Sex and the Single Vamp by Robin Covington Page A

assumed she was alternately worried, panicked, and afraid but right now the overwhelming emotion emanating from her was fury. She was angry. White-hot balls of pissed off flashed in her eyes.
    It had been a long damn night.
    He slowly lowered her to the ground, hungrily taking in her reaction as she took a long look around.
    “Follow me,” Deacon said, his voice low and dark in the silence of the apartment. When she hesitated, he blew out a long breath. “Please.”
    She followed him, curiosity or fatigue compelling her forward. Either one was a possibility. She probably just wanted a bed where she could collapse for the next three days. She wouldn’t be happy to find out the only bed was his. You didn’t need a guest room when you discouraged guests. He had no family who would stay for the holiday, and if his friends needed to crash, the couch was good enough.
    He took her to his bedroom. The large, looming monolith of a bed sat almost in the middle of the room and was covered in bedding the color of dark chocolate. Behind it, the DC skyline shone stark and lovely against the pinking sky of dawn. He couldn’t stop the vision that flashed in his mind: Cici spread out on that bed, open to him, clasping him inside her as they ignored the world roiling below. And now he knew the little sounds of pleasure she made in the back of her throat when he touched her.
    After what he’d spilled tonight, the dream of her in his bed, under him, over him was never going to happen again. He’d admitted to killing the man she loved enough to agree to marry, even if Daniel had been a monster. Murder of the rival was usually a huge sex buzzkill. Dead, bigoted asshole: 1; Deacon: 0.
    And then he’d told her to close the doors of Your Other Half, her baby. Her passion. It hadn’t been fun to take that from her, but he had been serious when he’d told her he didn’t care about her business. Cici alive was all that mattered.
    She still didn’t know the big lie lurking in the corner. She didn’t know he was her Maker. When she found out, he’d be lucky if she didn’t kill him.
    Deacon walked through the room, turning on lights, which illuminated the master bathroom. Glass tilework in a variety of bronze, dark brown, and cream covered the walls of a large dual-head shower and blended in with the decorator’s idea of perfection with the high-end fixtures and cabinets. He headed straight for the bathtub—a huge slab of stone carved into a tub with jets positioned around the perimeter—turned on the water, and fished around in a basket placed on the edge.
    “What are you doing?” Cici asked, her voice tight.
    “Running you a bath. I figured you’d want to soak.” He held out two bottles of bath salts for her to view. “I don’t know which one to put in. Marguerite bought these for me when I called her earlier.”
    “Who’s Marguerite?” Cici pointed to one of the bottles, but she didn’t come any closer. Still skittish. Still mad. Good, it was probably best if they gave each other lots of space tonight. Too many thoughts clashing in his mind. The past. The present. Murder. Lust.
    “She takes care of things at the office and here.” He poured the contents of the bottle into the churning, steamy water, the scent of something spicy but sweet rising into the air. “I’m not great with the everyday living details thing.”
    He let the silence fall between them as the tub filled, turning off the water when it hit the right level. He stood; his skin itched for him to get the hell out of there. He needed space. He needed to get some control over his emotions, his body.
    “Water’s ready. Towels over in that basket. Stay as long as you want—the heater will maintain the temperature.”
    Cici brushed past him, his body tingling where she touched him. He was hyper aware of her movements behind him, jerking slightly at the thump her high heels made when they hit the tile floor, groaning with the hiss of her minidress slithering