Called By Blood

Chapter 2

Lacey offered to spend another night with her. Helena refused.

But she did let Lacey meet her after work, and they opened the house together, checking all the rooms, all the windows and doors, making sure everything was locked tight. He had not been there, but he'd be back that night. She knew he would, but she didn't think he'd harm her. There was something about him, something gentlemanly, something trustworthy. Yeah, a gentleman stalker. Good one.

Truth was, she wanted to talk to him from the window again. And if he wanted to spend another night doing yard work, her fence needed mending.

She hadn't been able to concentrate all day. At an important lunch meeting she'd embarrassed herself by spacing out mid-sentence. More than once. After that she'd gone straight to the high school track. That seemed a safe enough place to run. But even running failed to do the trick.

Alexander Faustin just wouldn't leave her thoughts. It was like she was in heat or something, and as her temperature rose, her intellect dropped by equal degrees. She didn't want to tangle with him again, but another moonlight talk was tempting. Because as horny as she was, she was also curious. The journalist in her wanted to know more. Why would a man like that stalk her? She had good instincts—not for relationships, admittedly, but for strangers—and he honestly didn't seem dangerous. If he didn't mean to harm her, why did he lie to her? Was it a habit of his? Did he get a buzz from the risk? Maybe another talk would help her see the outlines of his subtle insanity. Then she'd feel better about turning him over to the police.

That morning she'd Googled his name, trying different spellings and came up with nothing. A Lexis-Nexis search revealed nothing about Alex or Alexander but did yield some hits on a Gregor Faustin who was some kind of nightclub impresario in New York. A small picture of a man in his thirties or early forties scowling at a flashbulb accompanied one of the articles. All she could say was that their coloring was the same. A relative?

Hell, she didn't even know if Alexander Faustin was his real name.

As soon as Lacey left, Helena stepped out onto her balcony and surveyed the back yard.

"Looking for me?"

She yelped. He was on the balcony with her, standing in the shadows.

Helena backed away. "How'd you get up here?"

He advanced, stepping into a pool of light. He wore the long woolen overcoat, the one that had rubbed against her naked body. It was open. Beneath, he wore a black turtleneck sweater, the chunky fisherman kind, jeans and expensive work boots. GQ Italy. He shrugged. "Ladder?"

What ladder?

Helena darted back into the house, slammed the sliding glass door shut and clicked the tiny locking arm into place, thinking that maybe this home-alone thing was not such a good idea after all. She picked up the phone, but didn't call anyone. Instead, she returned to the door.

He stood just on the other side of the glass, smiling a crooked smile. What beautiful lips he had. Oh God, he was hot. Why did he have to be so hot? He drew his finger along the glass as if he could touch her face through it.

"Helena…" He spoke as if they knew each other, as if he'd been missing her for years. "You shouldn't be afraid."

"I don't know you." Helena's voice wavered. She tried to strengthen it. "This is too strange. It's just not right."

Yet she wanted to touch him more than anything in the world. Instead she splayed her palm against the glass and he matched it with his own hand, so much bigger than hers. She had thought of those hands all day, how they held her breasts and circled her waist. She'd thought of his mouth on her throat, open and wet.

"It's an unusual way to meet, I'll give you that, but that doesn't make it wrong. What do you want to know about me? I'll tell you anything."

The glass muffled his voice a little, made it sound like it was coming from a distance. She didn't know what else to do, so she thought of a question.

"Well, where are you from?"

"New York. I live in the city."

Ah ha.

"What are you doing in Colorado?"

His dark eyes bored into hers, sincere, yet so forceful she lowered her lashes. "I came to meet you."

"Why?"

"My mother told me to find you. That you'd be my perfect one."

Mother? Like Norman Bates's mother? Oh man, that was creepy. "Who is your mother?" she snapped. "And what the hell does she know about me?"

Faustin was a model of patience, standing out there in the freezing cold. It didn't seem to bother him. His nose wasn't even red. And he didn't seem to mind her shrewish tone either. "My mother's name is Natalia Grigorevna Faustin." He ground through those hard consonants like a real Russian. "She lives in Brooklyn. She…well…she dreamed about you, dreamed you and I were meant for each other. It's sort of an old world thing."

"And on the basis of her dream, you came here to find me?"

He lifted one shoulder and smiled, as if the whole thing was a little embarrassing, but unavoidable. "It's better than internet dating."

"Yeah, I'm sure you've had to resort to that." Helena sniffed, imagining him striding around Manhattan with hordes of Sarah Jessica Parker types staggering after him in their expensive heels.

"My family, our traditions, they mean a lot to me, Helena. I'm ready to settle down and I want to do it in the old way. It worked for my parents."

"They met by dream?"

He nodded and leaned his head on the glass. "I think my mother dreamed right, Helena."

The longing in his voice stopped her breath. His perfect one. To think that such a thing might exist—a perfect mate. Two halves coming together to make a whole. Never lonely again.

That was delusional thinking. A good relationship was all about hard work, compromise and mutual respect—not magic destiny crap. That's why happy couples were as rare as hen's teeth.

She put the phone down and twisted her hands together, trying to think of something else to say when she had all of two brain cells firing. "Do you have brothers or sisters?"

"Two older brothers, Mikhail and Gregor."

Gregor. His name really was Faustin, and he really was from New York.

He slid his palm down the glass and straightened up. "Do you have any siblings?"

"No, I'm an only child."

"Where are your parents?"

"They're…they've passed on. A year ago. This is their house, actually." That's it, tell him you have nobody.

His brow creased in concern. "So you're all alone? I'm so sorry."

The empathy in his voice brought tears to her eyes. The hormones were surging again, making her sappy. Yes, it was hard to be alone. She loved her friends, but they were not family. Family had to put up with you no matter what. She wanted them back. Before she started bawling outright, she changed the subject. "You're Russian. Your background, I mean?"

"Right. But I was born here."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I trade in foreign currency."

Whatever that meant, exactly. Helena never had enough money to spare for investment or trading and so paid little attention to the subject. She imagined him sitting at a big table with piles of exotic coins stacked in front of him, even though that was retarded.

"Do you have a card?" she asked. Also retarded. But she wanted to see something solid, something that proved he had a life outside of hanging around her house.

His lips twitched in amusement as he reached in his jeans pocket and brought out a slender wallet. "Do you want to see my driver's license? My social security card?" He flashed these things at her, all legitimate looking. He showed her a couple of credit cards, a library card, a subway pass and a Borders gift card in there too, decorated with candy canes. Then he pulled out a business card and pressed it against the glass.

"FFS?"

"Faustin Financial Services. I also do some investment consulting." He tucked the card in the door frame and left it there like a salesman. "What about you? What do you do?"

"I'm a freelance radio producer. I do a lot of work for NPR."

"Really? I listen to NPR all the time."

A public radio fan? Then he must be her life mate. Well, unless maybe he was Garrison Keillor's life mate.

But he seemed interested, truly interested. "Tell me something you've produced that I might have heard."

"Uh…" Helena's mind went marvelously blank. It was hard to remember anything when he looked her straight in the eye. A warm fluttering started between her legs. Oh, jeez. "Uh, last week they aired a story about the little kid who rode his bike across America…"

"To commemorate his brother's death? I heard that one." He had the strangest look to him as he said that. Something like pride. "That was your idea?"

She nodded, dry mouthed. "Look, this is a ridiculous way to talk. I should let you in, but I…"

"No." The sudden harshness of his voice made her take a step back from the glass. "Don't let me in if you have any doubts in your mind, because once you invite me in, I'm going to make love to you. It is the first thing I will do. We will not have dinner or a glass of wine first. We will not chit chat or watch a movie. You let me in this door and I'm taking you. Understand that."

Scared of him once again and scared of her own reactions to him, Helena took another step back and hugged herself. "Why are you like this?"

If looks could melt glass… "You were on the stoop with me. Answer yourself."

Helena paced back and forth in front of the sliding glass door, chanting her inner mantra, Dang, oh dang, oh dang.

Since the first moment she'd laid eyes on him, she'd wanted him, and that was the truth of the matter. He didn't hide his desire, he was clear in his intentions. That was the difference between them. He told the truth while she waffled and flirted and lied and called the cops when things got too intense. So who wasn't playing fair?

Let him in.

He'd probably talk to her though the door all night, but she didn't know if she could do it. She couldn't think. Hell, she could barely stand. Either she had to take him up on his offer or go lock herself in the closet.

She'd been thinking of him as caught on the deck, behind glass, but she was the one who was trapped. He had all the world behind him.

I'm tired of being afraid.

Faustin leaned against the door while he waited for her answer, head down, palms flat against the glass as if he was thinking about pushing the door off its tracks. "I need you," he said, almost too low to be heard.

Her breath caught in her throat. Frightened, she wrapped her arms around herself. That gentle pressure made her breasts ache and tingle. Her skin was oversensitive, stimulated by the soft knit of her sweater dress. She'd never been so aroused. Part of it was knowing a man wanted her that much. Another part was knowing that she'd have to risk her life to find out if her instincts were right. The instincts that told her to open the door.

Trust yourself.

He's a public radio fan, for crap's sake.

Do it.

In the end she decided that if she couldn't trust her instincts, if she was going spend all her life being afraid anyway, then what business did she have being alive?

She threw the door open wide and he strode in, caught her up in his arms and kissed her. He was freezing cold, but his kiss could melt Antarctica. He tasted like heaven. As good as she remembered.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, but let him take the lead. This time she'd be careful. She wouldn't lose control and scare him away. Not this time. Not like with Jeff. Or Rob. Or David.

Faustin drove her backward across the living room, until her heels hit the staircase and she fell to the stairs. He followed her down, claiming her mouth with a probing, insistent kiss.

And then he just stopped. Stopped and stared at her. Helena groaned to herself. She recognized that look.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing."

"You okay with this?"

"Yes."

"You scared?"

"No."

He frowned. "You're not a virgin?"

"What? Of course not."

"Thank God." He blew out a breath. "So what's the deal? You weren't like this last night."

"I don't know what happened last night. What am I doing wrong?"

"You're not doing anything wrong. You just seem unenthused."

"I'm enthused. Believe me. I can hardly restrain myself."

He rolled off her, coming to rest on his elbow beside her. "Yeah, and now you're sarcastic. Helena, if you don't like what I'm doing you have to tell me."

"I'm not being sarcastic." Tentatively, she reached out and brushed his hair from his eyes. "I swear, I want you so bad that I have to control myself."

He relaxed a little, to her relief, and began to slide his hand up her hip. He watched her reaction from under lowered eyelashes. "Why should you control yourself?"

"Because it's not…" She lost her train of thought when his hand reached her breast. "Because I get a little out of control sometimes. Because…there's been complaints. About me."

"Complaints?"

"I bite."

His eyes widened and he laughed. But not in a mean way. "Seriously?"

"Bite, scratch, claw. I don't even know what I'm doing, but if I stay mellow it doesn't start. So don't worry. I won't hurt you."

His eyes took on a wicked sparkle. Pulling her on top of him so that she straddled his hips, he said, "What if I like being bitten, scratched and clawed?"

"You're just saying that." Sure, some people were into pain, but most people honestly didn't want to be mauled in bed. That was normal. Her former fiancé, Jeff, had a zero tolerance policy regarding her aggression. Bed wasn't a battleground, he said, and a man liked to set the pace anyway. And before him Rob was so freaked out by the scratches she left on him one wild night that they broke up shortly afterward.

Alex's hands crept under the hem of her dress. The twinkle faded from his eyes as something more intense moved in. "I want you to do your worst. Believe me, I can take whatever you dish out. But I'll pay you back in kind." Putting his mouth next to her ear, as if they weren't all alone, he whispered, "I'm going to fuck you senseless. That's a promise."

Helena couldn't repress a shiver of anticipation.

"Now give me some tongue."

She bent over and brushed his lips with hers. Dry. Teasing. Coming in for another pass, she flicked her tongue across his lips. He smiled and she brought her mouth down over his. Their lips parted. He caught her head and sent his tongue sweeping through her mouth, challenging her. She met it, caught it, sucked it deep. At the same time, she eased herself backward until her clit met the hard ridge of his cock, and she started a slow grind.

"That's more like it," he said with a grin as soon as she gave him back his tongue. He nibbled at her lower lip. She offered him her tongue and he caught the end between his teeth. Just before she panicked he released it in exchange for a long, lush kiss. If there was such a thing as oral literacy, Alex had it in spades.

"Take off your dress."

She tugged it over her head, bringing her slip with it. That left her in her bra and thong. Her best black lace bra and matching thong that she'd put on that morning while fantasizing about him, truth be told. It wasn't that she'd been planning this, it was just that thinking about him made her feel sexy. All day she'd been hyperaware of her underwear and high heels.

He took in the new view with a slow, lazy, devastating smile. "Very nice," he murmured. "Now get upstairs before I fuck you right here."

Feeling spectacularly naughty, Helena said, "What's wrong with right here?"

"I hate doing it on the stairs."

"You're experienced?"

"One person gets a tread jammed in their back, the other ruins their knees. Carpet burn, chipped teeth…" He trailed off, as if he'd forgotten he was talking, then sighed. "God I love your breasts."

Helena laughed. He said, "You have a three second head start. I'm taking you where I catch you. You better hope it's not on the stairs." She stared at him, not sure if he was joking or not. "Go!"

She took off, scampering up the steps, her high-heeled boots slipped on the carpet. He caught her ankle right away, but she kicked free and cleared the landing. She was fast, but there wasn't anywhere to run. He shoved her up against a wall. Shrieking, she ducked under his arm and made it through her bedroom door. He caught her around the waist and threw her on the bed. With a shrug he threw off his overcoat and stripped off his sweater. Under it he was bare, and so beautiful, smoothly muscled, his skin winter white and flawless, his nipples rose red. No tats, no scars, just a thin line of black hair bisecting his lean stomach.

Hungry to touch him, she caught him by the waistband and yanked him to the bedside. Praying he was serious about the aggression thing, she ripped open the buttons on his fly. He wore no underwear. The head of his erection sprang out, flushed the same rosy red as his nipples. Oh lord, it's so beautiful. Her breath went shallow with excitement as she peeled his jeans off his hips and took him in both hands.

Faustin held very still, until she took her first taste, swiping her tongue along the frenulum. Then he cried out, as if surprised, and sank his hands into her hair. He tasted of salt and anise, of all things. She took him in her mouth, stroking his head with the flat of her tongue. Definitely anise. Strange. Delicious.

That all too familiar desire to consume her partner came forward. The blind drive that made her bite and scratch like an animal. She clamped down on it, delicately dragging her teeth up his shaft. He let out a long, shuddering breath. Again she took him into her mouth, and this time she let herself sink her fingernails into the firm muscles of his ass. Just to see what he'd do.

He fisted his hands in her hair. In her mouth he grew even harder, his pulse throbbing under her tongue. With a grunt he pried her off his gleaming cock and shoved her on her back. Ripped off her bra. Kissed her so hard she whimpered.

She let go. She nipped at his lips, his chin, his ears. They rolled across the bed. She kicked and clawed, trying to stay on top. But he was god-awful strong, and when he brought that strength to bear, he pinned her on her back easily, holding her wrists in a bruising grip.

"Give?" he growled.

Oh yes, said part of her. But another part of her liked getting him all riled up and it said, "Never."

He watched her for a few seconds. She tried to hold his gaze, to look defiant. But his expression changed. It went from hard to meltingly soft. Like magic, all the fight drained out of her.

"Alex?"

He bent low to kiss her. "Give?" he murmured against her lips.

"Give." He let go of her wrists and began to make love to her.

Alex loved that she'd used his name. He wanted to hear her say it over and over. He loved that she had so much fight in her. And real predatory instincts. He was ridiculously proud of her.

While they'd wrestled, she'd tested her straight, dull teeth on his throat. He'd never let anyone drink from him in his life, but the thought of her doing it was wildly erotic.

Gathering her close, he began to kiss her. He loved her body. Her long, strong thighs. Her white neck.

He passed his hand down her belly and between her parted legs. Her thong was soaked. His first touch made her whole body jerk, the second made her sigh. While he nibbled her neck, he brought her to an easy orgasm by circling her clit with a light finger.

Soon as she stilled, he pushed the thong aside and plunged two fingers into her hot, tight core. Gasping, she dug her boot heels into the mattress and lifted her hips high. His cock twitched. He wanted to be belly to belly, buried inside her, but even more than he wanted that, he wanted to learn what made her tick. He finger-fucked her slow, then fast. He scissored his fingers and thumbed her clit. All the while watching her closely, listening to her breaths speed up, changing up his technique until she began to gasp and whimper. By the end he knew how to play her, bringing her to the cliff's edge, then pulling back, over and over.

"Please," she moaned, low and husky.

"Please what?"

"Stop…please…I need…" She twisted and writhed, clawing at the sheets. "Oh…oh…what are you doing?"

"What do you want?"

He thought she'd say, "Let me come," but instead she said, "You. Inside."

"Then on your knees." He said it before he knew what he was saying, in a voice that wasn't even his own. "Show me your ass."

His pulse surged as Helena hauled herself to her knees. Her arms and legs were shaking. Alex began to tremble too, but his voice was firm. He knew exactly what he wanted.

"Drop your head to the mattress. Spread your knees. Wider."

Helena did as he said, clutched the sheet in her fists. Her cunt was swollen and red, and so wet even her thighs glistened. With a sharp twist he ripped the thong off her body and threw it aside. A long, visible shudder passed down her spine.

He plunged into her. With a throaty cry, she came. Her cunt's powerful contractions made his eyes roll back in his head. When she stilled, he withdrew and sank in again, deeper, savoring her heat, her tightness.

"Up," he rasped.

She stood on her knees and he held her sleek, hot body tight against his chest. He curled his tongue around her ear, and teased the sensitive hollow behind her earlobe.

"Helena." He caressed her breasts and belly, he covered her nape with kisses. But these gentle gestures did not disguise the fact that he offered her no real mercy. "Open," he whispered. "Let me in."

Helena shook her head from side to side. He pushed her head back down to the bed, and nudged her legs apart a little further. "Take me."

With a long sigh she let go. She opened up, and suddenly he was seated as deep as he could be. Very near coming with the pure excitement of it, he lifted her up again so he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her throat.

"Is that…all…you've…got," she gasped, shivering and shaking with little proto orgasms.

He snorted in her ear, and she laughed. Her laughter vibrated through his body. He wanted to hold her this way forever.

"Think you can handle more?" He licked his forefinger and tested her swollen clit.

"Ah!" She was so stretched, so sensitive, that the lightest touch sufficed. For her.

Not for him. He took hold of her hips and gave her a long, twisting thrust. She dropped on her hands with a guttural cry. Something in that cry sent him over the edge. Forgetting everything but his need to lose himself in her, he plunged into her again and again. Helena bucked against him, yowling like a cat in heat, her every move making him crazier.

"Closer." Helena said, shaping the word from a drawn out moan. "Closer." She rolled. They separated. Settling on her back, she opened her arms to him and he slid into her furnace heat. So good. Closer. Yes. Heart to heart. Mouth to mouth. Closer.

"Closer," she said again, plaintive. Insistent. Spurring him with tooth and claw.

Alex understood. No matter how tightly he held her, he wanted more. He needed to be inside her and wrapped around her, under her skin and in her head.

"I know. I know." He kissed her over and over. "It's okay."

Only blood would join them the way they needed to be joined. When he thought about how many women he'd tapped in his life…and here was Helena under him, begging for it. How was he supposed to be restrained? Just how long was he supposed to wait? Roland and friggin' Illysia could bite him.

What they had now had to be enough. And he was going to take all he could. He captured her clawing hands, pinned them over her head and began to take her in long, smooth strokes. Nothing, nothing, had ever felt so good.

Her face took on this particular stubborn look that he already knew and loved. Alex grinned as she ground her boot heels into his flanks.

"Yes," she said. "Oh, yes. Oh God."

Alex could feel it too, the warm run up to orgasm. They'd come together.

"It's big," she gasped. "So big."

He knew she didn't mean him. She meant the buildup. The tension. They moved together, their bodies slick with sweat. Helena watched him all the time, her eyes wide.

He'd never coasted so long on the crest of an orgasm. Was this how women came? He'd never been so happy and so miserable at the same time.

She went stiff under him, her hips rising off the bed. They were there. If she'd let go, he could too. But she didn't. Seconds seemed minutes seemed hours while her beautiful face contorted in agony and her nails shredded his back.

"I can't—Alex—please!"

Groaning in frustration she bit his neck. Instinct drove her, but she couldn't get what she wanted. Alex could. Succumbing to temptation, he buried his face in her throat. Her pulse leapt under his mouth. Calling him.

Holy mother.

There was no resisting it. He broke her skin and came as her blood washed over his tongue. Semen spurting out, blood flowing in, a closed circuit. Her blood mixed with his saliva and changed it. Changed him. She entered his bloodstream and rocketed to his brain like a chemical maelstrom. The first hit almost knocked him out. While he reeled, her deep muscles squeezed him like a fist, clasping and unclasping as a convulsive orgasm rolled through her.

He was not sucking. Her blood leapt down his throat of its own accord. All she was, rushing to join him. Images of her life, vivid, flashing memories passed into him. Usually he blocked that information off when he was feeding, but he couldn't with her. The storm passing through him left him wide open. This was the first, irrevocable step of bonding.

But the flow only went one direction: toward him. He clouded her mind so that she didn't participate in the exchange, she didn't even know he was biting her. If he couldn't protect himself from his own recklessness, at least he could protect her.

In the aftermath, he licked and kissed the bite wound closed, overcome with tenderness for this near stranger in his arms. Helena stirred out of her torpor. He kissed her, savoring her sleepy flavor, and she returned the kiss, her lips soft and yielding, so different from moments before. Helena sated. Happy. His.

She smiled at him, heavy eyed and trusting. His heart split into pieces and refashioned itself around her.

"I hurt you." Her voice was low and hoarse. With tentative fingers she touched a set of bite marks on his shoulder.

"It doesn't matter." He left her throat to kiss down the centerline of her stomach. Golden peach fuzz covered her belly. He loved that.

"And look at your back! I'm so sorry."

He put his finger on her lips. "You won't feel sorry for me tomorrow when you're so sore you can barely walk."

She smiled in her impish way. "True enough." Then she frowned a little and touched her neck. "Did you bite me there at the end?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to."

Her nose wrinkled if she smiled wide enough. And it had freckles on it. How had he not seen those before?

"Bad boy. Is there a mark?"

"No." He tucked her hair behind her ear for her. "Your neck is perfect. Like a swan's."

She rolled her eyes.

"It is!"

Leaving the argument be, she raised herself up on her elbow, blinking a little. He bet she was dizzy. She glanced down his body and giggled.

"What?"

"Your jeans were around your ankles the whole time?"

He looked down. He'd hardly noticed, but it was true. His jeans were bunched up at the top of his boots. Not the most dignified look. Especially when other parts of him weren't so dignified at the moment either. Where in the hell were the sheets when you needed them?

"When, may I ask, during that sexual tsunami did I have time to unlace my boots?"

Laughing some more, she crawled to the end of the bed and began to pluck at his boot laces. What a spectacular ass she had. Her high black boots were on still, too—they were all she was wearing—and he sure wasn't going to complain about that.

Looking over her shoulder she said, "Alex, if you want to do me in a Bozo outfit, I'd be just fine with it."

A couple of hours later he carried her into the living room slung over his shoulder. Helena was laughing so hard it hurt. He dumped her on the couch and started to build a fire in the fireplace.

They'd left the door to the balcony wide open and the house was freezing.

"Do you want some clothes? I have a spa robe that might fit you."

The look he sent over his shoulder was smoldering. His poor, gnawed shoulder. "You saying I should cover my body?"

"Oh, no, heavens no." It took a lot of log splitting to carve a body like his. All he needed was some sun. The man was Minnesota pale. "I just thought you might be cold."

He shook his head.

"Or in danger of burning…something. Flying embers, you know."

That made him smile. "I'm flammable, it's true. But I still like playing with fire."

What did that mean? But she forgot to ask when he said, imperiously, "You're not wearing anything for the rest of the night, either."

"Oh really?" She teased him, but she felt no urge to get dressed. Ordinarily she was a little shy about her body—it was not perfect. Unlike Mr. Abs by the fireplace, she made a habit of shirking the gym. And over Christmas she'd had a torrid affair with a tray of fudge and a wastebasket-sized canister of those little Dutch cookies. Now her jeans barely buttoned. But she could not fault her body when he looked at it like that.

Wearing boots helped too. He wouldn't let her take them off. They were knee length, black and shiny. Though not stilettos by any means, walking around in them naked was an unexpected turn-on. "I'll get us some wine." She clip clopped into the kitchen. Scully was in there, in her basket, giving out attitude. "Get used to it, dog. I've got a sex life and you don't."

"Are you hungry?" she shouted, peering into her fridge. Peering into her fridge like a happy sex slave fucked within an inch of her life. Not her usual state when hanging on the fridge door.

She heard him cough, and then he shouted back, "No, thanks, I just ate…before I came. Before I came here. But don't let that stop you."

Oh, it wouldn't. She was ravenous. Down went a slice of cold pizza while she considered her options. If he wasn't eating, she couldn't get too elaborate. In the end she decided to take in some pretzel sticks, a bowl of olives and a bowl of cashews, just in case he changed his mind. Imagining she was wearing an abbreviated apron and a lace cap, Helena piled all the dishes and the wine on a tray and sashayed her naughty maid self back to the living room.

The fire burned high, higher than she would ever build it, and he was lying on his back in front of it, content as a lizard on a hot rock. He looked asleep. The fire turned him from pale to gold and set off every ridge and muscle in his lean body. What was he doing in her life? He couldn't be real.

But maybe she'd just enjoy him until he turned into a pumpkin.

She took a wine stem in each hand and straddled his belly. That woke him and he brought himself up on one elbow. He took the wine glass and gave it a sniff and a thoughtful first sip, which the wine deserved. She'd opened a good bottle for him. Thankfully he didn't make any pretentious remarks about it, but she knew he liked wine by the way he handled it. He watched her over the rim, his almost black eyes showing amber depths by firelight. Alexander Faustin of Brooklyn. Huh.

"Kiss me," he whispered.

She leaned forward and gave him a glancing kiss, then another deeper and another. Their tongues circled around each other and the kiss tasted of wine. Alex had a kiss she could drown in. Her nipples brushed over his chest, sending sparks through her.

"Scoot up," he said, putting his glass down. He brought her hips level with his face. His tongue insinuated itself deep into her folds, and she nearly snapped the wine glass in two. Just where'd he get that tongue?

He paused to take a mouthful of wine, a mischievous look in his eye. Leaning forward, he pursed his lips and jetted a spray of wine into her navel. The carpet! she thought, while the wine coursed down her belly and gathered in her cleft. Soda water might get it out.

Alex made a humming noise of approval, licked the wine off her thighs and then cupped her bottom in his hands, guiding her and restraining her while he lapped her in long, soothing strokes. Oh, screw the carpet.

"It's a big Zinfandel," he mumbled, pausing between words to work his magic, "with notes of blackberry…and chocolate…and a surprising hint of pussy."

The phone rang.

They ignored it. Lacey's voice came on the machine. "Lena? Are you there? Hello? Pick up. Pick up! Helena MacAllister, if you don't pick up, I'm going to freak out. I'm going to think stalker creep has you tied up."

Alex chuckled, sending a delicious vibration through her. "The tying up comes later."

"I'm coming over there. Swear to God."

That got Helena's attention. She crawled to the phone. "Lace? Sorry, I was sleeping."

Her friend began to chatter about something that she could not understand, a TV show, something. Alex had crawled up behind her and was nibbling the backs of her thighs. The man bit her as much as he kissed her, and definitely didn't mind if she went feral on him. It was such a relief to just let go, to not think about every move she made in bed. She stifled a hiss at a particularly sharp bite and then melted under the soothing lick that followed. Another bite followed, higher on her thigh, white hot pain—but good somehow. Real good. Was she a masochist? But no, she liked to bite. Was she a sadist?

Maybe she and Alex were just a little twisted.

"Oh!" she blurted at the third hard bite. Alex chuckled again. "Oh! Wow! Wow, I'm so tired. Lace, I'll call you tomorrow." The phone fell out of her hand.

"I've never had so many orgasms in one day. Not even the day my vibrator, Mr. Stubby, arrived in the mail."

Alex laughed and pulled her closer. They lay spooned in front of the fire. He kept his nose buried in her straight, silky hair, trying not to snuffle her like a pug. She just smelled so damn good. "I'm flattered. I think."

"Oh definitely. Man triumphs over machine. If we get married, Mr. Stubby might have to be sent into retirement. A nice place in Florida somewhere."

If we get married. Joking. That was a good sign.

She twisted around to look at him, going serious all of a sudden. "Is this how you always have sex?"

"How's that?"

"Like a crazed, bloodthirsty rabbit."

He cupped one of her breasts, just to watch her eyes lose focus. "I've been crazed and I'm always bloodthirsty, but I've never wanted another rabbit like I want you."

That made her smile, and that moment, that was all he wanted in the world. "I feel free with you, Alex, like nothing is off limits and nothing can go wrong."

"That's what you call trust, darling."

"Guess so." She sat up. Something changed. She'd withdrawn. "Are you sure you don't want something to eat? We can send out for something better than pretzel sticks."

Here it was, the start of the difficulties. Complications that would only mount until she knew the truth. How was he even going to begin to explain? "I'm not hungry. But you are. Please, eat. I want you to eat. I'll sit with you."

"That would be too weird. How can you not be hungry? Men are always hungry."

"If we're getting married, you'll have to know about my eccentricities. One is that I don't eat much. Once a day is all."

"Why?"

"It's just how I am." He slipped an olive in her mouth to stop her questions. Then a cashew. Then a pretzel.

"What else?" She held the pretzel between her teeth like a cigar.

"Well, I have a fetish for oral sex. You'll have to submit to my tongue regularly."

"I don't know how I'll bear it."

"I'm also a nocturnal creature."

"That's okay. I'm a night owl too." A few heartbeats passed between them, then she said, "Is that it?"

Now? She was relaxed, open, receptive. On the surface. But underneath she was still judging him. Looking for something. What was it? He kissed her hand. "I can't reveal my secrets all at once. I'll lose my mysterious appeal."

"You have mysterious appeal to spare, Mr. Faustin."

Her eyes glimmered in the firelight, calling up his desire again. The taste of her blood was etched in cells, the need for it an addiction. When she'd begged him for release, he'd laid down his bets. There was no retreat now. Please let her understand.

"There's no great mystery to my appeal, darling." He rolled over her and slid his erection along her thigh.

"Oh no you don't, buster. I'm done for."

"But you want it." The scent of her arousal made his nostrils flare. He nuzzled her throat, longing to bite her again, but couldn't. He'd taken enough already for a day.

"Of course I want it. But I'm all worn out."

"You don't have to do a thing. This is dessert sex."

"Dessert sex?"

"Sweet, creamy, smooth, completely unnecessary, so totally decadent."

With a sigh she opened her legs, saying, "I may never walk again," and he slid in easily. They fit together so well now. They kissed lazily and whispered nonsense while he moved gently within her soft embrace.

Her heat warmed him more than the fire ever could. She touched his cheek and searched his eyes. Could she see the ways his eyes were different from a human's? Probably not. But maybe she knew he was holding back something. He kissed her and tried to explain without words that he did not hold back what was most important.

Afterward she took him by the hand and brought him back to her bed. "Now we sleep."

Instead of sleeping, he held her and watched the clock, running through different imaginary conversations with her, watching the moon set through her wispy curtains. Helena's limbs were twined around his, her breath a steady lullaby. She trusted him enough to sleep in front of him.

With a sigh, he kissed the top of her head and was grateful for that much. He'd seen inside her, just a barrage of sense impressions and flashing images, but enough to know how hard it was for her to trust anyone. The more he fed on her, the more he'd learn about her, and if she drank him, he'd open himself and let her see his stories too. Bonded couples knew their partners better than themselves. The bond was beautifully intimate, his parents said, but dangerous, because power came with that knowledge. The power to destroy the other with a well-placed word or a malicious thought.

Helena was hurting. She'd lost her parents, she'd told him that, and now he'd seen them and felt their loss along with her. It was a gouge in her soul. He couldn't imagine losing his parents, both of them at once, unexpectedly. And she didn't even have siblings to turn to.

Mikhail and Gregor will be your brothers now. You will never be alone again. And then there was that asshole. That enormous, Nordic prick. Her last man. Alex didn't know details, but he knew enough. This man had made her feel bad, made her doubt herself. He wanted to rip the bastard's head off, jam it down the bleeding stub of his neck, stuff his body in a dumpster and roll it into the Hudson. A few more feedings and I'll know where you live, Jeff.

Alex wished he was human, just so he could fall asleep with Helena, wake up and have breakfast with her. And after breakfast, he would spend the rest of his life making sure no one ever hurt her again.

The clock read 4:00. Dawn was closing in, but he could not bring himself to leave her warm bed. Instead he stroked her hair and listened to her heartbeat—three beats for every one of his—and imagined their lives weaving together. She was strong, and she had a lot of love in her. That he also knew. Maybe even enough love to take on a vampire.

That night he'd explain everything to her. It would be okay.

At five, he could no longer play it cool. Instead he was playing chicken. Sunrise was at 6:09.