Her Mad Hatter (18 page)

So good. If this was a dream, death, she didn’t care. She never wanted to wake up.

“Hatter, I was sick.”

“Gods,” he sobbed and kissed her cheeks, her throat. “Gods, Alice.”

She gripped his face, forced him to pause and look at her. He needed to know. “I didn’t come back because of that. I almost died, but I came back for you. None of this matters if you don’t believe that.”

His eyes closed and he gently planted a kiss on her mouth, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, and she knew he believed her. Alice’s heart thrilled.

There were no playful teases, no petting or sweet nothings whispered. This was primal need. He pushed into her liquid heat and her body was so primed, so ready the moment he slipped in fully she felt the quickening thrum of an orgasm. Her blood resonated, it moved through her like crystal song.

He was kissing her neck, his hands grasping her breasts.

“Love you, so much,” he muttered, taking her tongue, dueling with it. “Don’t ever leave me. Sorry I’m such an ass. Sorry I didn’t tell you why. Sorry for so much.”

She shook her head, feeling dizzy and lightheaded from the overwhelming sensation of him. He slid in and out, her legs tightened. She was close, her thighs started to shake.

“Never leave,” she mumbled. “Love you, so much too.”

Then they were there, he tipped his head back and roared. His hot seed came in torrents, flooding her body. His touch, his soul, it was hers. All hers.

He was her Mad Hatter and Alice was finally home.

Sneak Peek at GERARD’S BEAUTY

Book Two in the Kingdom series:

“Bad boys need love too…”

Betty Hart has had it with men. Jilted in love, her life now consists of shelving books by day, watching too much Anime by night, and occasionally larping on the weekends with her fellow ‘Bleeding Heart Rebel’ nerds. Men are not welcome and very much unwanted. Especially the sexy Frenchman who saunters into her library reeking of alcohol and looking like he went one too many rounds in the ring.

Gerard Caron is in trouble. Again. Caught with his pants down (literally) he’s forced to seek asylum on Earth while his fairy godmother tries to keep Prince Charming from going all ‘Off with his head’. Maybe, messing around with the King’s daughter hadn’t been such a great idea after all, not that Gerard knew the silly redhead was a princess. But his fairy godmother knows the only way to save his life is to finally pair Gerard with his perfect mate, whether he’s willing or not.

From the moment Gerard lays eyes on the nerdy librarian he knows he must have her, but Betty is unlike any woman he’s ever known. He thought Betty would come as willingly to his bed as every other woman before her, but she is a woman who demands respect and even… horror of all horrors… love. Is it possible for a self-proclaimed Casanova to change his ways?

Available Now!

Sneak Peek at The Witching Hour

Grim Reaper Saga - Coming September 2012

Chapter 1

The haunting, eerily lyrical strain of Type-O Negative filled the alleyway like a siren’s wail. Beckoning. Unrelenting. Deathly.

Undetectable to all mortal and immortal alike, Cian stood within the shadows of Club X. A popular club that catered to the interests of the supernatural’s. The outsiders. The vampires, werewolves, and witches.

Behind the club, the inky black of the San Francisco bay stretched for miles. City lights sparkled and danced over the obsidian water like will ‘o wisps.

He waited, scanning the milling faces. An electrical shiver of heat sizzled down his spine; his transformation had begun. He despised this part most, seeing the victims alive, happy and smiling. Centuries of watching death was like a poisonous cancer spreading through his soul, devouring him whole. He was tired, but still he trudged on. What else was there for someone like him? He existed in darkness, a creature born to night and madness.

Sounds of honking cabs, cable cars, and trotting horse drawn carriages warred with the knowledge that out there now lurked monsters of the worst sort. They were coming out to play, to feed, and to kill. The latter a trait he knew by heart.

The tenuous peace between the races today a far cry from the cold reality of earlier centuries. Then, there had been war. Any person thought to be outside the norm was either killed, maimed, or tortured. No questions asked. Ever.

But the veneer of civility between the groups was fragile at best. Infighting between the clan, coven, and pack continued to this day. Partially over turf wars, but mainly over a past so dark many feared history would repeat itself.

He lifted his hand, staring at the glove inscribed with runes of death and instantly he was transported to another time. A different era. Screaming horses, the sharp smell of crushed grass, and battle cries consumed him. It had been a massacre and all caused by the deception of the fae.

The
super’s
might not want to admit it, but once they’d revered the beauty of the fairy folk, admired their skill of magick and knowledge of the arcane. But now the fae were outcasts in a society full of them. The irony was not lost on him.

The musty odor of old blood and fur snapped him back to reality. A pack of Were’s threaded their way through the alleyway. Eyes roving the dark shadows. Top lips pulled back to reveal large incisors, gums exposed. Nostrils flaring as they tasted the scent of night, ever vigilant, aware, and wary.

More followed. The soft strike of shoes on wet pavement. Rustle and sweep of leather trench coats. The lethal, rapacious glide of vampires. Postures screaming of confidence and deadly grace.

Humans came too, at least those bold enough to brave the club’s nefarious clientele. Women mostly. Dressed to the nines in their short black dresses, long hair down, and garish
screw me
red lipstick standing out brighter than any neon sign. 

Thick smog slithered through the night like a python on the prowl.

Then the sharp clack of stilettos striking concrete drew his attention. He glanced at the source and instantly knew many things. The raven-haired woman was coven. Her power rippled like waves beneath the pale flesh of her skin.

She was not alone. Two other females--one blonde, one redhead—walked beside her. Their striking features—high cheekbones, strong round jaws, and full red lips—proclaimed them sisters. Walking beside them was a man. He towered the sisters by a good foot. Cian waited for the tell-tell pulse of magick that covered an supernatural like second skin, but it never came. The man was human. He moved with an easy, uncaring stride, every once in a while brushing his thigh or hand against the raven-haired witch.

A shock, like a burst of flame, ran down his arm and into his hand, turning him from man to monster. Fire traveled his veins, scorching him and making him grunt with the momentary flash of pain. He hissed and snatched off his glove. The transformation of smooth, tanned flesh turning to a skeletal hand of ivory would have frightened many.

He clenched his hand, studying the bones of his fingers. For an outsider to look at the transformation would almost seem surreal. Above the wrist he was man. Flesh and blood. But when the change overcame him--and it was time to harvest--the hand turned to a design of the macabre. The flesh, muscle, and tendon literally faded from sight.

Human depictions always had the Grim Reapers wearing the traditional black cowl with a sickle in their skeletal grip. In truth, Reapers were as normal as man. You could pass them on the street, commenting on their remarkable beauty, little knowing that beneath the white smile and ever-present glove lurked the killer of legend.

Cian tucked his hand into his pocket and glanced up. The human male walking alongside the sisters smiled and grabbed the raven-haired witch around the waist, pulling her close for a quick embrace.

Blood pounded through Cian’s veins. Quickened his pulse. He moved deeper into shadow the closer the group came to him. But his eyes remained riveted to the woman.

She laughed. A rich, lilting sound. Deep and throaty. Hot and sexy. Bewitching.

A tangled web of scents filled his head. The rotting stench of food, the strong, acrid odor of human waste, but amongst those and almost imperceptible, the gentle fragrance of patchouli and vanilla.

Hers. He closed his eyes, savoring the richness of it and realized with a small pang that she smelled of home. Reminding him of rolling hills, crystal clear waters, and smog-free air. He missed it. Needed it. The dark stain of humanity rolled like venom through his soul.

Clenching his jaw, he opened his eyes to see the man and two sisters enter the medieval doors of Club X. His dark witch stood poised, ready to step inside when she paused and glanced behind her shoulder.

Golden eyes met blue.

He sucked in a breath.
Can she see me?
His gut clenched. Waiting. Hoping. For what?

Then she blinked and walked away. Swallowed by the thick gloom of darkness.

He’d found them. The man and his dark witch. Grimfaced, Cian followed and brushed by the bouncer. The vampire’s one eye widened, the orb a rich mahogany in the pale face. He licked his canines and growled, “Whatever you be, keep to the code, creature.” The threat of malice hung in the air like the sharp tip of a blade poised for the kill.

Cian chuckled, amused by the taste of the vamps fear on his tongue. Predators always had a sixth sense when another, more powerful predator was around. An idea that settled like lead in the gut and instantly turned them feral, making them more dangerous for their unpredictability.

The vampire growled and fisted his hands tight to his side. A dark green vein in his lily-white neck pulsed like the angry beat of a heart. This was a dangerous time, as a predator he could show no weakness. In order to stave off a fight, Cian had to become the alpha, the more dominant and powerful of the two.

He pulled his hand from his pocket, exposing the skeletal appendage. The bouncer stiffened. Cian pointed his finger at the blond vampire. The penetrating chill of hoarfrost shot from his hand into the air, circling the vamps head. Death’s mark. The vampire sucked in a shaky breath as his crimson stained lips turned a pale shade of blue. A dark trickle of blood slid from his nose.