, and a touch into something more. It was high time she took control of her life. It was not something she’d had at the compound.

Peeling the wig from her head, she shook out her hair and flicked on the shower.

Flirting with her husband?

She did need something to keep her from getting cabin fever. And if it put her in control? All the better.

THE DONOR FELL AT Creed’s feet and collapsed, arms and chest folding over her legs. Creed swayed against the rough cement wall, catching his palm against it, as the swoon shimmered through his body.

After nine centuries, taking blood still never failed to satisfy. Nothing near a raging orgasm, but a sweet tease similar to it. And with age, the high all vampires called the swoon lasted longer, fixing to his veins in a lingering shimmy of sensation that he could draw out for hours. Of course, that was due to the blood magic he’d gained from a witch. And since that little exercise of magic didn’t harm anyone, he wasn’t about to give that up, vow or no vow.

He licked his lips. The blood wasn’t as tainted with beer as he’d expected. Perhaps haunting local bars should not be marked completely off the list.

Normally he invited a select clientele to his home when he needed to drink. But he couldn’t do that now. It didn’t feel right with the wife at home. He didn’t want to answer any questions she would have.

Besides, if she were going to withhold information about her change during the full moon, then he would keep his stuff private, too. Most especially the magic. If the wolves discovered his usage of it, they’d go straight to the witches, and then the war between witches and vamps would be renewed.

Creed had enough on his shoulders with the werewolf princess prancing about his home.

After unlocking the BMW, he climbed inside and headed home. All he wanted to do after taking blood was lie back and enjoy the mellow ride.

THE HOUSE WAS DARK, save for the light at the end of the hallway, which told Creed that Blu had found the theater room. The loud music was an even better indication.

Tonight should have been his movie night. He liked viewing movies on the plasma TV, sitting in the dark with a sexy woman draped in his arms. After a long drink of hot blood, he usually had a driver escort her home because his persuasion stole her memories for the evening.

Who said drinking blood had to be all horror and chills? He’d done enough of that in the Middle Ages. Flash the fangs, freak ’em out and suck them dry.

That was so gauche now. A man must possess style, decorum.

“Hell, you really are an old man,” he muttered. “You don’t bother with the scare anymore, just popcorn and sex. Dieu .”

Erratic sound blasted from the room. The wolf must have turned the volume to eleven. He wanted quiet tonight, to enjoy the lingering blood swoon.

“Silly wolf. This vampire can still do the scare.”

Marching down the hall, he fisted his hands and had achieved a tight anger by the time he pushed the double doors open. Prepared to march in and flash some fang, Creed paused.

The lights were on. Poufed pink feathery stuff bobbed in the air two rows down. The room touted six rows of four seats on each side.

On the screen, Mick Jagger pranced and rasped through “Sympathy For The Devil” as Keith Richards ground out a solo.

Tucked on one of the wide theater seats—rather, draped—Blu grooved to the beat, her long legs hooked over the seat before her. Those pink feathery things were some kind of high-heeled shoes Creed had only seen in black-and-white romance movies.

The pink hair bobbed in time to the music.

“Pink?” Anger dissipating, he strode down the aisle.

A see-through sweep of black fabric dashed across her legs and part of her stomach. The rest of her was clad in black lace providing only a little more coverage than the bikini had earlier.

“Loud enough?” he shouted.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Why should she? Her eyes were closed and she beat the air with delicate fists in time with Charlie Watts’s drum kit. Weren’t wolves supposed to have excellent smell?

Creed leaned over and glided his fingers up her smooth calf.

She startled, her legs sliding down and her shoes hitting the floor. “Whoa! Dude, way to go for the creep.”

He reached for the remote tucked in a cup holder, and muted the noise. “You discovered the sound system.”

“Oh, man, this so rocks. Surround sound in this little theater? I could live in here.”

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

She sat up on the chair arm, the gossamer robe sliding away and exposing maximum flesh. She looked like a high-priced hooker in her bubblegum pink hair and pushup black lace bra. Add the spiky heels and she was dressed to earn a pretty penny.

Not that he would know anything about hookers. Not from this century, anyway.

Creed sat on the chair arm across the aisle. Her exotic perfume, which could be suntan lotion with its tropical coconut aroma, carried across the aisle, prodding at his blood swoon. Just relax, and sink into the sensation…

“Is it okay I’m using this room?” she asked. She made no move to tug the robe over her flat, tight abs. Not that the sheer fabric would conceal anything. Those legs were so long. They could wrap around his back and hang on for the ride. “I didn’t know when you’d be home. Were you…out?”

“Out?” He could play the innocent as well as she could.

“Well, you know.”

“I’m not sure. What do I know?”

She sighed and pointed to her neck. “You know. Pulling a Dracula.”

“Pulling a—?” Was she really going to insult him with a reference to a fictional character?

“The sucking thing.”

“Ah. You mean the part where I answer the call of instinct to survive?”

“Yeah, whatever. So what do you do? Stalk hookers in the night or something?”

“Look who’s talking. You appear as though you tickled one and she sneezed her attire all over you.”

Affronted, she sat straighter. The move pushed up her breasts so they strained against the black lace.