Page 4 of Unwavering
and bent his head toward me. The sting of his fangs breaking the skin over my jugular worked on me like Pavlov worked over his dogs, or whatever the hell he did to them. You’ve heard “my knees went weak”? My knee bones disappeared. Knee bone? Singular? (Mental note: check with Marc on the number of knee bones.)Everythingdisappeared except Sinclair and his sinful sweet mouth. In seconds he’d pushed me from ‘damn, have I ever been this horny?’ to “oh, shit, I’m gonna come”.
Which is when he pulled back, the bastard, and held me at arm’s length. Like he was going to hug me and we’d go our separate ways. Like hewasn’tgoing to fuck me, the mere thought of which was horrifying. He grinned at my outraged squeak, his teeth red with my blood, and the overriding thought
(I’m about to fuck a very dangerous man)
had lost none of its power in the five
(six? two?)
years we’d been together.
He put his big hand in the middle of my chest and gave me a gentle push, which sent me flying back six feet
(wheeeee!)
and landing in the exact center of our bed. (Sinclair knew about physics.) Before I could even prop myself up on my elbows, he was on me. His kissed and sucked and nibbled up and down my throat, occasionally helping himself to a sip while I did my best to spell his name out on his back in scratch marks. (Fun vampire sex fact #4: the marks and bites would heal within minutes.)
My love, you define delicious.
S-I-N-K—dammit! Your name doesn’t have a K in it. I’m pretty sure...I can’t think when you’re doing thaaaaaannnnnggg...
Sinclair and his clever clever tongue were doing wonderful things to the shell of my ear while his hand slid between my thighs as I tried to remember if there was a K in his name. It was on the tip of my tongue—oooh, his tongue! Of all Sinclair’s yummy collection of parts, his tongue was—
“Uh, Betsy? Sinclair?” A tentativerap-rap-rap. “Sorry to bother you, but we need the heating pads.”
Sinclair froze in mid-nibble, then turned his head and honest-to-Godsnarledat the door. “Touch that door again and I’ll pull your eyes from your skull.”
(This is all kinds of wrong, but:oh my God soooo sexy!)
I knew the voice. “Not a good time, Will!” Will Jar, part-time blogger and full-time zombie, the latest to join our little clutch. (Our gaggle? Our herd? Our litter? Coalition? Brace?) “It’s our special day!”
“Yes, ours too. Um. Sinclair? I’m not actually touching the door—just having a conversation through it—so maybe don’t yank my eyeballs out?” Will’s voice was calm, measured, and just short of wheedling. “We just need the pads.”
I shifted beneath my husband, who was resting his forehead on my shoulder and muttering dark threats into the side of my neck. “Wait, we?”
A fresh bout of hammering actually shook the door in its frame. “Heating pads, you oversexed bimbo!” Marc Spangler, Zombie M.D., sounding a tad—shall we say—peeved? “And yeah, Sinclair, I meanyou.”
Another snarl from the vampire king. “Do you think because you’re zombies I cannot kill you? Gentlemen: I have been at this averylong time.”
Somebody cleared his throat, and then Will piped up with, “Yeah, um, noted, but...your wife would prob’ly just bring us back to life. Again.” A pause. “Right?”
“Right,” I sighed. “You’re not leaving until you get whatever it is you want, are you?”
“Whatever it—I’vetoldyou what I want!” Little known fact: when Marc lost his temper, his voice climbed so high, dogs all over the block went crazy. “More than once! We could have taken care of this in the kitchen ten minutes ago!”
“Right, right. I remember.” To Sinclair, I added, “He wants oven mitts for some reason. He won’t shut up about it.”
A howl from the other side of the door. “Ineverasked for oven mitts! Heating pads, I want your heating pads and I’ll be damned if Will and I are re-bingeingGame of Throneswithout them!”
“What?” Betrayal! Marc was supposed to bingeGoTwithme.Oh, wait. That wasBetter Call Saul.Wasn’t it? We needed a bingeing schedule. A vampire queen’s work is never done. “Besides, you’re already damned. You’re a zombie who hangs out in Hell, for God’s sake. Textbook definition of damned.”
“Focus, if you please, on his reasonable, if inane, request,” Sinclair muttered. “Just surrender the heating p—“
“Never!” I’d elbowed my way out from under Sinclair, climbed off the bed, and was on my feet yelling at the closed door. “Those are ours! I’m claiming squatter’s rights, Marc Spangler, and you, too, Will Jar!”
“Mason. My name’s Will Mason.”
Do. Not. Care.
