Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men (6 page)

I opened the door wider, then stopped him with a hand to the chest. “Wait. You have that ‘We have to talk’ look on your face, which usually means I’m going to be accused of something.”

“For once, no.” He advanced against my palm. I held him back. He pouted. “This is getting heavy.”

“You have superstrength,” I pointed out, grinning despite myself. “What’s in the cooler?”

“A present.” He opened the top and proudly displayed a dozen pint-sized plastic envelopes of blood packed in dry ice.

I cocked my head and studied him thoughtfully. “The next time you go shopping for me, take Andrea.”

He carried his burden into the kitchen, where he carefully stored his repellent treasures in the empty vegetable crisper.

“This is prime Red Cross–grade human donation,” he said. “Tested, screened, and cleared through a lab in the city.”

“That’s wonderful, but why did you bring it here?”

“Can’t I do something nice?” he asked, clearly offended.

I stared at him. “You might have started with a card and maybe worked your way up to human blood.”

“I worry about how you eat,” he said as he sifted through the pathetic contents of my fridge. “I want you to drink a pint of this every day.”

“I’ve told you that it makes me uncomfortable when you blur that daddy/boyfriend line, right?” I said. He held up half-empty bottles of Hershey’s syrup and Bailey’s Irish Cream. “That’s just for flavor!”

“I’m afraid that you’re becoming too accustomed to drinking synthetic blood, Jane,” he said. “It’s only a recent development, and production could stop with the turn of the political tide. And then where will you be?”

“On eBay, looking for remainders?” I guessed.

“What if you’re too far away from a store to get a supply? What if the supply is tainted? You need to become more comfortable drinking human blood, feeding from live subjects.” He hushed me when I opened my mouth to protest. “I know how you feel about feeding from humans, but I want you to have the skills you need to survive. Just in case. I want you to be able to hunt on your own.”

“So, I’m like a domesticated bear, and you’re working up to releasing me into the wild?”

“Yes, that’s the worst possible way you could have taken this gesture, thank you,” he muttered, setting the cooler aside.

“Thank you,” I finally said. “I appreciate the fact that you thought of me while you were away.”

“Every spare moment,” he promised, moving in closer for a kiss.

I stopped him. “Are you sure I’m not accused of something? Feeding on senior citizens? Kicking toddlers? Stealing candy from babies?”

He was darkly cute when he was indignant. “It’s not a bad omen
every
time I come to call.”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “I’m being rude. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

In a very serious tone, he said, “I think we should have sex again.”

“What?” I giggled. I couldn’t help it. Gabriel and I hadn’t been able to “date” per se. Dating a vampire is difficult, even if you
are
a vampire. I mean, it’s not as if
we can go out to dinner like a normal couple. We don’t eat. On the rare occasion that we were both at one of our houses and sitting still, Zeb and Jolene or Andrea or Dick would show up, and our twosome became a group gathering. As much as I loved having a close group of diverse friends who understand my special needs, talk about a bunch of mood killers.

“I think we should have sex again,” he repeated. “I think we’ve reestablished our rapport and friendship. I believe you’re starting to trust me again. I know you want me.”

“That’s kind of presumptuous,” I told him. He wasn’t wrong, but it was still presumptuous.

Obviously irritated by my not jumping him right then and there, he added, “Also, the first time was rather rushed, and I don’t feel that I was able to demonstrate my full range of, er, technique.”

“So, you think we should have Naked Happy Fun Time because I didn’t get to see all of your moves?” I said, barely able to contain a second giggle fit as he backed me against the counter. “You don’t just say something like that. You have to take me out for dinner or something.”

“Here.” He reached into the fridge and pulled out a packet of A-negative. “Drink that.”

I arched an eyebrow at him. “You really don’t understand the concept of modern courtship, do you?”

“Drink it,” he commanded. Humoring him, I popped the top and took a long drink of the smooth, lusciously nutty donated blood. Tasting genuine human blood after months of synthetic always left me a little woozy. Little
pinpricks of sensation, nerves firing along my arms and throat, made me lean heavily against the counter to get my bearings.

Gabriel took the packet from my slightly trembling hand. “Now, kiss me.”

“I’m not a light bulb, you can’t just flip a switch and turn me—”

Gabriel gripped my cheeks between his palms and seized my lips, the last syllables of my sentence muffled into his mouth.

“I stand corrected,” I admitted as we backed into the living room.

“Is your aunt here?” he asked, tugging at my T-shirt.

I shook my head. “Hot ghost date.”

“I think—
gah
!” Distracted by the front closure on my bra, Gabriel had tripped over a footstool and knocked over a side table.

“It might be nice to have sex without breaking anything, what do you say?” I asked, peeking down at him over the edge of the table. Gabriel sat up, rubbing his forehead where my old hard-bound copy of
Sense and Sensibility
had conked him.

“Haven’t you already read this a few dozen times?” he asked, flipping through the pages. “We’re going to have to have a literary intervention for you.”

“It’s Jane Austen, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” I said, settling next to him and taking the book from his hands. “You can never read Jane Austen too many times. And this is one of my favorites. She manages to pull a believable happy ending out of
what could have been her saddest story. She could have left the Dashwood sisters alone, having learned their lessons from their respective traits. Marianne could have been left alone and ruined by her dramatic, impetuous behavior. Elinor could have taken her quiet dignity to a maiden’s grave. But she gave them the men they wanted or, in Marianne’s case, needed. Austen let both of them have a little bit more than they deserved.”

“I love it when you talk about books,” he murmured against my neck. “It gets you all excited. Quick, tell me your theories about
Jane Eyre
and sexual repression again.”

My burst of laughter was silenced by the press of Gabriel’s mouth.

It’s amazing how much easier it is to be naked in front of another person when you have a little self-confidence. In order to attract prey, vampires are usually more attractive than they were in life. So I got the high-school bookworm’s Golden Ticket. My skin was clearer. My hair had changed to an actually desirable color found in the brunette spectrum
and
did what it was supposed to on occasion. My eyes, formerly an unremarkable muddy hazel, were now a clear and compelling hazel. My teeth were whiter. And my chest was in the locked and upright position forevermore. I never had to worry about sagging. If Mama would admit to my being a vampire, even she would have to concede that it seemed to agree with me.

Mama probably wouldn’t have mentioned the boob thing specifically, though.

Emboldened by my newfound confidence, I jumped over the couch and pounced on Gabriel, gleefully ripping at the buttons of his shirt. He was too busy slowly peeling off my socks to object. He grinned madly at my feet.

“What?” I asked, hoping that after all of this, I hadn’t accidentally fallen for a foot fetishist.

“I just never know what color your toenails are going to be,” he said, stroking my instep and kissing my ankle. “Will it be a prim pink? A contemplative cranberry? A playful plum?”

“My toes are like a mood ring. Good to know. Now, I believe you were kissing my ankle in a very pleasant manner. Feel free to continue,” I commanded, wiggling my freshly painted carpals.

“What is that?” he asked, staring with horror at the virulent shade of pulpy peach on my toenails.

“I had to mix three different shades to find a peach that would match Jolene’s bridesmaids’ dresses. I did an experimental test run to see if my body would tolerate the color.”

“Wow,” Gabriel mouthed silently.

“Shut it,” I said, tossing the remnants of his shirt into a wastebasket. He took advantage of this lapse of concentration to pull me onto his lap, wrapping my legs around his waist. I smirked down at him, tucking his hair behind his ears. “How about we try to make it to a bed this time?”

Gabriel didn’t answer, as his mouth was occupied, scraping his fangs gently over the curve of my breast.
I loved and hated it when he did that. Loved it because he was teasing me, toying with me, reminding me of every dark pleasure he could inflict on me. Hated it because it reduced my whole world to a square inch of responsive flesh, making me forget everything—pride, sense, the ability to refrain from bizarre birdcall noises. My only defense was winding my fingers through his ink-black hair, pulling his head back, and sucking on his bottom lip.

He groaned into my mouth. “Unfair.”

“All’s fair in—ummph.” I grunted as he smothered my mouth with his and pushed me to my feet.

“You’re wearing too much.” His low voice vibrated across the skin of my throat. He refused to pull his lips away from my skin as he split my old 4-H camp T-shirt down the front and tossed it into the trash with his own shirt. I glared at him.

He shrugged, pulling the bandanna from my head and shaking my hair loose. “All’s fair.”

We were both grinning loopily as we stripped each other, tossing clothes carelessly across the room. Gabriel continued to put my sensitive nerves to good use as he stroked the line of my back with his long fingers.

I never stopped kissing him, deep, sweet, hot kisses that left me confused about where his lips started and mine ended.

One of the drawbacks of living in a Civil War home is knowing that no matter what you do there, it’s already been done before. You’re never the first. Well, I’m pretty sure I’m the first Early to do any of those
things on the “grand staircase” once featured in the Half-Moon Hollow Historical Society’s Spring Tour of Homes.

On an unrelated note, I was really glad I’d taken those yoga classes with Andrea.

Without them, I might not have had the strength and flexibility required to balance on the stairs with my arms while Gabriel raised my hips and sank deep inside me. I threw my head back, sighing, contented. How could I have forgotten how good that was? How complete and full he made me feel? I hardly noticed that with each thrust, I landed one step closer to the top of the stairs. I arched my back, grinding down until he nudged against that sensitive little bundle of nerves. I wrapped my arms around his neck on impulse, landing hard on my back without their support. The force knocked both of us down two steps, the impact of each bump sending shockwaves through my body. Gabriel groaned, the hum of his voice against my collarbone sending me over the edge. I clenched around him, crying out as red starbursts exploded behind my eyelids.

Seeing my face as I climaxed had some strange effect on Gabriel. Moaning softly in my ear, he begged me to open my eyes. I obeyed and found him watching me, memorizing every detail of my face. I turned my face into his cradling palm and bit down on the tender skin between his thumb and forefinger with my blunter teeth. He yowled, surprised, and grinned obscenely just before he shuddered over me. We slid down the stairs one at a time as he came.

We slithered to a stop on the third step. I sighed. “I missed you.”

“That’s what a man likes to hear,” he said, pulling me onto his chest and nuzzling the curve of my throat.

I blew out an unnecessary breath. “This is just like our first time, without all the hitting and bleeding. I know we haven’t addressed this, but I totally won that fight.”

“I admire your competitive nature and optimism, but there’s no way you would have beaten me in a fair fight.”

I smirked. “Would it make you feel better if I went all traditional and asked what you’re thinking in some soft, hesitant voice? Because right now, all I’m thinking is ‘woo,’ and if I might add, ‘hoo.’ “

“It saddens me that I don’t know whether this is the stunning aftereffects of my technique or that you’re spending more time with Dick.

“So … what are you thinking?” he asked in that faux feminine voice again, pressing little kisses along my wrist. “Because I doubt very much that ‘woo’ and ‘hoo’ is all that’s going on in that massive, teeming brain of yours.”

I propped my chin on his chest. “Do you really want to know? Because at any given moment, when I’m with you, I have about a million questions bouncing around in my head. Stuff that, frankly, I’m a little ashamed I don’t know about you. For instance, why don’t you have an accent? You and Dick grew up together. He has a respectable drawl. But you sound as if you’re from the
middle of nowhere, only with a slightly stuck-up British vernacular.”

He pushed my hair back from my face. “Well, you know what they say, ‘When in Rome …’ “

“Attempt to sound nothing like the Romans?” I countered.

“No, I was actually in Rome, and I was saying, ‘y’all,’ “ he said. “It was hard to blend into the crowd. While I was traveling, I did my best to get rid of my accent—and the use of ‘y’all.’ Happy now?”

“No, there’s still stuff that I don’t know about you, like what was your dog’s name when you were a kid? What was the first book you can remember reading? What was your favorite food before you were turned? Did you like pancakes? What’s your favorite movie made after 1970? Don’t say
Scarface
. Please don’t say
Scarface
.”

“Bridges of Madison County.”

“What?”

“Fine, that was a lie. I enjoyed
Edward Scissorhands
.”

“Really, a loner with a dangerous condition that keeps him at arm’s length from most people,” I teased. “Don’t see that at all.”

“Would it have made you happier if I said
Rocky
?” he groused. “What’s your favorite movie, oh, protector of cinematic integrity?”