Sinning in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 2)

My head lolls back. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

She snorts, realizing what she said. “Sorry. No, I’m not going to do that. I meant your blood. It’s not a good idea to invite supernatural predators into your house.”

Following her inside, I say, “Since there’s no such thing, I think I’ll be okay.”

“You’re lucky I’m not really a vampire, you’d be so dead.”

Gesturing to my weapons armoire, I tell her, “I keep my wooden stakes in there. I’d be all right.”

“You’d have to train a new waitress though. Can you imagine trying to replace me? It would be a nightmare. You could never enjoy dinner properly again.”

“She wouldn’t anticipate my needs. I would have to actually ask for drinks.” I shudder theatrically. “Unbearable.”

Virginia grins. “All right, let’s get you to bed. I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“You’re not going home,” I remind her.

“You’re going to pass out in three minutes flat. You consumed enough tonight alcohol to tranquilize a large horse.”

“I’m not going to make the obvious joke about my dick,” I tell her.

“Much appreciated,” she replies, following me up the stairs.

“What’s your favorite book?” I ask her.

“My favorite book? You’re really hung up on this bookstore thing, aren’t you? That’s probably the first real date you’ve been on in a long time, huh? That makes sense. You put in some effort and still lost. That must sting.”

“I did not ask for more psychoanalysis,” I point out. “I asked about your favorite book.”

“I have a lot of favorite books. I don’t see how I could pick just one,” she answers.

“What about music?”

“I don’t have a favorite band.”

“Favorite song?”

She shakes her head wordlessly.

I cock an eyebrow. “TV show?”

She smiles. “Nope.”

The little pain in the ass isn’t going to answer any of my damn questions. I’m too drunk to pursue it right now. I’ll find out eventually.

My bedroom door is open already. She hesitates outside, but I already see it coming, so I grab her arm and drag her inside.

She sighs like I’m murdering her. I have half a mind to tell her how many women would trade their left tit to have me this adamant they spend the night, but she already knows.

I’m frustrated for a moment, the goddamn alcohol clouding my senses as I kick off my shoes and try to figure out why she’s being a pain in the ass. Normally she accommodates me. Obviously she doesn’t want to be here, but she is. It takes me a minute to work through it. She stays close to the door like she’s preparing to run and watches me warily. This isn’t going to work. Gotta disarm her. Too much alcohol sloshing around to think clearly.

“Unbutton my shirt,” I tell her.

“Why?” she inquires, looking mildly horrified again.

“There’s two of every button. It’s gonna take me a minute and I’m going to look like a drunken asshole.”

Her horror gives way to mild amusement, but she finally walks closer, since I’m in need. “You are a drunken asshole,” she tells me. Her tone is pleasant, though, and her fingers are already popping the buttons through holes, so that’s okay.