Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (35 page)

Probably a good thing for the residents of posh Orange County. After all, can’t have a big, bad werewolf picking off the surgically-enhanced
Desperate Housewives of Orange County
one at a time like so many slow-moving, top-heavy gazelle. Would probably hurt the ratings.

Or drastically help them; at least, until the show ran out of stars.

Stars?
I thought.

Now don’t be catty.

Bastanchury was always a pleasant drive, made more pleasant these days because it led to a big, beefy werewolf. I hung a left onto a long, curving, crushed seashell drive, past shrubbery that really needed to be trimmed back; that is, unless Kingsley was purposely going for the creepy feeling they invoked. Or maybe he just didn’t want to make his home too inviting. I voted for both.

Soon I pulled up to a rambling estate home that sat on the far edge of north Orange County. The house was a massive Colonial revival, with flanker structures on either end, and more rooms than Kingsley knew what to do with.

I stopped in the driveway near the portico, in a pool of yellow porchlight. My minivan seemed inadequate and out-of-place parked before such an edifice. Hell, I seemed inadequate and out-of-place.

The doorbell gonged loud enough to vibrate the cement porch beneath my feet, and was answered a moment later by a very unusual-looking man. His name was Franklin and he was Kingsley’s butler. Yes,
butler
. Yeah, I know, I thought those went the way of
Gone with the Wind
, too, but apparently the super affluent still had them.

Must be nice.

But in the case of Franklin, maybe not so much. There was something very off about the man. For one thing, his left ear was vastly bigger than the right. And it wasn’t that it was bigger, it seemed to not, well, belong on his body at all. As if, and this is clearly a crazy thought, it had actually belonged on another person’s body altogether. Perhaps strangest of all was the nasty scar that ran from under his neck all the way to the back of his head. The scar, I was sure, wrapped completely around his neck.

My instincts were telling me something very, very strange was going on here, so strange that I didn’t want to believe them.

He was tall and broad shouldered, and there seemed to be great strength contained within his very formal butler attire. He looked down at me from a hawkish nose, nodded once, and asked me to follow him to the conservatory. I spared him another “Clue” game joke. This time. Next time, he may not be so lucky. Also, he spoke in what I assumed was an English accent, although it could have been Australian. I could never get the two straight. But my money was on English.

I followed his oddly loping gate to the conservatory. No, I wasn’t greeted by Mrs. Plum wielding a candlestick (whatever the hell that is). Instead, I was greeted by a great beast of a man who sprung from his oversized chair with a glass of white wine in hand. How he didn’t spill his wine, I didn’t know. As he bounded over, exuberant as a puppy, I was half expecting him to jump up on me and lick my face clean. Good thing he didn’t, since he would have crushed me. Instead, he set the wine down on an elegant couch table and gave me a crushing bear hug. I think a bone or two popped along my spine. He then led me over to the sofa where a glass of wine was already waiting for me. Along the way, he snatched his own glass.

Franklin waited discreetly near the doorway until Kingsley dismissed him. The gaunt man nodded, a gesture that was meant to be somewhat dignified; instead, it came across as sort of herky-jerky, as if the man didn’t have complete control of his head.

No surprise there,
I thought.

When the butler was gone, I turned to Kingsley and said, “Are you ever going to tell me Franklin’s story?”

The attorney was gazing at me with heavy-lidded eyes. The air around him was suddenly charged. No,
super
charged. His brown eyes crackled with yellow fire, and he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a creature stalking me from the deep woods.

“
Maybe someday,” he said. His voice was thick and sort of husky.

“
Was he in an accident?” I asked, suddenly a little uncomfortable. I quickly reached for the wine and sipped it, keenly aware that Kingsley was staring at me intensely.

“
I’m sure parts of him were in an accident,” said Kingsley. He had reached out and lifted some of my hair off my shoulder and was now stroking it delicately between his oversized thumb and forefinger.

I drank more wine, suddenly wishing like hell that I could get a serious buzz going.

“
Parts
of him?” I asked, suddenly more nervous than I had been in quite some time. “What does that mean?”

“
It means...I will tell you later.”

“
Promise?”

“
I promise.”

He had slid closer to me, looming over me. I could feel his hot breath on my bare arm. I could feel his eyes on me. Crackling sexual energy radiated from him. I seemed to be caught up by it, sucked into it.

This wasn’t meant to be a booty call. In fact, over the past month I had barely even kissed Kingsley. But now I felt myself curious about something more. Excited by the thought of something more.
Terrified
about something more.

But....

“I don’t think I’m ready,” I said, not wanting to meet his eyes. I loved those big brown eyes.

“
You’re trembling,” he said.

“
And you’re breathing on me.”

I saw him smile out of the corner of my eyes. He was still playing with my hair.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a man touch you?”

“
A man? What’s that? I’ve heard about those curious creatures.”

He grinned some more. “How long has it been since you have made love, Samantha?”

“That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

He laughed loudly, a sound that erupted from him with such force that I jumped. “And sharing our supernatural secrets
isn’t
personal?”

“
Don’t use your attorney double-speak with me, Kingsley Fulcrum. I’m just not comfortable talking about it.”

“
Then I retract my question. I was out of line.”

But he didn’t stop touching my hair. Didn’t stop staring at me, but I sensed that some of his supercharged energy, which had been erupting like solar flares from the sun, had died down a little. Also, his breathing wasn’t so ragged, either.

I set my wine down and curled up next to him, holding his waist tightly. Kingsley reached down, wrapped a heavy arm around me and softly kissed the top of my head.

Twenty minutes later, when I felt comfortable and safe, I said, “Six years.”

“Six years what?” he said groggily. I think he had been dozing lightly on the couch.

“
It’s been six years,” I said again.

He didn’t say anything at first, but I heard his heartbeat quicken. Finally, he whispered, “Too long.”

I nodded and took in air I really didn’t need.

Kingsley moved me aside gently and stood. His knees popped. He offered me his hand. “Come,” he said. “I’m exhausted. Let’s talk in bed.”

“Bed?”

“
Yes.”

I protested some more—or tried to—but he had already snatched my hand and was pulling me through his opulent home and up his staircase, and to his bedroom and bed.

The horny bastard.

Chapter Twenty-nine

We were in bed.

I was still wearing my jeans and tee shirt. Kingsley was in a pair of black workout shorts and nothing else. We were both on top of the covers. Kingsley had his hands folded behind his head and was staring up at the ceiling. I was on my side, propping my head up with my hand, watching him. In the night, I could see him clearly. He was a little static-y; meaning, there were some limits to my night vision. Light particles flitted through the air like snow flakes caught in a car’s headlights. I was used to the light particles. I barely saw them anymore.

Kingsley was a beast of a man. His body was thick and powerful and nothing like the men you see grace most muscle magazines. There wasn’t a lot of definition. Meaning, he was just pure muscular mass. Maybe a few pounds overweight, but he wore the weight well. No, he wore it
perfectly
. In fact, I was certain his hulking frame would have looked emaciated if he was at his ideal weight. Tufts of hair ran down the center of his chest and spread over his flat-enough belly. I never much liked hair on men, but with Kingsley it came with the territory.

“
So is that a line you use for all the girls you have over here?” I asked.

“
What line?”

“‘
I’m getting tired, talk to me in bed’. That line.”

“
No,” he said. “But it’s a good line, apparently. I’ll have to remember it.”

I slapped his chest. I could have been slapping a side of beef. “Asshole.”

“So, has it really been six years, Samantha?”

“
Yes.”

“
Your choice or Danny’s choice?”

“
His choice, but then again, that part of me sort of shut down and never came back, either. But if he had wanted to make love to me, I would have done anything for him. What was mine, was his.”

“
But he didn’t pursue it.”

“
Nope.”

“
Did he ever touch you again?”

“
Not like that.” I told Kingsley that sometimes Danny and I would get close. Sometimes we would kiss passionately. Sometimes we would be on the verge of making love, and then he would just pull back and shudder. Once or twice he vomited.

“
Vomited?”

“
Yes,” I said. “Not something a wife wants to see after kissing her husband.”

“
I’m sorry.”

“
Me, too.”

We sat quietly some more. Kingsley’s eyes were open. He continued looking up at the ceiling, or at nothing. His chest reminded me of a powerful, idling truck engine.

“So, have you lost all interest in sex?”

“
Well, I don’t consider myself sexual,” I said. “I consider myself, in fact, a monster. Monsters don’t have sex.”

“
When was the last time you orgasmed?”

It was late. We were alone in bed. We were talking softly to each other. My innate need for privacy cringed at the question, but we were adults here, and it was a legitimate, if not too-personal question. I didn’t have to answer it, but I did.

“See my comment above.”

“
Six years?”

I nodded. Kingsley, I knew, could see me in the dark. No doubt he saw my gesture, or sensed it.

“Hell of a long time,” he said. “Do you miss it?”

“
I don’t think about it. Quite honestly, having orgasms is pretty far down there on my list of things to worry about. Besides, I don’t think I can anymore.”

“
Why do you say that? Have you tried?”

I knew my face was red. A crimson-faced vampire. Go figure. But what can I say? I never talk about my sex life. Not even with my sister, who was one of the very few who knew my supersecret identity.

“No,” I said. “I haven’t tried.”

“
You haven’t
wanted to
or haven’t
tried
?”

“
Both. I haven’t wanted to even try.”

“
Because you feel you are a monster. And monsters don’t have sex, or orgasms, or real lives of any type.”

I said nothing. What was there to say? That part of me was dead, I was sure of it.

Kingsley rolled over on his side and faced me. “You have been punishing yourself a long time, Samantha, for something that wasn’t your fault.”

“
I’m not punishing myself,” I said. “I’m dealing with it the best I know how. Besides, I don’t feel sexy. I feel cold and gross, and what man would ever want to touch me?”

Kingsley suddenly put his hand on my hip as if to answer my question. His hand nearly covered my entire left hip. Jesus, he was a big boy. And then he did something that even I wasn’t expecting. He gently nudged me to my back and as I fell backward, he slipped his hand between my thighs and opened my legs. His hand, through my jeans, felt remarkably hot.

I reached down and stopped him. “I’m not ready for sex,” I said. “I may
never
be ready for sex.”

“
Who said I wanted to have sex with you?” he said, winking at me.

“
Then what are you doing?”

“
Just seeing how dead that part of you really is.” He ran his warm palm up the inside of my thigh, over my jeans.