In the Dead of Cold by Allie Quinn Page A

his teeth into her again.
    And as for his dick, well, he might have shot his wad all through her pussy, but it wasn’t satisfied either.
    Milo took another deep breath and swallowed hard as he forced his fangs back so that his teeth were normal again. Mesmerized, he watched as a single drop of blood slid down the soft velvet of Jane’s throat. With the touch of his tongue, he wiped it away, and the bite on her neck closed. Tasting the drop was a mistake, and he shook, fighting the desire. He closed his eyes for a long moment, thinking—hoping that if he didn’t look at her, he wouldn’t want more from her. It didn’t help. He turned away, but her sweet-woman scent called to him. He leaned aside and pressed his face into the mattress. He didn’t have to look at her to know the closed bite on her neck was now a faint mark, something that might be misconstrued as a birthmark by a mortal. Yet, it was his mark, given to her by her soul mate, and any other vampire would know it as such.
    Bart would recognize it.
    Given the chance, Bart might kill her when he saw it.
    Milo wondered for a brief moment if he no longer had to worry about Bart, if he—Milo—had already killed her. After all, she lay so still beneath him. Perhaps this had been the vision Jane saw, and Milo had brought it to pass.
    In her blood, he’d tasted energy, urgent need, delicious sweetness, and life, their life together. Its flavor was beyond anything he’d ever tasted. Having his dick inside her surpassed a mere fuck, great sex, and the beautiful act of making love. It was far ahead of any experience Milo had ever known.
    Their souls had touched, had danced, had shot to the stars and back.
    In tasting her, he’d recognized that she was his intended, his destiny, his soul mate, his wife reincarnated. She was the other half of his spirit. Her heart beat with his.
    It was why he’d dreamed of her. She was the other half of his whole.
    And it had been her kiss, the simple touch of her lips to his neck, something like the touch of butterfly wings, that had stopped him from drinking her dry. Bart was, indeed, right. Milo was cursed. If she’d kissed him as she had in so many of the dreams they’d shared, he’d be holding her lifeless body right now. He should get away from her—at the very least, put a few feet of space between the heat of her flesh and his. But he couldn’t move.
    He listened to the steady beat of her heart in unison with his. Why hadn’t he noticed the significance of that before now? Because he’d been plagued with too many other questions. He remembered the way Mr. M. had watched him with eyes filled with years of knowledge. Mr. M. must have known or at least suspected the hold Jane had on him, who she was to him. But Milo had had to learn it on his own.
    He should never have done this. He should get away from her now. He was, after all, as dangerous to her as Bart. He should have given her to Mr. M. and let Mr. M. take control back from Bart. Or James. James could have done it too. But Milo should never have tasted her, never felt her, never emptied himself into her.
    And he was lying to himself. He could never have let James or anyone else touch her. She belonged to him. Only him. And he would die to make certain it remained that way.
    At least she wasn’t dead in his arms. He hadn’t killed her, just exhausted her.
    She slept. And with good reason, after all the energy she’d expended, fighting Bart, moving beneath Milo, achieving climax after climax, not to mention her loss of blood. Tack all that on to what she’d experienced hours before behind the bookstore, and she probably needed a hospital.
    Hell, what was he thinking?
    I’ve saved her life. I’ve saved her from Bart.
    It was no excuse. He had taken from her just as Bart had planned.
    I’ve kept her from being Bart’s slave. Did that make him any better?
    Not in his eyes.
    She was his mate.
    Like wolves, vampires recognized mates with a kiss or a taste. Milo