Michele Hauf - Her Vampire Husband

A swallow of brandy warmed Creed from the inside out. In keeping with the theme of the restaurant, he intended to earn a kiss by the end of the meal. This marriage, sham that it was, had best start making progress sooner rather than later. He had no intention of failing the Council’s expectations—until it was necessary he did so.

Kisses were not required, only a mutual companionship—and a bite—but he felt a kiss now and then certainly couldn’t hinder their effort to compromise.

“You’re sure you don’t mind watching me eat?” she said, a forkful of lemon chicken lingering near her bloodred lips.

“Not at all. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who so heartily attacks her food. It’s exciting.”

“Don’t tell me my gluttony turns you on.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Okay, you’re just weird, vampire. But I can dig it. Watch this.” She forked in a piece of chicken dotted with capers and closed her eyes to savor.

“I remember capers,” Creed said. “A Greek delicacy. Very tart. Do you know they are actually unopened flower buds?”

“I do. Imagine that. Eating pickled flowers. So decadent.”

“You like decadence.”

“I do, but I don’t get nearly enough of it. The pack compound was more redneck beer and bruisers than nightclub fun, you know?”

Another forkful of dinner passed her lips. A drop of lemon sauce dribbled down her chin, which she skillfully mastered with a dab of napkin.

“I bet,” she said, “despite your need to appear refined, you have some very decadent moments.”

“I’ve been known to debauch and indulge with the best of them. That eighteenth century was a good one.”

“But no longer? Now you’ve retired from the raucous and prefer to wither away in your big old estate?”

“Your presumptions of my social life are all wrong, Blu. If it is decadence you crave, I can give you that.”

“Really? But that would require…”

He waited for her to summon the truth of them. Five days married and they were still no closer than they had been that first night. Perhaps more comfortable around each other, but the divide between them gaped.

“That we get along?” he provided.

“We do get along.” A sweep of crusty French bread through the lemon sauce occupied her. “Much better than I expected we would.” She stroked her stomach again, making a sour face, but dismissed it quickly. “I still barely know you. To do so I need some basic details.”

“Such as?”

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