Perfect for him.
"Kiss me," she breathed.
His hips jerked at the sound of her voice, and as his erection slid against the very heart of her, the friction made him groan. God, the feel of her pressed up tight to him, with the head of his c**k having parted her and burrowed in, searching for that sweetest spot....
"Healer," she gritted as she arched back, her tongue coming out and dragging over her lower lip -
Fangs.
Those two white tips were fangs, and he froze: What was underneath him and ready for him was not human.
"Teach me ... take me ..."
Vampire.
He should have been shocked and terrified. But he wasn't. If anything, what she was made him want inside her with a desperation that left him in a sweat. And there was something else ... it made him want to mark her.
Whatever the hell that meant.
"Kiss me, healer ... and don't stop."
"I won't," he moaned. "I'm not ever going to stop."
As he dipped his head to bring his lips to hers, his c**k went off in an explosion, the orgasm shooting out of him and going all over her -
Manny came awake on a gasp that was loud enough to rouse the dead.
And oh, shit, he was coming hard, his hips grinding into the sofa as delicious, hazy memories of his virgin lover made him feel like her hands were all over his skin. Fucking A; even though the dream was clearly over, the orgasm kept coming until he had to lock his teeth and jack one of his knees up tight, the jerking pumps of his c**k fisting the heavy muscles of his thighs and chest until he couldn't breathe.
When it was all over, he sagged face-first into the cushions and did his best to grab for some oxygen, because he had a feeling round two was going to get its groove on soon. Tendrils of the dream tantalized him and made him want to go back into that moment that had not existed and yet felt as real as the consciousness he had now. Reaching into his memory banks, he tugged at the filaments of where he'd been, bringing the female back into -
The headache that plowed into his temples all but knocked him out - sure as hell, if he hadn't already been horizontal, he would have landed on the damn floor.
"Fuuuuck ..."
The pain was astounding, like someone had nailed him on the skull with a lead pipe, and it was a while before he had the strength to shove himself onto his back and try to sit up.
The first attempt at vertical didn't go well. The second was successful only because he braced his arms on either side of his torso to keep from pulling a down-and-out again. As his head hung like a deflated balloon off his shoulders, he stared at the Oriental rug and waited until he felt like he could make a beeline for the bathroom and fire back some Motrin.
He'd had these headaches a lot. Right before Jane had died -
The thought of his former chief of trauma brought on a new wave of someone-please-shoot-me-between-the-eyeballs.
Breathing shallowly and purposely thinking of absolutely, positively, f**king nothing somehow got him through the attack. When the agony had mostly passed, he lifted his head experimentally ... just in case a minute change in altitude brought on another pounder.
The antique clock behind his desk read four sixteen.
Four a.m.? What in the hell had he done all night since leaving the horse-pital?
As he thought back, he remembered driving out of Queens after Glory had come around and his intention had been to go home. Clearly, that hadn't happened. and he had no clue how long he'd been asleep in his office. Looking at his scrubs, there were drops of blood here and there ... and his kicked-off Nikes were in the blue booties he always operated in. Apparently, he'd worked on a patient -
A fresh flare of pain burst into his mind, causing him to brace every muscle in his body and fight for control. Knowing that biofeedback was his only friend, he let all cognitive processes go lax as he breathed slowly and evenly.
Focusing on the clock, he watched the hands click to seventeen ... then eighteen ... then nineteen....
Twenty minutes later, he was finally able to stand up and lurch over to his bathroom. Inside, the private room was Ali Baba gorgeous, with enough marble, crystal and brass to be castle-worthy - or in the case of tonight, make him curse at all the bright-brights.
Reaching in through the glass door of the shower, he cranked the faucets on and then he headed to the sink to pop open the mirror and grab the bottle of Motrin. Five tablets at once was more than the recommended dosage, but he was a doctor, damn it, and he was advising himself to take more than just two.
The hot water was a blessing, rinsing away not only the remnants of that incredible release, but also the strain of the last twelve hours. God ... Glory. He hoped like hell she was doing well. And that female he'd op -
As he felt another stinger coming on, he dropped whatever thought had been about to take root like it was poison and focused only on the way the spray hit the nape of his neck and split off his shoulders, falling down his back and his chest.
His c**k was still hard.
Rock-hard.
The irony that the damn thing remained all wakey-wakey, in spite of the fact that his other head was totally scrambled, was no laughing matter. The last thing he felt like doing was more palm aerobics, but he had a feeling this arousal he was rocking was going to be like lawn sculpture: there for the duration unless he took care of it.
When the soap slipped off the brass holder and landed on his foot like an anvil, he cursed and hopped around ... then bent down and picked the bar up.
Slippery. Oh, so slippery.
After putting the Dial back where it belonged, he let his hand go south to grip his shaft. As he drew his palm up and back, the warm water and the slick, soapy routine were effective, but still a poor substitute for what it had felt like to be against that woman's -
Sharp. Shooter. Right through his frontal lobe.
God, it was like there were armed guards surrounding any thoughts of her.
With a curse, he shut his brain down because he knew he had to finish what he'd started. Bracing an arm against the marble wall, he let his head drop while he pumped himself. He'd always had a tremendous sex drive, but this was something else entirely, a hunger that punched through any veneer of civility and ran down deep to some core of himself that was a total news flash.
"Shit ..." As the orgasm hit, he gritted his teeth and let loose against the flushed walls of the shower. The release was just as strong as the one on the couch had been, sacking his body until his c**k wasn't the only thing twitching uncontrollably: Every muscle he had seemed to be involved in the release, and he had to bite his lip to keep from yelling.
When he finally surfaced from the rock-'em, sock-'em, his face was mashed up against the marble and he was breathing like he'd sprinted from one side of Caldwell to the other.
Or maybe all the way to Canada.
Turning into the spray, he rinsed off again and stepped out, nabbing a towel and ...
Manny looked down at his hips. "Are. You. Kidding."
His c**k was just as erect as it had been the first time: Undaunted. Proud and strong as only a dumb handle could be.
Whatever. He was done servicing it.
Worse came to worst, he could just disappear the damn thing in his pants. Obviously, the "relief" method wasn't working, and he was out of energy. Hell, maybe he was coming down with the flu or some shit? God knew, working in a hospital you could pick up a lot of things.
Including amnesia, evidently.
Manny wrapped a towel around himself and walked out into his office - only to stop dead. There was a strange scent lingering in the air ... something like dark spices?
Wasn't his cologne, that was for certain.
Striding across the Oriental in his bare feet, he opened his door and leaned out. The administrative offices were dark and empty, and the smell wasn't anywhere around.
With a frown, he looked back at his couch. But he knew better than to allow himself to think of what had just happened on it.
Ten minutes later, he was dressed in fresh scrubs and had had a shave. Mr. Happy, who was still making like the Washington Monument, was tucked up in his waistband and tied in place like the animal it was. As he picked up his briefcase and the suit he'd worn to the track, he was beyond ready to put the dream, the headache, the whole godforsaken evening behind him.
Walking out through the surgical department's offices, he took the elevator down to the third floor, where the ORs were. Members of his staff were doing their thing, operating on emergency cases, dealing with patient setup or transport, cleaning, prepping. He nodded to folks, but didn't say much - so as far as they knew, it was business as usual. Which was a relief.