should have been here by now.
Her gut clenched and she licked her parched lips, closing her eyes for a moment. She ached for him. A desperate ache low in the pit of her belly.
Rolling from her bed, she stood and crossed to the window, parting the flimsy gauze curtains to stare out into the night. He rarely entered her home that way anymore. Her open invitation allowed him much more freedom to come and go. But every now and again when he was in a playful mood, she’d hear her name whispered and there he’d be, perched on her windowsill, four stories above the ground, grinning at her with that cheeky, sarcastic glint in his pale eyes.
Tonight didn’t seem to be one of those nights.
Amy gazed at the busy street below, watching tourists and locals alike move about the Cross’s main drag, some pausing to listen to the strip-club hawkers, some popping in and out of the various twenty-four-hour stores, some giggling at the hookers teetering along the sidewalk in stiletto boots and leather thongs.
There was no sign of Ven at all.
Her sex constricted with denied need and she frowned. Two nights, now. Two nights that he hadn’t come to her.
She gnawed on her bottom lip, rubbing her palms up and down her bare arms as she did so. The ache in her core grew stronger and her pussy constricted again. God, he wasn’t coming.
Maybe he’s hurt?
The chilling thought shot through Amy’s distraught mind and she sucked in a sharp breath. The paranormal world in Sydney existed in shrouded secrecy, only known to those within it. Territorial demons, vampire hunters, weres, dark elves, shit, even other vampires—all existed side by side in a tenuous concord, all presenting a very real threat to that concord and each other. And from what she could gather, most either targeted Ven or avoided him like the plague.
“That’s it,” she muttered, turning from the Ven-less windowsill. She crossed back to her bed, grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand and punched in his cell phone number, hands trembling, pussy constricting. She needed to know he was okay almost as much as she needed to feel the burn of his feed.
“G’day, you’ve reached Steven Watkins. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Amy quickly punched a key on the phone, cutting the connection. She could leave a message, but she didn’t want Ven to think she was desperate.
But you are desperate, girlie girl. Your whole body aches, your cunt feels thick and heavy, your muscles weak and trembly. You know what you want. You know what you need.
She closed her eyes, chewing on her bottom lip before snatching up her jeans and a skimpy black shirt from the end of the bed. Damn it. Damn him. She yanked them over her naked legs and torso, muttering senseless sounds of contempt the whole time.
She did know what she needed, what she craved and hungered for. She needed to feel the burn so fucking much it hurt. And she knew where to go to get it.
She just hoped to God Ven never found out.
Ven stepped out of St Vincent’s Hospital ER and stormed along the crowded passageway toward the exit, the glaring fluorescent bulbs above him bleaching his already pale skin to a ghastly white. He weaved his way through waiting patients, worried family members and exhausted interns alike, shutting the potent, tantalizing stench of fresh blood permeating the air from his mind. He was hungry, bloody hungry, but feeding wasn’t the priority at the moment. Finding Death was.
He’d been to just about every hospital, morgue and seedy twenty-four-hour pub he could in the last two hours, hoping to catch her scent. She wasn’t at any of them and nor had she been, not even the Tudor Hotel, inner Sydney’s most dangerous, high-mortality-rate pub, despite the fact a drunk Irish tourist had been stabbed in the neck and died during a brawl over a spilt bottle of Guinness no less than fifty minutes ago.
Wherever Death was, she wasn’t lending a hand to the expiration of the newly
Her gut clenched and she licked her parched lips, closing her eyes for a moment. She ached for him. A desperate ache low in the pit of her belly.
Rolling from her bed, she stood and crossed to the window, parting the flimsy gauze curtains to stare out into the night. He rarely entered her home that way anymore. Her open invitation allowed him much more freedom to come and go. But every now and again when he was in a playful mood, she’d hear her name whispered and there he’d be, perched on her windowsill, four stories above the ground, grinning at her with that cheeky, sarcastic glint in his pale eyes.
Tonight didn’t seem to be one of those nights.
Amy gazed at the busy street below, watching tourists and locals alike move about the Cross’s main drag, some pausing to listen to the strip-club hawkers, some popping in and out of the various twenty-four-hour stores, some giggling at the hookers teetering along the sidewalk in stiletto boots and leather thongs.
There was no sign of Ven at all.
Her sex constricted with denied need and she frowned. Two nights, now. Two nights that he hadn’t come to her.
She gnawed on her bottom lip, rubbing her palms up and down her bare arms as she did so. The ache in her core grew stronger and her pussy constricted again. God, he wasn’t coming.
Maybe he’s hurt?
The chilling thought shot through Amy’s distraught mind and she sucked in a sharp breath. The paranormal world in Sydney existed in shrouded secrecy, only known to those within it. Territorial demons, vampire hunters, weres, dark elves, shit, even other vampires—all existed side by side in a tenuous concord, all presenting a very real threat to that concord and each other. And from what she could gather, most either targeted Ven or avoided him like the plague.
“That’s it,” she muttered, turning from the Ven-less windowsill. She crossed back to her bed, grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand and punched in his cell phone number, hands trembling, pussy constricting. She needed to know he was okay almost as much as she needed to feel the burn of his feed.
“G’day, you’ve reached Steven Watkins. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Amy quickly punched a key on the phone, cutting the connection. She could leave a message, but she didn’t want Ven to think she was desperate.
But you are desperate, girlie girl. Your whole body aches, your cunt feels thick and heavy, your muscles weak and trembly. You know what you want. You know what you need.
She closed her eyes, chewing on her bottom lip before snatching up her jeans and a skimpy black shirt from the end of the bed. Damn it. Damn him. She yanked them over her naked legs and torso, muttering senseless sounds of contempt the whole time.
She did know what she needed, what she craved and hungered for. She needed to feel the burn so fucking much it hurt. And she knew where to go to get it.
She just hoped to God Ven never found out.
Ven stepped out of St Vincent’s Hospital ER and stormed along the crowded passageway toward the exit, the glaring fluorescent bulbs above him bleaching his already pale skin to a ghastly white. He weaved his way through waiting patients, worried family members and exhausted interns alike, shutting the potent, tantalizing stench of fresh blood permeating the air from his mind. He was hungry, bloody hungry, but feeding wasn’t the priority at the moment. Finding Death was.
He’d been to just about every hospital, morgue and seedy twenty-four-hour pub he could in the last two hours, hoping to catch her scent. She wasn’t at any of them and nor had she been, not even the Tudor Hotel, inner Sydney’s most dangerous, high-mortality-rate pub, despite the fact a drunk Irish tourist had been stabbed in the neck and died during a brawl over a spilt bottle of Guinness no less than fifty minutes ago.
Wherever Death was, she wasn’t lending a hand to the expiration of the newly
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