Be Still My Heart (4 page)

Focus, Stuart
.

Yeah. Focus. He’d been diagnosed with adult ADHD. That’s right. No dream was complete without that. And it was kicking in. Great.

The bed matched the room from the looks of it: King-sized…maybe even Grand King sized, with a large circular headboard painted in shiny black lacquer. The bed was turned down, showing blood red satin sheets that jumped out against the pristine white comforter; thick with down if the quilting was any indicator. It was masculine heaven and even done in the color scheme of his own flat. Stuart shrugged out of what was left of his shirt and crossed to one of the black lacquered closet doors covering one wall. There was a door in the opposite wall he was going to assume led to a bath. He’d check it out later. For certain it was done in black fixtures and chrome, to match the rest of his room. The entire place was in clean, crisp colors of pristine white, deep black, and dark bloody red.

But these weren’t his clothes.

Stuart frowned as he shoved through hangers. That wasn’t fair. He’d dreamed the perfect woman into existence, and he already had proof of infidelity. Damn.

“Finding everything, Doctor Findlay?”

“These are not my clothes.”

There was an accusatory tone in his voice. Stuart winced, and felt an odd thickness to his eye-teeth and looked about for a mirror. They’d designed a room without one mirror. Not even on the headboard. Or… He looked up hopefully. Nope. There wasn’t one on the ceiling, either. How could he design an imaginary bedroom and fail to put the rudimentary equipment of a mirror on the ceiling?

“Of course not. You were wearing the wrong colors and not one of your suits fitted you properly.”

“You said my wardrobe was here.”

“Yes. I did. And yes. It is. Just look.”

“I would not have selected pin-striped jackets and black trousers. And look at this tie. Not my style and totally unsuitable—. Just what do you think you’re doing?”

She’d come around the front of him, looking up at him as one hand threaded through his hair. His mind calculated facts. She was looking up at him. She wasn’t wearing her heels. Or hose. She had black tinted polish on each toe. The woman must love black shades and that was just over-dramatic. Her hair was already the color and shade of charcoal, with ebony-hued strands throughout it. She used smoke-shaded eye-liner and had unbelievable black lashes. She’d shed her skirt. And her jacket. And had the most incredible legs, the most divine smell, that it got him primed with every passing moment. If she didn’t watch herself, they were going to be flat out on that bed and it wouldn’t matter whose clothing was in the closet.

Focus, Stuart
.

He should’ve filled the prescription for the attention deficit thing. Maybe the voice in his conscience would shut up.

“This…is a clear violation of rule one,” he told her, clearing his throat mid-way.

“I know.”

The hand didn’t disappear from his hair. If anything, it clenched tighter. She stepped nearer, too, pressing really nice breasts into his upper belly.

“And…I have no mirrors.”

“You won’t need them.”

She went to tip-toes, sliding her nipples along his skin with the motion.

That’s ridiculous, Stuart. She’s still got her shirt on. And a bra. Or chemise. Or whatever gorgeous women in your dreams wear while driving you mildly insane
.

“How will I be able to…tie a decent four-in-hand?”

“I’ll help you.”

She was sliding her mouth along his jaw, licking at the stubble there, and creating a riot of male need that manifested itself right against the lush skin of her abdomen. He couldn’t help it. Some things didn’t need much stimulation. Stuart held his hands right above the sweet curve of her buttocks, forcing the tremor away before he touched her, while preparing for the fight he might get.

And then he just did it, reaching for two handfuls of ass in order to lift her into the perfect position to return the kissing motions as he was receiving them. With her first tongue-flick, his knees wavered, swaying them slightly. Or maybe that was the jet moving finally. Or maybe it was his imagination, since there wasn’t anything weak and wobbly about how he held her glued to him, in order to maneuver hard flesh between sweet thighs.

“I don’t even know your name,” he whispered.

Damn it!
Of all the inane things to say! He nearly groaned aloud.

She pulled back from him, gave him an enigmatic look from eyes so deep and dark he was in danger of sinking right into them, and then she smiled, putting little lines into play at the sides of her eyes, as well as showing him very wicked-looking fangs. He blinked twice.
Fangs?

“You have fangs,” he informed her.

“I know. I’m a vampire.”

“Oh. Right.” He’d forgotten that part of this.

“You have them, too. Tiny ones. Just starting to erupt…like little spikes.”

She made it sound like he was pre-puberty and lacking in the size department.

“I have tiny fangs?”

He bristled in embarrassment before he could help it and his voice demonstrated every bit of it. That was just another bit of idiocy in this dream. And then she reached upward and latched onto his chin, sucking a kiss into play all along his jaw. Everything pulsed, and the jet moved abruptly, sending him with uneven steps right back into the bed.

He’d been right. They were flat-out atop the white down-filled comforter and it didn’t matter whose clothes were in the closet or anywhere else. She was atop him with her legs clamped about his hips, her hands splayed onto his pecs, and her mouth doing all kinds of wicked things to his. He felt her slice along the sensitive inner skin of his lower lip and start sucking, and he nearly came off the bed with reaction.

“What are you doing?” The voice that came out rasped and didn’t sound at all like him. It didn’t sound like he was making words, either.

“Tasting you. Loving…you. Here.”

She did some sort of motion that slid her lip flesh against what felt like his canine teeth. Stuart touched his tongue there, tasted…and then lurched onto her for more. It was like being deep in water and struggling for the surface. It was better than garnering a lung full of air when breaking the surface. He knew there was more and he was going to get it. Stuart ripped at the blouse she was wearing, and felt her fingers at his belt, unzipping his fly, and then helped her shove his trousers and boxer briefs off. He kicked them over the side with the same lunging motion he was using to find her bra hooks and get them open. They wrestled. They fought. The plane picked up speed beneath them, and then he hooked one of her legs and tossed her onto her back atop what was now a blood-smeared comforter.

Blood?

Stuart blinked on the red staining his vision, fogging everything. He was dizzy with blood loss. Or something. Stuart shook his head to clear it. Didn’t work. He didn’t want her hurt. And he didn’t want to stop. The vision splayed before him contained more lust and beauty than anyone could imagine, and he was too far gone. She had her hands against his chest, holding him from her, while the legs wrapped about his hips gave her ballast to shove her loins at him in a cadence of rhythm that matched her pleas.

“Stuart, please? Please? Now Stuart! Now…please?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He hadn’t the vaguest idea where he got the strength to say that. His heart was going to come right out of his chest with the force of each beat.

“You won’t!”

“But…the blood!”

“Yes! More. More!”

“There’s…supposed to be blood?”

She didn’t answer and he didn’t even care. Her hands changed to claws of intent, gouging cuts all along his chest and making him even more light-headed. Blackness surrounded his view, brought on by the siren in his arms and the motion of a jet speeding into take-off, and the absolute ecstasy of the suckling sounds she made once she latched onto his open wounds and fed.

She wasn’t getting all of it. Stuart hardened his hands about her hips, shoved her upward on the bed, angled his head to her throat, and used his tiny fangs to pierce flesh in the exact same moment that he rammed into her.

And totally lost his mind.

Moisture surrounded him, coming in a breath-stealing flow, careening over shoals full of it. He was drowning. He was pumping. He had her gripped in place for a ramming motion that was guaranteed to send her over the edge with him. He watched each and every time she reached fulfillment, gained energy and strength and stamina from her release before making certain she knew and felt it. The jet left land, sending them against the headboard with the angle of it, and Stuart rolled to take the brunt of it rather than bruise one spectacular inch of that gorgeous woman-body.

The new position just gave her a solid hand grip. Stuart grabbed for her waist as she lifted, trying to hug into the headboard, mashing him between the mountain of pillows at his back and the churning mass of woman she turned into, as she rode him until he thought his head might actually fly off.

Sweet—!

He’d never experienced anything like the pressure that accompanied every one of her lunges; each lift of her body and resultant slam back into his pelvis, rocking him with her primeval motions; and definitely not the stinging pleasure that must have come from having claw-like appendages buried into his chest. It didn’t feel like her fingers had latched onto him, but right
into
him.

And there was blood. Rivers of it seemed to cover her, staining the black of his vision with more red. Thick. Sweet-smelling. Mind-numbing and soul-quenching. More flooded atop it, until even the walls seemed to ooze it, staining the pristine white with red. He was blacking out, losing consciousness, fading in and out of reality with every one of her squeezes against him. And then he felt it. He was soaring every bit as fast and high as the jet. Erupting. All the pent-up pressure releasing with such power, he opened his throat and lungs and yelled at the wonder of it as his body pulsed, releasing his seed into her, until everything went black.

He heard a scream and sobbing. More of both. It was his dream woman, her voice angry and violent and demanding, forcing his mouth to make sucking motions while she sent liquid down his throat. And then he knew absolutely nothing.

“New assignment.”

Vaughn’s voice came through the speaker at her elbow, rousing Sasha from a semi-trance. It was a welcome distraction. She stretched. Yawned. Put both legs fully before her and wriggled her toes. She’d never felt so relaxed and blissful. She was nearly humming with it.

“I asked not to be disturbed.”

“It’s Akron.”

“Fine.” Sasha sighed.

“He’s giving you a choice this time. Budapest or Monte Carlo.”

“Which one pays more?”

“Budapest.”

“Take Monte Carlo. I’ll be a sitting duck anywhere else.”

Doctor Findlay came from around the screen, adjusting his collar and tie, and Sasha’s bottom lip dropped. She was having trouble not only with controlling her mouth, but her breathing as well.

“Not even my mother would make me wear this.”

“What’s…wrong with it?” And why did her voice have to croak like a frog with the words?

“I look like an extra in a spy film. From the 60’s. And I’m taking a guess at that since you don’t stock mirrors.”

“You look…amazing.”

“Right. Like I believe that. This attire is dated. Where did you procure it? Salvation Army?”

“I had all your wardrobe designed, Stuart.”

“Then it’s your taste at fault. And how, pray tell, would you have known my measurements? My
exact
measurements? Hmm?”

“My taste is impeccable. You look spectacular. Truly. I’m drooling.” And saying odd things her mind wasn’t clearing first.

“Your tailor is a disgrace.”

“I’m serious, Stuart. You really do look…perfect.” Her voice dropped on the last word.

“I feel like a game cock on display. A Findlay wouldn’t be caught dead in this. There’s no room in this jacket for even breathing. Let alone trying to move my arms. And these pants? Fitted slacks like this went out with disco. There’s no way I’d be dreaming and outfit myself like this. A thick robe, some cold beer, and a remote – yes. This? No. Which does mean all this is your fault.”

“Monte Carlo, then?”

Vaughn’s voice floated out into the space through the intercom. He was laughing. If Sasha could blush, she’d be blushing. Stuart didn’t do more than put his hands on his hips, which just showcased how narrow they were, while the jacket sleeves molded to every muscle on his arms.

“Yes.” The word trembled.

“Very good. Expect touchdown at 4 am. Given wind speed.” The intercom went silent.

Stuart cocked a smile, and Sasha had to look away.

“What time is it anyway?”

She couldn’t help it. Something about him drew her. She glanced back as Stuart settled into one of the chairs with an ease and grace he’d lacked before. There wasn’t one ripping sound coming from anywhere in his attire. It fit perfectly. It was exactly as she’d ordered it decades ago, during one of her lonelier episodes, when she’d thought of her mate.