(Biting Love Book 8)
by Mary Hughes
Only her light can burn away his shadows.
On her first night as a police officer, Sunny Ruffles takes down three felons…only to be attacked by a gang of vampires who are a whole new level of hurt.
Then a mysterious shadow man intervenes, saving Sunny before he disappears. She runs after him, telling herself her pursuit has nothing to do with his sharp, stubbled jaw, his powerful shoulders, or his sexy-as-hell, kissable lips.
Rescuing the humans makes Aiden Blackthorne late for a critical meeting with the vampire Nosferatu’s daughter. Yet clompy, bumbling Sunny draws him back like wild honey. He kisses her, and he’s almost got her down to her underwear when a bomb meant for him explodes.
The last thing Aiden wants is to drag Sunny into his hellish conflict with Nosferatu. But Aiden’s a loner whose only friend has mysteriously disappeared, and the woman who smells and tastes like his mate is the only backup he has left. He’ll need her, everything he is, everything he was—and everything he might have been—to defeat his evil master and claim the love he never dared hope to have.
Warning: This book contains shadowy assassins shooping off vampire heads, cops bumbling in at the worst of times, and opposites attracting, colliding, and exploding in lust—a.k.a., explicit fighting, humor, and sex.
I cleared my throat and widened my stance and thought tough cop thoughts. “What aren’t you telling me? Exactly how do you know Mace and his vampires—?”
“You didn’t see vampires.”
Already irritated with myself, that echoey voice rubbed me into sharp annoyance. I stomped into his personal space, slapped fists to my hips and glared up at him. “Do not tell me what I did or did not see.”
He reared back with a frown. “You can’t tell me to shut up.”
“Who’s the cop here?” I scowled up.
He scowled down. “Who’s the midget here?”
“Why you…” I grabbed his ears to bring his head to my level and stun him speechless with my cop glare, a cross between Medusa and an ocular fist that I’d seen Elena do and practiced daily in the mirror until I knocked myself out with it.
But somehow when his face got within reach of my mouth I leaned up and he leaned down—and we fused lips. My tongue pried and he opened, and I was plunging as deep as I could get into hot male heaven. He tasted of espresso edged with cinnamon and danger; his scent enveloping me was just as spicy.
He groaned. His arms came around me, pulling me flush to him. I clutched his biceps, warm satin-covered rocks, and moaned into his mouth. As if it was a cue he crushed me to him, his embrace hot as a woodburner and his torso as hard as his biceps. Even through the thick wool of my cop carapace I felt every ridge of him.
I twined arms around his neck and pressed into him in return. I was shivery hot and melding with him instinctively, writhing and rubbing against him with primal need.
My undulating must have been another signal, because he began to take the lead. His tongue thrust powerfully into my mouth. I groaned and a ripple of sheer need ran the length of my body. I opened wider for him; his tongue filled me again and again.
That driving power was how he’d make love. At the thought, my sex drenched.
“Mmm. Your scent drives me wild.” He cupped the back of my head, holding me in position for deeper, more exotic tonguing and biting and licking. I whimpered. His passion was a direct wire from my mouth to my sex—one he lit like a fuse. Every flick of his tongue was a hot lick to my rising clit. Every thrust inside my mouth was a powerful surge into me. Every bite shivered along my skin and every suck was as if he had me on my back with my thighs clenching his head.
He slid a hand between us. It rubbed my uniform jacket against the tips of my breasts. The jacket was new, wool and too small, and I felt it even through shirt and bra. My nipples, already awake, sang out like they were joining the choir eternal.
I gasped, grabbed his ears and tried to tongue his tonsils. My leg lifted, instinctively trying to assume the position. I was small but forceful and usually ended up on top, but he was so tall I couldn’t rub my tortured bits against his unless he helped or I climbed him like a tree. If he would just slip his hands under my derriere and lift…
He had other things in mind. He undid every brass button on my jacket then shoved it aggressively off my shoulders. My arms fell from his neck and the jacket hit the pavement with a whump-clang. I barely cared, because he kept kissing and sucking as he worked at my blouse, flipping open buttons so fast one or two went plink onto the pavement.
The instant the shirt was open, he palmed both breasts through my lacy bra, with a sound like a hungry beast coming home to a hot plentiful dinner. I thrilled. My breasts surged into his hands with nearly the same sound. I dug fingernails into his scalp and rubbed my tits into his palms, his skin so hot, his hands so big and rough and exciting.
I was about to pull him somewhere secluded, like the cruiser’s backseat—some part of me knew Jonesy wasn’t due to wake for at least another five minutes—when an explosion rocked us both.
As a girl, I spun romantic, happily-ever-after stories to get to sleep. A husband, two degrees, a blackbelt and a family later, I'm delighted to spin them for readers.
I’ve lived with love and loss, in bright times and dark, and learned we can all use a break from reality every now and then.
So join me for action, sparkling wit and red-hot love. Strong men. Stronger women.
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