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  Just trying to weasel out of using a rubber would have made him sound like . . . well, a weasel, and she probably would have run a hundred miles an hour in the other direction. He didn’t want to be that guy. Even though it was an added step and an added barrier neither of them needed, he wasn’t willing to come across as being even remotely unconcerned about her health and welfare.

  So he’d suited up like a good little boy each and every time they’d been together.

  This time, though, he’d already given her a nice, headspinning climax that had left her drowsy and satisfied. And she was facing the other direction, which meant she wouldn’t know whether he’d donned protection or not.

  Oh, there would be plenty of explaining to do later, especially given the pink, blood-tinted stain his semen would leave on her thighs, but he’d planned to tell her everything at some point this evening, anyway. So there was no time like . . . a couple of hours from now.

  Nudging her legs apart with his knee, he used his damp hand to spread her wetness over his cock and balls. Then he moved closer, lining up his plump, swollen tip with her slick opening.

  She moaned and arched her hips slightly. He eased in, first just an inch, and then another and another.

  Soon, Chloe was pushing herself up to her elbows, then onto her hands. He heard her still-silent breathing speed up and felt the tension growing in her muscles and tendons.

  “I love you, you know,” he told her, gathering up the long, loose strands of her hair and draping them down the center of her spine.

  Her response was a low, guttural groan. One he reciprocated wholeheartedly.

  With a single forward thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, closing his eyes on the tight, wet heat that surrounded him. He moaned. Took short, shallow breaths, even though it was a totally human thing to do.

  Chloe wiggled her behind, making him grit his teeth.

  “God, you feel good,” he ground out.

  Panting, she dropped her head and curled her fingers into the bedclothes. “Stop being cruel, Aidan. For God’s sake, move!”

  Oh, she didn’t know from cruel. Not really. But he intended to show her pleasure.

  Grasping her hips, he pulled out almost all the way, then glided back in. Withdrew and pressed forward, parried and retreated. Slowly at first, drawing plaintive whimpers from her as she kneaded the covers like a hungry kitten and pushed back, trying to meet his thrusts and hasten his movements.

  He tried to hold on, tried to keep his plunges slow and easy. But he was already primed well beyond even his usual immortal limits. Hard and aching, his balls drawn up and tight.

  Snaking an arm around her waist, he hauled her up, letting her head loll on his shoulder. He swept her hair to one side, out of the way so that he could press open-mouth kisses to her collar bone, the taut muscle running from her shoulder to her neck, and that sweet, thrumming jugular vein that rested just beneath her sweat-dappled skin.

  His hands moved from her waist to her breasts and back again. Over her hips, her thighs, between her legs. He touched her everywhere he could reach and in whatever way kept her close to him, aided their movements, brought her up and down on his rampant cock harder and faster.

  She bounced against him, tiny mewling sounds passing her lips and echoing through the room. Slipping his fingers over her belly and into the slit of her mound, he found her hot button and pressed.

  With a scream, she came around him, flexing, tightening, bringing him with her like a backdraft. While the orgasm ripped through him, making him gasp, making him stiffen inside of her, he tipped her head and couldn’t resist any longer. The truth would come out soon enough, and she would know everything.

  Opening his mouth, he skimmed his teeth—fangs and all—across her skin, finding just the right spot. And then he sank them in, bit deep, letting her blood spill over his tongue even as he filled her with his essence.

  It was everything he’d dreamed of and more. She tasted like honey and flowers and sunshine—or what he imagined sunshine might taste like, since he hadn’t actually seen the big ball of fiery gas in decades. For long, drawn-out moments, he simply held her, drank her, absorbed her into himself as much as he could.

  Suddenly, though, he realized she wasn’t moving. Was perfectly, almost deathly still, and not just in the post-orgasmic, toosated-to-budge way. Loosening his grip, he took a last sip and ran his tongue over the two pristine puncture marks in her throat, using his unique vampire enzymes to seal the wound. Then he cupped her chin, brought her face around to his while still caressing her stomach and between her breasts.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly, bussing her cheek. She licked her lips, the tendons of her neck convulsing as she swallowed. “You bit me,” she said, sounding a little dazed, a little confused.

  “Yes,” he admitted, not wanting to have this particular conversation right here and now, but knowing he had no one but himself to blame for the timing and circumstances.

  She licked her lips again, moving away from him slightly so that he slipped out of her warm, wet body. He bit back a groan at the loss of her heat, her nearness, but didn’t try to stop her.

  “You bit me,” she repeated. This time, her voice carried a note of astonishment edged with anger.

  Uh-oh.

  Lifting a hand to her throat, she felt the marks, violet eyes widening when she realized it was a hell of a lot more than the average love bite.

  “You bit me—” Her accusations were all annoyance now, any signs of perplexity gone. “—and you broke the skin.”

  “I’m sorry,” he told her, and he meant it. He’d loved drinking from her, having her share that part of herself with him, but he had dropped the ball on the whole red light/green light asking permission thing beforehand. “I should have told you sooner. I should have explained instead of just jumping in like that.”

  Looking at her fingers, rubbing the red-smeared pads together, startlement flashed across her features. “I’m bleeding .”

  Still on her knees, she turned to face him. “What the hell were you—”

  Lifting her head, she stopped in mid-sentence, shock causing her eyes to pop. She went white as a sheet, her mouth dropping open.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed, and Aidan knew his belief that she would understand and accept him, and that they’d live happily ever after had been sorely miscalculated.

  And then her eyes rolled back in her head, her body went slack, and she hit the sheets in a dead faint.

  Four

  Chloe’s eyes fluttered open. For a couple of minutes, she didn’t know where she was.

  Judging by the cushioning beneath her and the blankets on top of her, she guessed she was in bed, but the room itself was dark, and it took a moment for her vision to acclimate.

  When it did, all she saw was a blank ceiling and slightly less blank walls. She thought she could make out a few doors here and there. One, she assumed, led to a bathroom, the other out into the rest of the . . . house, apartment, whatever . . . and the double set was likely a closet. In her best estimation, anyway.

  Lying there, she let the silence surround her and tried to remember how she might have gotten here. It came back to her in a flash, at the same time she realized whose arm was around her waist.

  Aidan.

  Her husband.

  They’d run off to get married at one of Vegas’s many all-night wedding chapels, then come back to his apartment (in the basement of an otherwise very nice building, which she admitted was slightly odd for one of the richest men in the state), and had truly incredible sex. That part wasn’t so surprising—sex with Aidan had always been off the charts.

  But then things had gotten weird. She must have drifted off right after she’d climaxed, because she’d had this bizarre dream about him biting her neck from behind, and then of turning around to find his eyes glowing red, and giant, razor-sharp fangs protruding from between his parted lips.

  Ha!

  Normally, she would blame such
strange imaginings on consuming too much spicy food before bed. But since she’d been a nervous wreck most of the day, worrying about how her sister’s bait-and-switch plan would work out, and then about sneaking off to elope with her own white whale, she hadn’t eaten all day.

  So maybe hunger was the cause of her post-coital nightmares.

  Wondering if Aidan had any quick and easy food in the house, she rolled to her back, shifting his arm lower on her waist. His face rested against her shoulder, but she didn’t feel him breathing, which was a little peculiar. Then again, it’s not like she was overly familiar with her new husband’s sleeping habits.

  Had they slept together before? Well, yes and no. They’d certainly heated up the sheets, usually going at it like a couple of howler monkeys every chance they got. But any time they might have spent sleeping was more to recover than to catch some zees.

  She really was attracted to him. From the moment they’d met, he’d sent her blood boiling. She’d spent the better part of their first date—which had actually been just drinks at Dante’s, one of the Inferno’s most popular cocktail bars—picturing him naked and squeezing her knees together to keep from embarrassing herself.

  But her willingness to jump into bed with him so quickly was also due to the fact that she’d been desperate to snag him. Once she got to know him a bit and realized she actually liked him, trusted that he was a decent guy, she’d thrown herself into the relationship wholeheartedly. The more he wanted her, and the more she’d wormed her way into his head (Cos-tanza!), the better her chances of catching and keeping him.

  And that’s exactly what she’d done, wasn’t it? She’d landed herself a nice, rich husband.

  Which meant that if he wanted to live underground and do it doggy-style every night, so be it. She certainly wasn’t going to complain about the sex—she was a fan of pretty much every position, and happily, Aidan never failed to bring her off. Sometimes in multiples.

  As for living here . . . that’s something they’d have to discuss later. Jake would definitely love that his new stepfather had his very own Bat Cave, but she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of her son being in a basement apartment that she didn’t know quite how to get safely in or out of, that he could get trapped in, or that might turn him into one of the Mole People if he spent too much time here.

  Then again, she hadn’t told Aidan about Jake yet, had she? So discussions and decisions about where they would live and how he would be raised could wait.

  Pushing back the covers, she sat up, careful not to disturb her bed buddy. But he never moved, didn’t even draw an extra breath.

  So he was a heavy sleeper. That was good to know. And might come in handy living under the same roof as a rambunctious four-year-old.

  Scrounging around on the floor, she found Aidan’s black silk shirt and shrugged it on, buttoning it down the front while she searched for her undies. She found them—miraculously—just behind the dust ruffle at the foot of the bed.

  Barefoot, in only her new husband’s shirt and her ironically matching thong panties, she padded out of the bedroom and down a long hall to the living area they’d passed through when they’d first arrived. All the lights were off, making the underground quarters pretty much pitch black, but her night vision kicked in enough to keep her from stubbing her toes or walking into a wall.

  Finding a lamp to turn on so she didn’t have to familiarize herself with the apartment like she was reading Braille proved slightly more complicated, however.

  She padded around, feeling for an end table or a light switch, finally locating one on the other side of the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. When she hit it, bright light exploded, blinding her for a minute as it bounced off all the glossy chrome and stainless-steel surfaces filling the large kitchen.

  She covered her eyes, then blinked a few times until they acclimated. When they did, she zeroed in on the giant refrigerator almost as though it was calling her name. Her grumbling stomach must have been fitted with a homing beacon where food was concerned.

  Padding across the cool tile floor in her bare feet, she yanked open one side door, ready to grab just about anything she could find. Cheese and crackers, maybe a bit of wine, or even a bowl of cereal would do.

  Well, it looked like she could manage the wine part, at least. Inside the fridge, the shelves were nearly bare except for a couple of onyx wine bottles.

  The produce drawers were empty, as were the narrow shelves lining the inside of the door. There was no milk, no eggs, not even a container of leftover Chinese takeout. Opening the freezer side, she found even less—just empty shelves behind a puff of icy air.

  Well, darn. What the heck did her new husband eat? Apparently only out. Of course, with his money, he could not only afford to eat all of his meals in five-star restaurants, but hire a private, ’round-the-clock chef to cook for him, if he liked.

  Still, there had to be something here she could nosh on. Moving from the refrigerator, she started checking the cupboards. The ones above the countertops . . . the ones beneath the countertops . . . even the one under the sink.

  She found glasses—juice glasses, wineglasses, highball glasses—plates and bowls in every size imaginable, even silverware in one of the drawers and cooking utensils in another. But not a damn thing more. No ingredients to cook anything, not even a box of crackers or cereal.

  Seriously, what the hell was going on? How could the man not have so much as a Fruit Roll-up on hand? Didn’t he believe in midnight snacks or get hungry at all when he wasn’t trolling up and down The Strip in his fancy sports car?

  With a huff, Chloe actually stomped her foot. She considered opening one of the bottles of wine and drowning her sorrows, but knew better than to drink on an empty stomach. Especially one as empty as hers was right now.

  She didn’t particularly want alcohol, anyway, she wanted food. A turkey sandwich. A big plate of spaghetti and meatballs. No, a trucker’s breakfast—eggs, sausage, hash browns, toast and jam . . .

  The more items she added to her mental menu, the hungrier she got. Hands on hips, she whirled around. Either she was going to start beating on Aidan until he woke from his comalike stupor, or she was going to find his car keys, find her way out of this underground tomb, and take herself out for breakfast.

  But she didn’t get far. Drawing up short, she yipped to find her groom towering in the doorway.

  For a man who slept like the dead, he sure did wake up bright-eyed. And sexy as hell.

  Looking wide awake and not the least bit rumpled, he was naked except for a pair of black silk boxers. Which, in her current mood, annoyed her to no end.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him, successfully wiping away a shade of the chipperness written all over his face.

  “Hey,” he said cautiously, eyeing her from head to toe and back again. He put his hands on his hips, then down at his sides, then across his own chest, then dropped them again. The male version of fidgeting. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay,” she answered quickly. “Why don’t you have any food in your house?”

  For a minute, he simply stared at her, his expression blank. Then he croaked out, “What?”

  She huffed out a breath and rolled her eyes. Making an eating motion near her mouth with her hand, she said, “Food. Food. Something to eat. I’m starving, and you have nothing but a couple bottles of wine in your refrigerator.”

  He blinked, still looking dumbfounded.

  Throwing up her hands in frustration, she moved to the hanging cupboards and threw open the doors. Then she did the same to the refrigerator, sweeping her arms in every direction like Vanna White turning letters on Wheel of Fortune . Only Chloe’s phrase was beginning to read My h_sb_nd is d_mb_ss, and she didn’t need to buy a vowel to figure it out.

  “You’re hungry,” he murmured, finally catching a clue.

  Her shoulders sank and she fell back against the edge of the counter. “Yes,” she brea
thed. “I’m very, very hungry. You failed to feed me last night before you dragged me off to the chapel and then dragged me back here for the wedding night. And why the heck don’t you have any food in the house?” she demanded. “That’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re hungry,” he said again.

  He must have seen the murder in her eyes and how close she was to smacking him, because he put his hands up and said, “Okay, okay. I’ll get you something to eat. Do you want to go out or order in?”

  “Out. And then we go grocery shopping and stock your cupboards.”

  With a brusque nod, he started to turn away, presumably to go get dressed, only to stop and turn back.

  “That’s all you’re upset about?” he asked. “The food situation?”

  “What else would I be upset about?” she said, tipping her head to the side quizzically.

  “I thought maybe . . .” He paused, his glance flicking to her throat before once again meeting her eyes. “Maybe you were mad at me about last night.”

  Chloe went still, a sudden chill washing over her. Why would he be worried about how she’d feel after they had sex? They’d done that a few dozen times already. Last night had been hot enough to singe their eyelashes off, sure, but then, it usually was.

  “What about last night?” she asked slowly.

  “You know . . .” He looked uncomfortable, as well as confused when he gestured toward her neck. “The biting and everything.”

  A low hum started in her ears and spread throughout her entire body. Slowly, she lifted a hand to the side of her throat, feeling for the mark she’d thought was nothing more than a dream.

  At first, she felt nothing but smooth, normal skin. Then her fingertips found a rough spot. She couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it felt bumpy and scabby . . . two small spots right beside each other.

  As far apart as, say . . . a pair of fangs.