“Teach me,” she said darkly, her lips parting, her hips rolling under his own. “Take me.”
Her hand moved between the two of them and found his erection, rubbing at it, making him moan.
“I am empty without you,” she said. “Fill me. Now.”
With an invitation like that, he didn’t give anything else a second thought. Fumbling around, he shoved his scrubs down his thighs and then. . .
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned as his hard cock slipped up her slick core.
One shift over and he would be buried deep, but he forced himself not to breach her sex. He was going to kiss her first, and more to the point, he was going to do that right because . . . she’d never been kissed before—
Why did he know that?
Who the fuck cared.
And her mouth wasn’t the only place he was going to go with his lips.
Pulling away a little, he ran his eyes down her long neck to her collarbone . . . and went even lower—or at least tried to.
Which was his first clue that something was off. Although he could see every detail of her strong, beautiful face and her long, braided black hair, the sight of her breasts was hazy and staying that way: No matter how much he frowned, there was no clarity coming. But whatever, she was perfect to him no matter what she looked like.
Perfect for him.
“Kiss me,” she breathed.
His hips jerked at the sound of her voice, and as his erection slid against the very heart of her, the friction made him groan. God, the feel of her pressed up tight to him, with the head of his cock having parted her and burrowed in, searching for that sweetest spot. . . .
“Healer,” she gritted as she arched back, her tongue coming out and dragging over her lower lip—
Fangs.
Those two white tips were fangs, and he froze: What was underneath him and ready for him was not human.
“Teach me . . . take me . . .”
Vampire.
He should have been shocked and terrified. But he wasn’t. If anything, what she was made him want inside her with a desperation that left him in a sweat. And there was something else . . . it made him want to mark her.
Whatever the hell that meant.
“Kiss me, healer . . . and don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he moaned. “I’m not ever going to stop.”
As he dipped his head to bring his lips to hers, his cock went off in an explosion, the orgasm shooting out of him and going all over her—
Manny came awake on a gasp that was loud enough to rouse the dead.
And oh, shit, he was coming hard, his hips grinding into the sofa as delicious, hazy memories of his virgin lover made him feel like her hands were all over his skin. Fucking A; even though the dream was clearly over, the orgasm kept coming until he had to lock his teeth and jack one of his knees up tight, the jerking pumps of his cock fisting the heavy muscles of his thighs and chest until he couldn’t breathe.
When it was all over, he sagged face-first into the cushions and did his best to grab for some oxygen, because he had a feeling round two was going to get its groove on soon. Tendrils of the dream tantalized him and made him want to go back into that moment that had not existed and yet felt as real as the consciousness he had now. Reaching into his memory banks, he tugged at the filaments of where he’d been, bringing the female back into—
The headache that plowed into his temples all but knocked him out—sure as hell, if he hadn’t already been horizontal, he would have landed on the damn floor.
“Fuuuuck . . .”
The pain was astounding, like someone had nailed him on the skull with a lead pipe, and it was a while before he had the strength to shove himself onto his back and try to sit up.
The first attempt at vertical didn’t go well. The second was successful only because he braced his arms on either side of his torso to keep from pulling a down-and-out again. As his head hung like a deflated balloon off his shoulders, he stared at the Oriental rug and waited until he felt like he could make a beeline for the bathroom and fire back some Motrin.
He’d had these headaches a lot. Right before Jane had died—
The thought of his former chief of trauma brought on a new wave of someone-please-shoot-me-between-the-eyeballs.
Breathing shallowly and purposely thinking of absolutely, positively, fucking nothing somehow got him through the attack. When the agony had mostly passed, he lifted his head experimentally . . . just in case a minute change in altitude brought on another pounder.
The antique clock behind his desk read four sixteen.
Four a.m.? What in the hell had he done all night since leaving the horse-pital?
As he thought back, he remembered driving out of Queens after Glory had come around and his intention had been to go home. Clearly, that hadn’t happened. And he had no clue how long he’d been asleep in his office. Looking at his scrubs, there were drops of blood here and there . . . and his kicked-off Nikes were in the blue booties he always operated in. Apparently, he’d worked on a patient—
A fresh flare of pain burst into his mind, causing him to brace every muscle in his body and fight for control. Knowing that biofeedback was his only friend, he let all cognitive processes go lax as he breathed slowly and evenly.
Focusing on the clock, he watched the hands click to seventeen . . . then eighteen . . . then nineteen. . . .
Twenty minutes later, he was finally able to stand up and lurch over to his bathroom. Inside, the private room was Ali Baba gorgeous, with enough marble, crystal and brass to be castle-worthy—or in the case of tonight, make him curse at all the bright-brights.
Reaching in through the glass door of the shower, he cranked the faucets on and then he headed to the sink to pop open the mirror and grab the bottle of Motrin. Five tablets at once was more than the recommended dosage, but he was a doctor, damn it, and he was advising himself to take more than just two.
The hot water was a blessing, rinsing away not only the remnants of that incredible release, but also the strain of the last twelve hours. God . . . Glory. He hoped like hell she was doing well. And that female he’d op—
As he felt another stinger coming on, he dropped whatever thought had been about to take root like it was poison and focused only on the way the spray hit the nape of his neck and split off his shoulders, falling down his back and his chest.
His cock was still hard.
Rock-hard.
The irony that the damn thing remained all wakey-wakey, in spite of the fact that his other head was totally scrambled, was no laughing matter. The last thing he felt like doing was more palm aerobics, but he had a feeling this arousal he was rocking was going to be like lawn sculpture: there for the duration unless he took care of it.
When the soap slipped off the brass holder and landed on his foot like an anvil, he cursed and hopped around . . . then bent down and picked the bar up.
Slippery. Oh, so slippery.
After putting the Dial back where it belonged, he let his hand go south to grip his shaft. As he drew his palm up and back, the warm water and the slick, soapy routine were effective, but still a poor substitute for what it had felt like to be against that woman’s—
Sharp. Shooter. Right through his frontal lobe.
God, it was like there were armed guards surrounding any thoughts of her.
With a curse, he shut his brain down because he knew he had to finish what he’d started. Bracing an arm against the marble wall, he let his head drop while he pumped himself. He’d always had a tremendous sex drive, but this was something else entirely, a hunger that punched through any veneer of civility and ran down deep to some core of himself that was a total news flash.
“Shit . . .” As the orgasm hit, he gritted his teeth and let loose against the flushed walls of the shower. The release was just as strong as the one on the couch had been, sacking his body until his cock wasn’t the only thing twitching uncontrollably: Every muscle he had seemed to be involved in the release, and he had to bite his lip to keep from yelling.