“I will always love you.” Not just a figure of speech when
you're undead.
Big Girls Don’t Die
© 2009 Crystal Jordan
In the Heat of the Night, Book Two
Six months ago, Andre St. James committed the ultimate
one-night-stand party foul by turning Cynthiana into the spawn of Satan…also
known as a vampire. He insisted he knew they were meant to be together forever
and ever, so why wait for her to be on the same page with him to suck the life
out of her?
What. Ever. The only thing the two of them share is
chemistry that blasts off the charts. So she drop kicked him out of her life
and told him to never come back. He listened. Until now.
Andre knows Cyn has trouble dealing with his
take-no-prisoners approach to life, and that turning her against her will was a
mistake. But he’s got patience born of centuries of immortality, and he’ll do
whatever it takes to get back into her good graces and stay there forever.
Including wait until she has no choice but to turn to him.
After all, no one understands forever like a vampire. He’s
loved her from the moment he saw her…and he always will.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Big Girls Don’t Die:
My hands clenched on the steering wheel. I had to get to my
cousin. That’s all I could think. Please, please let Desi be okay. I loved that
little girl so much. I was going crazy right now. Worry gnawed at me like a
hungry werewolf. One quick look at the speedometer told me that I was about ten
miles over the speed limit. They wouldn’t pull me over for that, would they? I
pushed my convertible Mini Cooper a little faster.
Flicking a glance down while I punched the speed-dial, I
tried to get Misty on the phone for a progress report on Desi. It was a few
hours to Las Vegas from Los Angeles, but if I hurried I could be inside the
hospital before dawn. Something else to get pissed at Andre for. No reflection,
no sunlight.
My stomach rumbled. Oh, yeah. Cravings for blood. Another
lovely side effect. When was the last time I had fed? I meant to have something
substantial before I went to Eclipse, but Andre had sort of interrupted that
plan. I’d barely taken any blood from him, so my stomach felt as if it was
digesting itself right now.
“Hi, this is Misty and Desiree, leave us a message—”
“Damn it.” I huffed out a breath and tossed my cell phone on
the passenger seat.
My gaze swept the barren landscape along I-15. There wasn’t
anything for as far as I could see except dirt and stars and a few ragged
Joshua trees. When I glanced back at the road, a large white jackrabbit hopped
in front of my car.
“
Shit
.” I jerked the wheel and swerved to miss it,
but the crunch of bone sounded as it bounced against the underside of my car.
“Oh, that is just nasty.”
And then my tire blew up. Rubber popped. The Mini Cooper’s
back end spun out. My heart stuttered as my pretty little car made grinding
noises when the metal of my tire rim hit pavement.
“Shit, piss, motherfucker. Oh God. Oh God.”
Skidding off onto the soft shoulder of the road, the car
finally came to a stop. I sat there and panted while my heart rate galloped. My
knuckles showed white on the wheel, and I had to force myself to relax my grip
and reach down to shift into park. My hands shook on the door handle when I
hauled myself out to go look at my tire. I walked around the car to the
passenger side and kept an eye out for crazy-ass drivers who might be too blind
or stupid to see the emergency flashers on my car and hit me. Oh, yeah. That
was the flattest tire I’d ever seen. Little bits of rubber hung off it and
flopped on the ground.
“Spare tire, Cyn. Put it on and get the hell to Vegas.”
Popping my trunk, I—
What the hell?
—Where were the jack and tire iron? I
had forgotten to check for them in this car when I bought it from the used car
dealership last week. Now that I needed ’em, they were nowhere to be found.
Fan-damn-tastic. Time to call in reinforcements.
I opened the passenger door and fished around for my cell
phone. Please, please, please let me have cell phone service. I was in the
middle of bumfuck nowhere. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, not daring to
look. My breath whooshed out when I saw I had full bars. I pulled in a deep
breath while I dialed my roadside assistance number. The number was programmed
into my phone, just in case. You never knew when a Rambo-wannabe jackrabbit
would hang on to your bumper and use his last breath to shred your tire.
Fucking bunny.
I punched in all the appropriate numbers and listened to a
recorded voice tell me to call 911 if it was a life threatening emergency.
Well, duh. “Hello? I have a flat tire, and I need someone to come put on my
spare—”
The woman dispatcher’s professionally concerned voice cut me
off. “Okay, ma’am. Are you in a safe area?”
I looked around at the miles and miles of dirt. “I’m kind of
in the middle of nowhere, but I guess I’m safe.”
“Good. Now where are you exactly?”
“I’m not sure. I’m eastbound on I-15 about a hundred miles
west of Las Vegas. I don’t see a call box or any mile markers.”
“So, you’re east of Las Vegas—”
“No, I’m
west
of Vegas going east
toward
Vegas.” I rolled my eyes.
“What city did you just pass?”
Did I just speak English? I swear I’d told this woman I had
no idea where I was. I was worried about Desi, not about where I might pop a
tire. “I’m not sure. I know I’m about a hundred miles west of Vegas.”
“All right, ma’am. We’ll dispatch someone, and they should
be there in about twenty to thirty minutes.”
“Thank you!” I could be with Desi soon, then. I shivered as
the cold desert night air hit my bare shoulders and legs. Hurrying back to the
driver’s side, I slid into my seat.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang. Oh, good. Must be the
tow truck driver.
“Hello?”
An older female voice responded, “Hi, Ms. Trent. I’m sorry,
but we won’t be able to dispatch anyone until we know your location. Can you
tell me exactly where you are?”
I blinked. “Um. I already told the last lady I talked to.”
“Can you tell me again?”
Okay, stay calm
. I’d only been on the side of the
road for about half an hour. Everything was fine. “Sure. I’m not one hundred
percent sure of where I am, but I’m eastbound on I-15 about a hundred miles
west of Las Vegas.”
“Are there any mile makers nearby?”
“No.” And I sure as hell wouldn’t wander around in the
frigid ass desert to look for one.
She was silent for a long moment. “Um. All right, ma’am.
We’ll dispatch someone, and they should be there in about twenty to thirty
minutes.”
“Sounds good.” I sighed and dropped the phone on my lap.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.
“Hello?”
A pleasant male voice answered. “Hi, Ms. Trent. I’m sorry,
but we won’t be able to dispatch anyone until we know your location. Can you
tell me exactly where you are?”
She agreed to everything but sex. She hadn’t counted on
his monstrous creativity…
My Fair Monster
© 2008 Lila Dubois
Monsters in Hollywood, Book Two
Since the day three incredibly hot men in disguise walk into
her office and proved Monsters are real, intrepid screenwriter Jane Darby is
obsessed with one task: to give the creatures a mythical makeover by writing a
revolutionary, blockbuster screenplay. Now if only she can get over her own
fear—and get the closed-mouth Michael to talk about his people.
Michael is fascinated by the demur and docile Jane, whose
efforts to hold him at arm’s length hide an untapped sexual passion—a beast
within her waiting to be set free. There’s only one way to get under her lovely
skin: strike a bargain.
For one week, she agrees to let him do anything, anything,
he wants. But Jane’s got conditions. First, no actual sex. Second, she has to
enjoy it.
Jane’s not really worried. What can happen if he sticks to
the bargain? After all, she’s not really turned on by the idea of Michael tying
her down. Or bending her over his knee. Or…
Gulp.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
My Fair Monster:
“Oh my God you set me up on a blind date. Was there a roofie
in that shot?”
“No, but that’s a good idea for next time.”
“Lena!”
“Oh calm down! I’m joking, besides, who needs GHB when
there’s a good DJ?”
“Quit distracting me. What’d you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Fine, then I’m going to go dance with that guy.”
Lena hesitated long enough for Jane’s
friends-with-stupid-plan detector to shoot into red, before Lena said, “Dance
with him if you want. I just think you could do better.”
Jane pulled her friend’s face close until they were
nose-to-nose. “I know where you sleep.”
With that ominously vague threat, Jane left the bar, heading
for the dance floor. She stopped on the edge, intending to search for coat guy,
but a new song started up. It was rich, with a pulsing back beat. The dancers
stopped their wild solo gyrations and came together, the music demanding
skin-to-skin contact.
The tingling was back in her fingers, the music pressing
into her skin, demanding her recognition, her service. Jane stepped onto the
dance floor, and started to move.
Lifting her arms above her head, Jane slid one hand along
the fabric casing her limb, wishing it were bare so she could feel the contact.
She whirled, planting her feet on the downbeat and throwing her head back.
Something brushed against her back, breaking the rhythm of
her dance, but when Jane opened her eyes there was no one close enough to touch
her. Like her, the others on the dance floor were lost in the song, touched by
music as well crafted as a symphony.
Jane halfheartedly glanced around for coat guy, but gave up
when the next hard beat sounded. She bumped her hip to the side and slid her
hands over her own breasts, down her belly, to the bare skin of her thighs. She
bent, waiting, poised, for the beat to give her a signal. When the music spoke
to her Jane snapped up.
Her back slapped into something. Someone.
Hands covered hers, urging her to retrace the path over her
breasts to her belly, then hips. He pulled, forcing her ass back against him.
Then they moved as one. Rather than a crude thrusting back
and forth—a pale imitation of missionary sex—their duel dancing was rhythmic
and subtle, hips moving to the beat. Jane freed her hands from beneath his,
needing more. Her fingertips brushed a face, and then his hands captured hers,
fingers tight around her wrists, pulling her arms up and back, until they were
trapped behind his neck. He held both her wrists in one large hand.
Jane gasped as the position stretched her up, until she
danced on her toes. Her breasts lifted, and her partner took full advantage,
cupping one breast through her dress. He touched her, fondled her, controlled
her.
Jane shuddered and moaned. She turned to look at him, but
her arms acted like blinders. She tried to speak but her mouth was dry.
“Just dance.”
She barely heard the words over the music and the rush of
blood in her ears. Had she even heard it? Or was the baritone command a figment
of her imagination?
His hand left her breast, which both relieved and
disappointed her, until it dropped to her bare thigh and headed north, slipping
beneath her short skirt to curl around her hip, fingertips brushing the fabric
of her thong.
His touch made her aware of her own wetness, and in that
moment she wanted nothing more than for him, whoever he was, to touch her,
right now. She wanted his finger inside her, long and hard and thick, in one
powerful thrust.
The music stopped.
Sound had not stopped pumping from the speakers, no DJ was
that stupid, but the song had changed. This new offering was frenzied, with a
screaming singer, and too much techno overlay.
Jane snapped from her dance-induced lust-haze. She jerked
her arms free of his hold and the man’s hot, rough hand slid away from her thong.
“I knew you loved to…dance.” The voice was low, rich
and…familiar.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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