called the swoon lasted longer, fixing to his veins in a lingering shimmy of sensation that he could draw out for hours. Of course, that was due to the blood magic he’d gained from a witch. And since that little exercise of magic didn’t harm anyone, he wasn’t about to give that up, vow or no vow.
He licked his lips. The blood wasn’t as tainted with beer as he’d expected. Perhaps haunting local bars should not be marked completely off the list.
Normally he invited a select clientele to his homewhen he needed to drink. But he couldn’t do that now. It didn’t feel right with the wife at home. He didn’t want to answer any questions she would have.
Besides, if she were going to withhold information about her change during the full moon, then he would keep his stuff private, too. Most especially the magic. If the wolves discovered his usage of it, they’d go straight to the witches, and then the war between witches and vamps would be renewed.
Creed had enough on his shoulders with the werewolf princess prancing about his home.
After unlocking the BMW, he climbed inside and headed home. All he wanted to do after taking blood was lie back and enjoy the mellow ride.
T HE HOUSE WAS DARK , save for the light at the end of the hallway, which told Creed that Blu had found the theater room. The loud music was an even better indication.
Tonight should have been his movie night. He liked viewing movies on the plasma TV, sitting in the dark with a sexy woman draped in his arms. After a long drink of hot blood, he usually had a driver escort her home because his persuasion stole her memories for the evening.
Who said drinking blood had to be all horror and chills? He’d done enough of that in the Middle Ages. Flash the fangs, freak ‘em out and suck them dry.
That was so gauche now. A man must possess style, decorum.
“Hell, you really are an old man,” he muttered. “You don’t bother with the scare anymore, just popcorn and sex. Dieu. ”
Erratic sound blasted from the room. The wolf must have turned the volume to eleven. He wanted quiet tonight, to enjoy the lingering blood swoon.
“Silly wolf. This vampire can still do the scare.”
Marching down the hall, he fisted his hands and had achieved a tight anger by the time he pushed the double doors open. Prepared to march in and flash some fang, Creed paused.
The lights were on. Poufed pink feathery stuff bobbed in the air two rows down. The room touted six rows of four seats on each side.
On the screen, Mick Jagger pranced and rasped through “Sympathy For The Devil” as Keith Richards ground out a solo.
Tucked on one of the wide theater seats—rather, draped—Blu grooved to the beat, her long legs hooked over the seat before her. Those pink feathery things were some kind of high-heeled shoes Creed had only seen in black-and-white romance movies.
The pink hair bobbed in time to the music.
“Pink?” Anger dissipating, he strode down the aisle.
A see-through sweep of black fabric dashed across her legs and part of her stomach. The rest of her was clad in black lace providing only a little more coverage than the bikini had earlier.
“Loud enough?” he shouted.
She hadn’t noticed him yet. Why should she? Her eyes were closed and she beat the air with delicate fists in time with Charlie Watts’s drum kit. Weren’t wolves supposed to have excellent smell?
Creed leaned over and glided his fingers up her smooth calf.
She startled, her legs sliding down and her shoes hitting the floor. “Whoa! Dude, way to go for the creep.”
He reached for the remote tucked in a cup holder, and muted the noise. “You discovered the sound system.”
“Oh, man, this so rocks. Surround sound in this little theater? I could live in here.”
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”
She sat up on the chair arm, the gossamer robe sliding away and exposing maximum flesh. She looked like a high-priced hooker in her bubblegum pink hair and pushup black
He licked his lips. The blood wasn’t as tainted with beer as he’d expected. Perhaps haunting local bars should not be marked completely off the list.
Normally he invited a select clientele to his homewhen he needed to drink. But he couldn’t do that now. It didn’t feel right with the wife at home. He didn’t want to answer any questions she would have.
Besides, if she were going to withhold information about her change during the full moon, then he would keep his stuff private, too. Most especially the magic. If the wolves discovered his usage of it, they’d go straight to the witches, and then the war between witches and vamps would be renewed.
Creed had enough on his shoulders with the werewolf princess prancing about his home.
After unlocking the BMW, he climbed inside and headed home. All he wanted to do after taking blood was lie back and enjoy the mellow ride.
T HE HOUSE WAS DARK , save for the light at the end of the hallway, which told Creed that Blu had found the theater room. The loud music was an even better indication.
Tonight should have been his movie night. He liked viewing movies on the plasma TV, sitting in the dark with a sexy woman draped in his arms. After a long drink of hot blood, he usually had a driver escort her home because his persuasion stole her memories for the evening.
Who said drinking blood had to be all horror and chills? He’d done enough of that in the Middle Ages. Flash the fangs, freak ‘em out and suck them dry.
That was so gauche now. A man must possess style, decorum.
“Hell, you really are an old man,” he muttered. “You don’t bother with the scare anymore, just popcorn and sex. Dieu. ”
Erratic sound blasted from the room. The wolf must have turned the volume to eleven. He wanted quiet tonight, to enjoy the lingering blood swoon.
“Silly wolf. This vampire can still do the scare.”
Marching down the hall, he fisted his hands and had achieved a tight anger by the time he pushed the double doors open. Prepared to march in and flash some fang, Creed paused.
The lights were on. Poufed pink feathery stuff bobbed in the air two rows down. The room touted six rows of four seats on each side.
On the screen, Mick Jagger pranced and rasped through “Sympathy For The Devil” as Keith Richards ground out a solo.
Tucked on one of the wide theater seats—rather, draped—Blu grooved to the beat, her long legs hooked over the seat before her. Those pink feathery things were some kind of high-heeled shoes Creed had only seen in black-and-white romance movies.
The pink hair bobbed in time to the music.
“Pink?” Anger dissipating, he strode down the aisle.
A see-through sweep of black fabric dashed across her legs and part of her stomach. The rest of her was clad in black lace providing only a little more coverage than the bikini had earlier.
“Loud enough?” he shouted.
She hadn’t noticed him yet. Why should she? Her eyes were closed and she beat the air with delicate fists in time with Charlie Watts’s drum kit. Weren’t wolves supposed to have excellent smell?
Creed leaned over and glided his fingers up her smooth calf.
She startled, her legs sliding down and her shoes hitting the floor. “Whoa! Dude, way to go for the creep.”
He reached for the remote tucked in a cup holder, and muted the noise. “You discovered the sound system.”
“Oh, man, this so rocks. Surround sound in this little theater? I could live in here.”
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”
She sat up on the chair arm, the gossamer robe sliding away and exposing maximum flesh. She looked like a high-priced hooker in her bubblegum pink hair and pushup black
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