Page 72 of My Mr. Vampire

“Amazing.” I agreed, kissing the top of her head.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, I remembered why I had come here in the first place. I had apologized, but now I had to leave to go to that club out west. I had a job, an assignment to get to. I refused to let my brother down again.

“Morgan,” I said reluctantly, “I hate to do this, but I need to go.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with a satisfied smile. “Marisol hunting?”

I nodded. “I need to find her before she disappears.”

“I understand,” she said, tracing patterns on my chest. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Next time, show me what else those fangs can do.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“That’s a promise I’ll definitely keep,” I said, pulling her down for one last kiss before I had to go.

I hurried and got dressed. I could’ve showered. But why would I wash Morgan off my body? If she couldn’t be with me in the flesh, I wanted to have her human sweat and pussy juices available to sniff, so they could comfort me when I was feeling lonely.

With one last kiss on her mouth and a quick lick of her pussy, I was out the door. I preferred my tongue to taste like her nectar. Instead of the pepper-minty flavor that came with being a vampire. I headed out and drove to my destination.

The club music pulsated around me. I was going to make good on my promise to my brother. I nursed my whiskey glass. This time I was really pretending to drink it. I was consuming the alcohol like a real human would. While my eyes never left Marisol Lopez, my stalking wasn’t apparent to the patrons around me. I was watching her, and I wondered who she was watching. Tonight, I was the real predator. I was waiting for her to make one fatal mistake.

Club Bailar Caliente had a full house tonight. There were more bodies moving in rhythm to the Latin beats than the night before. Red and blue lights swept across the dance floor, making everyone look like blue-faced angels and red-faced devils. I positioned myself at the bar. I had a perfect vantage point with an unobstructed view of Marisol while remaining half-concealed in the shadows.

I ordered another whiskey. It was my fifth in two hours. The bartender, a woman with long raven hair and fake tits, slid it across the bar without a word. She didn’t know booze would never intoxicate me. I wondered how many more drinks she could serve me before I was cut off.

Marisol was sitting alone tonight. No bodyguards, no friends. Just her and a glass of something clear with a lime that she barely touched. Her dark hair was pulled back. She was dressed simply in black leather pants and a silky red top. Nothing flashy, nothing memorable and nothing I would consider sexy. I spotted her female sidekick in the club on the dance floor. Natasha believed the woman was Marisol’s older cousin, Eva. Her name didn’t matter to me. I just wanted the ladies to stay away fromeach other for one night. Just so I could have Marisol all to myself.

I scanned the room with practiced precision. I took note of the exits, the minimal security cameras, the security staff, and the lone bouncer by the front door. I had to do this right, and that meant I had to be cautious.

My fingers drummed against the bar top. I had been here for hours. It seemed Marisol had no plans to leave soon. The minutes drug on. I thought of Morgan and the softness of her skin against mine. I shouldn’t have brought her here before. Zand was right. It was reckless, including her in something that could turn dangerous.

A stab of something uncomfortable twists in my gut. Is it guilt? I pushed it away. Tonight was all about redemption. About proving to Zand that I could handle this, that I could be trusted, and that he was my family, and I would never betray him again.

I pulled my phone out, careful to keep it angled away from prying eyes. The music was too loud to call Zand. My only option was text message.

I text: Been here for a couple of hours. She’s here.

Zand: Don’t let her get away.

I text: I won’t.

Zand: I need this over with. Do you need me to send someone?

I text: No I got this. Let’s keep the circle small.

Zand: Keep your eye on her.

I text: Yes brother.

Marisol stood suddenly. She moved toward the dance floor. I tensed, thinking she might leave, but she merely accepted a dance from a tall man in a bright shiny shirt. Marisol could dance. Her movements were fluid and practiced. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and there was something cold and masculine about her body language.

I watched as she danced with three different tall Hispanic partners over the next thirty minutes. The amigos were never allowed to get too close by her. She never left the dance floor with any of them. She was either being cautious or waiting for someone specific. Either way, it complicated things for me. I needed her to be all alone.

Patience had never been my strong suit. I shifted my weight on the barstool, watching her go back and sit in the VIP section. The artificial calm I projected felt ill-fitting and uncomfortable. My true nature was that of a predator. I wanted to strike. I wanted to put an end to thischica.

The club thinned out as 2 AM approached. The music shifted to a slower beat. They were closing down earlier today. Bartenders called for last rounds. Drunk couples clung to each other, swaying more from intoxication than rhythm.

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