Bite Me
Bite Me
Cilla decided that the inventor of the caps lock key should die a horrible, agonizing, super bloody death. Twice. Maybe three times, if there was enough left of him and she found a strong enough witch.
She skipped over the first fifty emails waiting in her inbox, each of them containing all capitals in their subjects. Irate customers used capitals.
Ingrates.
Okay, “ingrates” wasn’t a very nice thing to say about Blue Hedgehog Press readers. She was just so…mad. And the caps lock key creator wasn’t around to torture.
Cilla pushed her sliding glasses further up her nose and blew the falling tendrils of hair out of her face. She’d have to fix her bun sooner or later, but she still had over a hundred emails to look through.
On the plus side, half of the emails were praise for Blue Hedgehog Press and its authors, especially Minz Carter. It was the other half she dreaded. If only…
If only she hadn’t fallen for the Harpy’s tricks. Toll collector by night, she was the whip-wielding General Manager of the publishing house by day. And she’d duped Cilla like she was a hatchling just getting her wings under her. Geesh.
“Shift for me, dear Cilla,” she’d cooed. “Let me see those lovely, lovely scales of yours.”
One. One tiny little scale from the tip of her tiny little tail was stolen. Now Cilla was stuck working for the Harpy bitch forever and ever, amen. Only God couldn’t save her now. She wasn’t sure if anyone could save her.
Cilla’s powers were tied to her scales. They lived just beneath her skin, waiting for the moment when she’d set them free, and then whamo! Dragon. Except nothing happened if one of her scales was missing. If it shed naturally, she could shift as soon as a new one grew in. But since it was plucked from her like a feather, no amount of wishing would force the scale to return. She had to have that pesky missing piece handed back to her safe and sound.
The Harpy wasn’t likely to do that any time soon. Hell, it’d been nearly six years, and still the scale was nowhere in sight.
“Cilla!” the Harpy bellowed through the intercom system. “Silly Cilla!”
With a sigh she pushed away from her desk and padded toward the Harpy’s domain. The General Manager’s office had been decorated to resemble her favorite place: the underside of a bridge. It was just like home, she said. Blech.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Must act submissive. Must.
Six years the Harpy had said. Six years and then she’d be free. Of course, each time Cilla pissed her off, the sentence was changed. Hell, sometimes it changed on a whim.
“Come in, come in.”
Cilla stepped across the threshold and froze. Holy fire and may water be merciful.
The most gorgeous man Cilla had ever seen stood before the Harpy’s desk. His hair was dark, almost midnight-black, and held the tiniest hint of a curl like a calm day at sea. The man’s forehead was wide, but not high—strong. Those eyes… Amber like a cat’s, but they held a hunger she couldn’t identify, and she wondered if this was another of the Harpy’s lovers. His nose wasn’t too large, but matched his face. A small bump along the bridge showed that it’d been broken at one time over the years. But it was his lips she wanted, needed, desired. She imagined them to be soft, so kissably soft, and sweet. Something about this man drew her in.
A polo shirt just loose enough not to be considered indecent encased his broad shoulders, accentuating his pectorals and tapered waist. She curse the cotton fabric of his loose-fitting khaki pants, wishing she could see if the rest of him was as well-defined as his torso.
This stranger, this smiling man with his rakish grin and strong body…he made her want. Bad.
“Sit, Cilla, sit,” the Harpy ordered.
She wondered if she’d get a doggy or dragon treat for listening.
Not likely
. Not waiting to find out, she stared over the Harpy’s shoulder and settled into one of the chairs before the woman’s desk. The ruggedly handsome man took the other. Even after five years, eleven months and fifteen days, Cilla had a hard time looking her boss in the eye. She should have been used to her appearance by now. Sure, the Harpy had curves on top of curves and legs for miles. Cilla just had issues with the blue skin…and burgundy hair…and the tusks. Definitely the tusks.
By contrast, Cilla was a tenth generation dragon. D.R.A.G.O.N. She either spent time in her human flesh so she could mingle with other multi-colored two-legs, or she was a dragon dancing in the sky with her brethren. She was not some blue-skinned freakazoid on a power trip. “Yes, ma’am.”
The Harpy leaned back in her chair, fingers idly stroking the top of her breast. Cilla looked out of the corner of her eye to gauge the gorgeous stranger’s reaction, only to find his gaze on…her. Surprise had her breath stilling and then she blushed and wondered if she had something on her face. Why would any man look at Silly Cilla when the voluptuous Harpy was hanging around? Tusks or not, the woman was still beautiful.
“Cilla, this is Djimon. Djimon, Cilla.”
She scrunched her face, willing the blood to leave her be, and then turned her head to look at Djimon. Cilla graced him with a tiny tilt of the corners of her mouth. His lips spread into a wide smile, revealing fangs.
No wonder she was attracted to him. Carnivores tended to stick together. And there was also this little fact about them wanting to bump uglies pretty often.
He turned toward her and held out his hand, palm up. Not wanting to be rude, she placed her hand in his. He brought it to his mouth, lips brushing against her skin.
Soft, just as soft and silky as she’d imagined, and the touch shot a bolt of awareness straight to her heat. Her pussy clenched and dampened with the subtle caress of skin against skin. Then…then he flicked his tongue out, and she imagined him to be like a snake, tongue dancing this way and that, tasting. Her heat clenched again, harder this time, and she hoped he’d end his assault before she embarrassed herself by coming from nothing more than a kiss on the hand. Okay, a little more than a simple kiss, but not much.
“Miss Cilla.” His voice rumbled over her, through her, and zeroed in on her pussy. Damn, but the man had way too much control over her already.
“Cilla?” The Harpy’s voice broke into Cilla’s pending orgasm.
“Hmm?” She hadn’t let her gaze wander from Djimon’s.
“I release you.”
Wait.
“What?”
“I release you…into the care of Djimon.”
Cilla snatched her hand back from the vampire, breaking their contact, and turned her fury on the Harpy. “You fucking what?” Now was not the time for subtlety.
“I have released you to Djimon. He holds your scale now, as well as control over you. I have searched—”
“You fucking bitch.” She took a deep cleansing breath and let her fiery fury erupt into the room. “You hold me captive for nearly six years. Six. Years. And now, so close to being released, you give me to this man? This vampire?” She spat the breed of this stranger. Cilla rose and stared down at the vamp. “I didn’t submit to her and I sure as fire won’t submit to you, vampire. If you expect a sex slave, try me. You’ll be burned so badly it’ll take you a century to recover. I may not be able to shift, but I can handle a can of lighter fluid with the best of them.”
“I have no intention—”
Yeah, right. She saw the look in his eyes and the bulge in his pants that even the baggy fabric couldn’t hide.
Djimon held a necklace aloft that Cilla recognized immediately. A thin titanium chain, spelled against all but the owner, with a single sparkling green scale captured on the string. “Twenty-four hours and then I’ll release you. Give me twenty-four hours to show you why the Harpy sought me out for you specifically, and then you can fly to the farthest corner of the earth. I won’t bother you again.”
What choice did she have? “Fine. But the lighter fluid threat stands, blood-boy.”
* * *
It seemed Djimon had whisked her away directly to his bedroom. The vamp’s lair was decadent. Rich velvet curtains the color of the deepest of wines accentuated ornately hand carved settees and chairs. The main attraction, however, lay in the center of the room. The bed, cherry wood with intricately engraved posts, dominated the space. It had sheer swaths of fabric gathered at the posts and the most beautifully woven bedspread Cilla had ever seen.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, lending soothing warmth to the room. Large Regency-era carpets that appeared to be authentic covered parts of the marble tile floor.
“Come, my Cilla.” His voice beckoned her as he held out his hand, almost demanding that she take it. “Come and let me show you what it will be like to be mine.”
“What if I don’t want to be yours? What if I just want to do my time for my stupid crime and then be let free?” She turned away from him and stared into the mesmerizing flames dancing in the fireplace. “I just want to go home.”
She felt his heat at her back and was surprised that he exuded anything but a chill. He rested his hands on her shoulders, warmth seeping through her top and deep into her skin, scorching her.
“Cilla, I will release you come morning. Regardless of what happens this night, you shall have your scale and be free. I swear it on my maker.”
She nibbled her lip, wondering if she could truly trust this man.
He nuzzled her neck and she bit back the moan growing in her chest. “I was chosen by the Harpy because she thought we would suit each other. Nothing more, nothing less. At the end of your term, she wished for your happiness. She grew…fond of you over the years. I can make you happy, Cilla. Just give me the chance.”
She didn’t believe him for a moment, but the prospect of being free come morning tugged at her. She wanted to return to her family more than anything, to see her sisters Talia and Lara.
“What…” She cleared her throat, unable to believe what she was about to do. She was selling herself for her freedom, but after almost six years it seemed worth it. She would whore for her scale. “What do I have to do?”
He scraped her neck with his fangs. “Let me love you, dearest Cilla. Just let me love you.”
She shivered in response, goose bumps rising along her neck and shoulders, her nipples hardening. “You want me to whore for you? Just you?”
“Just me. And if you must think of it that way, I cannot stop you, but I assure you that you’ll enjoy every moment of our time together.” Djimon held out a hand for her and she placed her palm on his. “Come, lover.”
She allowed him to lead her toward the bed, nerves churning and burning in her stomach. Could she do this? Would she do this? It wasn’t too late to say no, but the prospect of seeing her family… She’d go through with it. She’d let him do as he wished and damn the consequences. If this scarred her for the rest of her life…well, there was always therapy.
Standing beside the imposing piece of furniture, he turned and stared at her, and she focused on the magic of his eyes. They shifted, and the color danced from the brightest of ambers to the deepest, darkest red until they were near black. Hungry eyes, the stories said.
Hungry for what?
Blood or sex,
the myths echoed.
Blood or sex. Or both.
A shudder wracked through her, starting at her toes and traveling through each and every muscle to her head. Fear and arousal warred within. Her pussy ached for him, wanted him regardless of the circumstances. And yet her mind detested his very being, his method of seduction.
Long, slim, nimble fingers reached for the buttons of her blouse and unbuttoned the top with what appeared to be practiced ease. One button after another succumbed to his ministrations, revealing the pale skin of her chest, the lace of her bra and the roundness of her stomach.
Cilla knew he could see her pudge. She cringed when he paused after opening her shirt. Would he stop now that he’d seen a part of her imperfect body?
“Beautiful. Your breasts, your skin, all of you. Let me see more,
bella
.”
She swallowed her self-deprecating chuckle and let him continue his unveiling. Soon enough he’d realize that he’d gotten the short end of the stick in this situation.
Those nimble fingers brushed her waist, skimming and sliding over her skin until they just touched the outer edges of her breasts. His palms cupped the fullness of her chest. Her nipples pebbled against his hands, the lace of her bra chafing the tender, aroused skin, and she cursed the barrier between them.
“So responsive, lover. So needy.” He shifted his hands ever so slightly, and her blouse dropped from her shoulders, leaving her in just her bra and slacks. He kneaded her breasts, playing her like a finely tuned violin, teasing and tempting so that her pussy clenched and released with his every move. She wanted him and didn’t care what brought them together. She just didn’t want them to part. Not yet.
He closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, his hands stroking her back. Chest to chest, she licked her lips, salivating at the prospect of tasting his pale skin.
