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Authors: Lydia Michaels

Call Her Mine

Call Her Mine
Order of Vampyres [4]
Lydia Michaels
Secret Cravings Publishing (2013)

Delilah Starling has never been a shy girl. The moment she sets eyes on Mr. Tall—Dark—and—Broody, she knows she’s going to have him. Sarcastic sexual banter leads to the best sex of her life—until he kills her.

Christian “Bastard” Schrock is an Amish immortal with no patience for social pleasantries. Rather than risking his demise, he takes what is rightfully his when he is called to his mate, an English female who owns a tattoo parlor and swears too much.

When Delilah wakes up on an Amish farm—not dead, but no longer mortal—she is outraged. Mr. Sexy-Pants has turned out to be a delusional maniac set on ruining her life, which he’s already stolen without her permission. Christian is at wit’s end with his belligerent, stubborn, mate. He demands obedience, but never has he faced such frustration as Ms. Delilah Starling. Worst of all, he’s falling in love with her.

 

CALL HER MINE

 

Book 4

 

The Order of Vampyres

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Lydia Michaels

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Erotic
Romance

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Secret
Cravings Publishing

www.secretcravingspublishing.com

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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book

Erotic Romance

 

Call Her Mine

Copyright © 2013
 
Lydia Michaels

E-book ISBN:
978-1-63105-031-2

 

First E-book Publication: December
2013

 

Cover design by Dawné Dominique

Edited by Faith Summers

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CALL HER MINE

Book
4

The
Order of Vampyres

 
 

Lydia Michaels

Copyright © 2013

 
 

Chapter One

 
 

Delilah Starling’s pulse
pumped with the sound of the bass as she entered the downtown club, Tribeca.
Her skin itched from her new ink and her mood was wired, at best. She needed to
let go and release some of the steam that had been building up since Monday.

What a fucking week. At
the moment—with the way things have been—she was lucky she wasn’t on a corner
giving out blowjobs in order to save her shop, Skin Deep. Her guardian angel
had stepped in just in time. She couldn’t knock him for being a shitty fucking
angel, because—in the end—he always ended up saving her ass.

A few college sluts
looking for a tramp stamp and one drunken dope trying to make it up to his old
lady wasn’t enough to pay the rent. She was sure this week Skin Deep’s doors
would be closing for good. Then, lo and behold, in walked a man asking for not
only an enormous piece of Christ on the cross going up his spine, but an entire
sleeve as well.
Can you say down payment?

Pushing through the
throng leading to the bar, Delilah growled as some hipster tried to make
contact.
Not now, puppy
. She earned a drink after the week she had.
Adrenaline had driven her hard and the fact that she’d made rent in the last
millisecond definitely deserved a celebratory drink.

After getting cash on
the spot and rushing the new customer out the door of Skin Deep as soon as his
first sitting was booked, Li hurried over to her douchebag landlord’s building
and paid him for the next two months. Catching up with the electric and water
company left her as broke as she’d been that morning, but at least she could
work, and hopefully get some new clients in the next couple weeks. No matter
how bad the economy got, people still forked over money to be painted an
individual.

It seemed she wasn’t the
only one rushing off for a Friday buzz. Li frowned as some tit cut in front of
her at the bar. Tribeca needed some new help, because the wench working the tap
at the moment was definitely playing favorites. While she waited she checked on
her new piece. It was nothing fancy, just a vibrant rubber ducky wearing a
fuchsia boa stamped right on her inner wrist.

She loved being a tattoo
artist, loved the adrenaline rush of marking herself with something new. The
slight bite of pain that slowly numbed out as the needle pegged over her skin.
She also loved inflicting a little of that pain. It helped release some of the
inner bitch that seemed to build up inside of her.

Never having been a
complicated person, Li based her life on a simple philosophy of you get what
you get. Too many years were wasted trying to fit some shitty mold the rest of
the world valued. She was a good person, but she would never survive working
some crappy nine to five job, knee deep in paperwork, scrimping by making small
talk with co-workers she hated just to appear pleasant. Nope. Put her in that
fish bowl and it would only be a matter of time before she snapped.

When customers were on
her table she was in charge. Bitches be warned, she only packed a minimal
tolerance for stupid people. She had no patience for entitlement. Some would
say she had anger issues, but that was crap. She was a very nice person to
those who deserved it.

The acrid smell of
booze, sweat, and sex tickled her nose as her eyes adjusted to the blue strobe
lights flickering throughout the club. Where the hell were Lance and McGuire?
Fuckers were always late.

Sidling up to the bar,
subversively digging her elbow in the ribs of some stool hog, she leaned over
and whistled at the bartender. Chick lifted a harried brow. Whatever. It’s her
tip.

“Well, looks like a
crayon box spilled over you,” stool hog said.

Great. One of these
guys. Why did middle-aged businessmen think it was appropriate to hang out in a
club directed toward a generation younger than their children? She had his
number before he even spoke. Small business conservative who liked to pretend
he was liberal enough to get away with telling offensive jokes in mixed
company, but was really clinging to the old days like a teething baby clings to
momma’s tit. Those kinds of pricks just loved to share their pearls of wisdom.

She sighed and
impatiently tapped her nail on the lacquered bar as she waited for the
bartender to take her order.

“Let me ask you
something,” stool hog said, swiveling to face her better.

Delilah huffed and
turned her eyeballs in his direction without moving her head. That was all he
was getting.

“What would make a
pretty young girl like yourself cover her skin in all that crap?”

Here we go…
“I like it.”

“I don’t understand why
women do that to themselves.”

Turning completely, she
eyed her annoying companion. “I don’t understand why men who aren’t starring in
a 1970’s porn flick have mustaches, but that didn’t seem to make you pick up a
razor this morning.”

He stilled than laughed.
“You’ll regret them, just wait.”

“Thank you,
Nostradamus,” she mumbled.

“Imagine what you’ll
look like when you’re old and wrinkled.”

Seriously? Let it go,
dude. They aren’t coming off.
“I’m guessing I’d probably look something like
you, but prettier and more interesting.”

“Ouch. You’re a feisty
thing.”

The bartender finally
made her way over. Li leaned in and shouted, “Can I get a red headed slut and a
Guinness?”

When the wench left to
do her bidding Delilah anxiously waited, hoping to do her shot, grab her beer,
and run. She gazed straight ahead, her knee bouncing as her foot balanced on
the lowest rung of the stool. She had to find—

“You know,” stool hog
started again.
Mother. Fucker.
“You could probably—”

“Look,” she snapped,
cutting off any more of his pedantic bullshit. “If my tattoos bother you so
much, maybe you should find someone else to ogle. Hmm? I don’t remember
inviting you to talk or even sending you a signal that I was remotely
interested in what you thought. Look at me and look at you. You’re older than
my dad. No wonder you don’t get it. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and go
find some geriatric center and have yourself some pudding with people your own
age and shut the fuck up about things you’re too fucking closed-minded to get.”

He scowled.
Good.

“I was just going to
say—”

A deep voice cut him
off. “I believe you were going to say goodnight. The lady asked you to leave
quite clearly, did she not?”

Delilah stilled, mouth
gaping like a fish. Holy shit, he was gorgeous. Tall, dark wavy brown hair,
strong jaw, straight nose, bright crystalline pirate eyes lined with dark lash.
Come to momma.

Stool hog glared at
dapper and debonair. “We were just talking.”

“I believe she was
talking and you, sir, were not listening very well.”

“Look, buddy—”

“I am not your buddy.”
Mr. Gorgeous had a strange accent, American, but thick and heavy, sort of like
her blood at the moment. “I will ask you one more time to step away from the
lady and find someone else to pester.”

“Or what?”

Delilah gaped, amazed as
stool hog stood up to the new guy who was half his age and twice his size, yet
lacked one bit of body fat. Talk about a brick shit house. He glanced at her
briefly and she purred. Yup, literally purred like a happy little pussy cat.

The tall man wasn’t
smiling and she was astonished her annoying little friend had the balls to
stand up to him. He was quite intimidating from his starched black collared
shirt all the way down to his booted feet. Her eyes took a little detour about
midpoint in the journey and that goodness looked intimidating too, but in a
totally yummy way.

Where do I sign up for
that?

Sexy scowled at stool
hog and growled, “Leave.”

All expression fell from
the hog’s face and he suddenly looked as if he might wet himself. She frowned
as he nodded.

“I believe you wanted to
apologize to the lady.”

Stool hog looked
confused for a moment then turned to her and in a completely monotone voice
said, “My apologies. I should have kept my undesired opinions to myself.
Forgive me.” He then walked away.

She watched him dredge
his way through the pulsating crowd and toward the door. When he was gone she
took a deep breath and plastered on her sexiest smile, her shoulder lifting
coyly under her 1950’s inspired cherry red dress.

“Hi.”

Her confidence wavered
when Mr. Sex on a stick didn’t smile back. Rather, his scowl seemed to
penetrate right through her clothing as he gravely eyed her from head to toe.

Great, another critic.
If he wasn’t interested,
why the fuck had he interfered?

She sighed. Thankfully
her drinks arrived. Tossing a ten on the bar she flung back her head of Bettie
Page styled black hair and let the tart, red headed slut rush down her throat.
She returned the empty shot glass to the bar with a triumphant click. If Lance
and McGuire weren’t here by the time she finished her beer, she was out.

Grabbing the cool
pilsner, she ignored Captain Security Yummy Pants and moved to find a new place
to lurk and wait for her friends. When he caught her wrist, the dark frothy
beer sloshed and almost fell out of her hand. Her gaze narrowed and his
expression softened.

“My apologies. It was
not my intention to make you uncomfortable. Please, allow me to sit with you.”

Something soft like
butter filled her belly as her wrist burned under the press of those long
fingers. Nothing but a field of night chirping crickets going on in her
head—not a single reply came to mind—so she sat. Of course the bartender
pranced right over when Yummy Pants sat down.

“What can I get you?”
she cooed.

“I will have a brandy.”

Interesting. Very, “it
was the butler in the study with the wrench.” Sophisticated.

He stared straight ahead
as he waited. Delilah sipped her lager and observed him from the corner of her
eye. He seemed…surly…quiet…stiff. But damn, he was sexy.

“Soooo,” she said,
unable to take the silent treatment much longer. “You come here often?”

He turned and looked
into her eyes.
Wow.
His gaze dropped quickly to her breasts and back to
her face. Her cheek twitched. Was he interested or not? His glance was almost
dispassionate, as if he were disappointed. No one had a gun to his head. Maybe
she
should
leave.

He had her radar all
twisted. Sighing, she finished her beer in three long chugs. As she prepared to
leave, the bartender returned with the stranger’s brandy. Delilah rolled her
eyes at the way the booze slinger preened for him.

Sexy Pants kept that
broody appraisal right on Delilah, appearing totally disinterested in the
bartender. It was the strangest eye fuck she’d ever been victim of. Static
filled the air and her mind was already stripping him naked. He seemed to be
doing the same, but why the frown? Enough. She was leaving.

“The lady will have
another of whatever she was drinking.”

She stilled. Escape
delayed again.
Come on, man, make up your mind
. She sat and the
bartender left to do his bidding.

“Thanks,” she mumbled,
confused.

Rather than acknowledge
her gratitude, he said, “What is your name?”

“Li.”

“Lie?” The frown
darkened.

“Not Li as in lie. Li as
in Delilah.” She held out her hand. “Delilah Sterling, at your service.”

“My service,” he
muttered under his breath as he turned away from her outstretched hand and
sipped his drink.

Like a moron she lowered
her palm and brushed it over the skirt of her dress, as though she was wiping
something away—maybe embarrassment.

She turned back to the
bar and let her shoulders slump. Wait, what the hell was she doing? Why was she
letting this guy intimidate her? He was either going to be polite or she was
going to find better company. Straightening her shoulders, she asked, “What’s
your name?”

“Christian Schrock.”

Schrock. What
nationality is that? German?
“You’re not from around here, are you Christian
Schrock?”

“No, I am not.”

“You in town on
business?”

“Yes, business.”

“What is it you do,
Christian Schrock?” She liked saying his name.
Schrock! Hey, Christian
Schrock, how ‘bout a nice, wild fock?

She pursed her lips,
holding in a giggle. Which wasn’t hard because he was scowling at her again.

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