Full-figured librarian Chloe Banks has had a bad day - her fiance left her for her best friend, she lost her apartment, all her money has mysteriously disappeared, her boss won't stop dogging her, and to top it all off she's cornered by an angel-faced vampire in the rare books room. The vampire, Gabriel, is a little worse for wear after spending the last hundred years interred underground but now that he is free he needs blood and little help navigating the modern world. What he gets is a genre-savvy woman with a body that he can't keep his hands off of, and Chloe, despite nursing a broken heart, can't deny the primal attraction between them. Is she prepared to trust her body--and her life--to a vampire, if only for a night?
Dead Man's Curves is a 19,500 word erotic romance novelette for readers who like a little blood, a little revenge, and a secretly chivalrous vampire who lusts for lush, full curves.
Long, possessive fingers slid down over one large breast, cupping it gently, his thumb finding a nipple through her clothes. She wore a gray v-neck sweater over a smart white blouse, but his touch was so potent it she would have sworn she could feel every ridge of his fingerprint on her flesh. Blood rushed to follow his touch, and Chloe fought to keep her eyes from closing as he lifted her breast up, pushing a soft swell of cleavage past the edge of her blouse.
“A meal fit for a king,” the vampire murmured.
Then he lowered his head and bit her breast, like Adam taking his first bite of the apples of Eden.
Pain flashed through her, as sharp as the stinging stab of a needle, and her breath caught—
—and then she was floating.
Sweet numbness spread through her veins, radiating out from the point of contact of the vampire's lips. The breath gusting from his nose was cool, but the inside of his mouth burned like a pyre. He swirled his tongue over the wounds he had made in her flesh before probing them in order to coax more blood from her body. A lance of pain speared through her heart, but it was far away, happening to someone else. The sudden desire and heady, flying euphoria, however—those were very immediate. Those were happening to her.
His head, bent to her breast, hovered close to her mouth and nose, and she could smell his hair as flyaway strands brushed over her lips. Faint scents teased her, of dried rose petals and old patchouli, vetiver and cloves, but under those flavors, welling up and threatening to overwhelm them, was the rich loamy smell of wet earth. The smell of a grave, she thought faintly, but then thought became impossible as he began to move insistently against her, his hips picking up a primal rhythm, though all the while his mouth drained her dry.
Flames licked up and down her body. Wherever he touched her, she threatened to ignite. His cock now pressed into her hip, as hot as a sword fresh from the blacksmith's forge, and one hard, sinuous thigh had snaked its way between her legs, propping her up and rubbing against her aching pussy. Her hips thrust of their own accord, grinding her clit into his leg. She wore a straight tweed skirt and tights, and the rough texture of decaying fabric scratched over the tender flesh of her inner thighs...
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