Undead and Undermined - By MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,32

bitch . . . if I’d tried white leggings my thighs would look like Christmas hams) and a sky blue turtleneck. She looked like a ski bunny. Who could kill you and eat you and hide the body where no one would ever, ever find it. “My queen! I’m so relieved you’re safe!”

Then, in an unprecedented act, she was shoved aside and skinned her nose on the pavement as Sinclair galloped joyfully toward me. He hugged me so hard he knocked me off my feet. I knew Tina, being solicitously helped off the pavement by Marc, would forgive her king’s unchivalrous action—she looked positively delighted to have scraped knees and palms and nose, which rapidly healed even as I stared.

“I’m happy to nnngggg—” I’ve mentioned I didn’t need much oxygen, right? And it was a good thing, too. Sinclair was busily smooshing my poor lungs into undead airless lumps in the center of my chest. “Ooooommmmgggggrrrrggglll . . . ack!”

“My love, my love, I am so grateful you are safe.” Sinclair said all this into my neck and I felt a sharp pain as he bit me.

That was rare—my husband was normally the epitome of control and only showed his teeth in the bedroom. Or to random rapists. (It was wrong that I liked being rapist bait and then my hubby and I both fed on said bait, right?) That uncontrolled bite told me everything I needed to know about his worry, and his love.

“Aw, come on,” I said.

“Never scare me like that again. Never never never.”

“You’re too lame and uptight to be a widower, though no worrieth.” Oh, dammit. The smell of my own blood, the heat of our excitement, had made my fangs pop, too. Stupid vampire lisp.

Sinclair laughed into my neck, a deep, joy-filled bellow. Then he was dragging me past Marc and Tina—

“Hey, guys, thanks for—”

“Whoops, there they go, off to compete yet again in the Sexual Olympics.” Marc shook his head. “New record.”

—and up the steps of the super RV, past Nick, who was waving at us from the wheel—

“—riding to my rescue—”

—past the gorgeous furniture and accessories, this thing was a mansion on eight wheels! Or twelve . . . How many did RVs have?

“—and picking me up!” I hollered before we were in the bedroom and Sinclair kicked the door closed. Which was fine with me. If you were wondering.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

You’d think we hadn’t had fast nasty sex earlier that day. Or the morning before—I had no idea what time it was, which day of the week it was, how long I’d been back from hell, how long it had been since I got run over on The Magnificent (ha!) Mile, what hideous terrible thing we had to avert, who was alive in this timeline, who was dead, and who we had to save, nor did I care.

My husband demonstrated his pleasure in our reunion by shredding my borrowed shirt, ripping my borrowed scrubs off, yanking his own shirt off, nearly strangling himself by removing his tie (who wears a tie on a rescue mission?), and though he managed to get his belt unbuckled and his fly down, he couldn’t quite manage to rid himself of his slacks before he fell on me.

Which was fine by me; I was the ultimate welcoming vessel. I practically had a “Help Yourself, Neighbor!” sign hung around my neck. Our mouths nearly slammed together, his teeth cut me, hurt me, and I didn’t give a ripe shit.

He seized my thighs and slung them apart, then surged forward and I felt his cock enter between my thighs and stop somewhere around my throat. Felt his mouth on my neck, nuzzling, not biting, and heard him, heard him murmuring into my throat, “Sorry, sorry, my own, my queen, oh forgive . . . oh . . . oh . . .”

He . . . he thought he was hurting me! Which he was. But, as above: I didn’t give a ripe shit. I loved it; I loved him. It didn’t matter what he did to me; I’d heal in minutes or even seconds. It was worth anything. It was worth anything to be with him.

I had to die to learn about love.

Dumbass.

(Love I love I love O Elizabeth I love I love . . .)

(Don’t stop. If you stop, I’m getting a divorce lawyer.)

(Love O I love O O O O O O O O O O O O O!)

I saw stars. Cliché, right? But they were streaming past