Thunder and Lightning

Definitely not a doctor.

His black eyes landed on her hand and a dark eyebrow lifted.

Bev couldn’t help but smile at the awkward-looking bandage. “Couldn’t find the first-aid kit. Must be in one of the boxes I have yet to unpack.”

“Sure you don’t need to go to the hospital for stitches?”

“Oh no,” she was quick to say. “I wrapped it tight and the blood was already starting to clot. I really am a quick healer. Runs in the family.”

Okay, bring it down a notch. Sufficient enough explanation provided…

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” Cane said, still looking off kilter. Unsettled. He shifted abruptly on the heels of his black leather boots and sauntered off, leaving Bev in her kitchen as the ever-persistent clouds lingered outside and the thunder snapped.

The front door had barely closed when the distant crackle of lightning filled her ears, warning her of trouble to come.

Chapter Two

The scent wafting on the sultry evening breeze was now a disturbingly familiar one.

Her blood teased him, taunted him, tormented him. The rich aroma infiltrated his vampire senses and heightened his already too-intense arousal.

Made his cock strain against the zipper of his pants, demanding freedom. To drive deep and please.

Made his fangs threaten to protrude. To drive deep and drink.

A low snarl tore from Cane’s parted lips. Stalking the front portion of his wraparound veranda, his stride long and stealthy, he felt tortured to the core of his undead being.

He’d only spoken with his new neighbor once since she’d moved in, but that was enough. He already knew too much about the woman who’d bought the pristine Victorian beside his restored Colonial. Both homes edged the resuscitated Thomas Square Streetcar Historic District in downtown Savannah. Their side verandas faced each other, separated by a manicured courtyard carpeted with lush green grass and dotted by tall oak trees. Spanish moss dripped from the thick branches of the hundred-year-old trees, but neither provided an ample buffer from the haunting presence he could neither evade nor escape.

Cane had a perfect view of the Victorian rising up three stories beside him. Along with the tall French doors on the west side that were cracked open this evening, which he presumed led to her bedroom.

Another dark noise ripped from his mouth at the thought of Bevelyn Goitia. And her intoxicating blood.

Moonflower and amaryllis typically competed with each other as the prevailing alluring scent this time of year. But not since she’d arrived. Her blood—her very essence—seemed to be all he inhaled these days.

He’d learned she was a corporate headhunter who’d been wooed by an international firm, lured to Savannah with a promotion and a large corner office with a bay view. She’d bought the house next to his. Was redecorating it at night.

Those particulars, which he’d easily gleaned this past week, were inconsequential to him. What resonated within Cane was the hypnotic scent of her blood, hopelessly trapped in his nostrils following the knife-cut incident three days earlier. Not to mention her equally intoxicating beauty. Her shimmering, pale green eyes. Her thick, lush-looking, dark auburn hair. Her artistically sculpted face that showcased high cheekbones and full, plump, ruby-red lips.

Lips he could practically feel pressed to his. Lips he could easily imagine gliding over his skin, wrapping around his cock, pleasuring him until he was wild with desire and need.

And her body… Holy hell. To have it beneath his. Or on top of him…

Those lush curves were designed to star in the darkest, most erotic fantasies.

He should know. Wicked thoughts of her looped in his mind practically every waking second. And what he’d done to her as she’d haunted his dreams, morning after morning this past week, was nothing short of pure, unadulterated sin.

He’d plunged deep, taking her every way imaginable, making her scream and beg for more.

Leaving him desperate to oblige in reality.

But damn it! She was human.

Cane scowled as he turned sharply on his booted heels and paced in the opposite direction. How was it possible, after two-hundred-and-twenty-seven years of immortal existence—and after all the painful lessons he’d learned along the way—that a human could stir his senses in such an overwhelming, unrelenting way?

Elicit a riot of groin-straining sensations that made him half out of his mind with wanting her?

She was a mortal, for Christ’s sake.