Then I sank my fangs into him.
His blood hit my tongue and it was like tasting fine bourbon—rich and warm and intoxicating. But there was something else beneath it. Something that was purely him. Something ancient and primal roared to life, flooding through me like liquid fire.
His blood pumped through me, making me grow stronger with every swallow. I gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, unable to stop. I didn’t want to stop.
A low groan rumbled from his chest, and I felt it vibrate against my lips.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with hunger—and not just for blood. His thumb traced along my jaw, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
Then he kissed me.
Soft at first. Testing. But when I parted my lips, something in him broke loose. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, and I arched into him with a moan I couldn’t hold back.
I’d dreamed of this. For two long years, I’d dreamed of this.
He stretched out on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and I wrapped my arms around him. My hands roamed over his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle shift beneath his shirt. I wanted it off. I wanted to feel his skin against mine.
Oh, God. Rocco.
He broke the kiss and trailed his lips down my throat, his breath hot against my skin. I squirmed beneath him, my fingersdigging into his shoulders. When his fangs scraped lightly over my pulse point, I gasped.
“Rocco...”
He slipped down one of the thin silk straps on my dress, his fingers cool against my flushed skin. When his lips touched my bare shoulder, goosebumps rippled across my collarbone. His mouth traced a delicate path down my neck, each kiss lingering longer than the last, until he reached the soft curve where my breast began. My hands trembled as I threaded them through his thick hair, feeling the warmth of his scalp against my fingertips. I’d dreamed of this moment in the quiet darkness of my bedroom, night after night.
Never thought this would happen, replacing all those lonely fantasies.
But then the dreaded phone rang.
The sound cut through me like ice water. Reality crashed back—the houseboat, the stolen shard, Angelo. I stiffened in Rocco’s arms, the warmth between us evaporating in an instant.
Rocco growled—a deep, feral sound—and reached for it on the nightstand. “What?”
I sighed miserably, cursing whoever was on the other end. My body was still humming, still aching for him. Two years of wanting this, and some asshole had to call now?
But then Rocco stiffened. The heat in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold. Something afraid.
“I have the shard, Angelo. I’m not stupid enough to betray you.” Every trace of color left his face and he rolled off me like I’d burned him.
Oh, crap.
I pulled up my strap, my hands shaking, suddenly feeling exposed. Rocco paced the small cabin, his jaw clenched, listening to Angelo. His free hand curled into a fist.
He gritted his teeth. “No, I didn’t sell it on the black market. Who fucking told you that?”
Ice spread through my chest. Someone was setting him up.
He rolled his eyes. “And you believe him? Steve Dupont’s fucking lying.”
Excuse me? Black market? Joy’s brother? Why would Steve tell Angelo that? What was going on?
I slid off the bed and headed toward what looked like a bathroom. My reflection in the mirror made me wince—Rocco’s blood smeared across my lips and chin, my hair a disaster, my dress wrinkled and askew. I was a freaking mess.
I quickly washed his blood off my face and dragged my fingers through my hair, trying to make myself look like something other than a woman who’d just been ravished on a houseboat.
He headed into what must have been the living room, still talking to Angelo.
“No, Angelo. It was here. Somebody stole it.”
