Hotter Than Hell

“I will never lie to you, Claire.”

She shivered to the bone. Those were important words, and he spoke them as if they were truth. Of course, she wasn’t sure any man was capable of never lying. Still, the expression in his eyes was one of honesty as well as passion. Maybe she was a fool, but she believed him.

Yesterday she’d been stalking him down the hallway, convinced he was a vampire. Tonight he was in her bed, and she didn’t care what he was.

He understood that she liked his attentions at her neck, and while he didn’t neglect the rest of her body he spent many wonderful minutes there. Claire touched the hard curves and planes of his body, and discovered he was particularly sensitive just below the belly button, especially if she touched him there with the tip of her tongue. As she had suspected, there was no awkwardness, no hesitation.

Her curtains were open, so moonlight lit Simon’s face as he spread her thighs and guided himself into her. Making love with him was like dancing with a lifelong partner, like waltzing without conscious thought—and maybe an inch or two above the dance floor. She didn’t think at all with him inside her, not about vampires, not about being odd or boring, not about mirrors or crosses or garlic. There was just his body and hers and the way they came together.

It did cross her mind once, briefly, that the water on the stove was probably boiling by now, but it was a thought that did not last long.

Simon looked at her face, he held her eyes with his as he rocked above and inside her, pushing deeper and deeper with each thrust. The way he looked at her…he saw her, in a way no one else ever had. He knew her. He wanted her.

He held himself deep, and for a half second it seemed that his dark eyes were touched with streaks of red. Flashes of fire lit the depths. Claire came again, and with Simon inside her it was more powerful than before, more important. Her body convulsed around his, and he came, too. They were so incredibly co

And to top it all off, like the cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae, he drifted down and kissed her neck.

Claire’s job was undeniably tedious, and on Wednesday her mind was elsewhere as she mindlessly entered data into her computer. She yawned a time or two, and fielded the questions from her coworkers who were sequestered in nearby cubicles. Do you feel OK? Are you coming down with something? You look like you didn’t get enough sleep last night, what happened? You’re a little pale, someone said.

She finally decided to tell them that a noisy neighbor had kept her up half the night. That was close enough, though in truth she was much noisier than Simon.

Maybe if she’d felt closer to any one of them she might’ve said more, but while they were friendly coworkers they weren’t exactly friends. Most of her good friends were now married and had kids, so she didn’t see any of them on a regular basis, not like in the old days. Oh, they got together and had lunch now and then, but the talk always turned to potty training and which kid had learned the alphabet at the earliest age and which schools in the area were the most acceptable. There were occasional weekend barbecues or infrequent and horrific blind dates that made conversations about three-year-olds seem scintillating. No, her friends had changed, and so had she. Claire didn’t feel like she could call even them to share what had happened.

Besides, what had happened with Simon last night had felt so very, very personal. More intimate than sex, more important than the laughing and the touching and the orgasms.

This morning was still a blur. Simon had given her a fabulous kiss that had led to more, and then he’d gone home—a conveniently short trip. Claire had been left with no time to get ready for work. She’d showered quickly and grabbed clothes from her closet. The long blue skirt and blouse were comfortable. If the blues didn’t exactly match and she’d forgotten to put in earrings, well, if anyone noticed the lack was excused since she hadn’t gotten much sleep.

She never had gotten around to putting on those sexy shoes that made her legs look good. Maybe tonight—if there was a tonight.

More than once during the day she’d remembered that moment when it had seemed she saw fire in Simon’s eyes. She hadn’t been herself at the time, and there was a red neon light across the street. Maybe his head had been in just the right position at that moment to catch a glare. That had to be it.

There were logical explanations for all the clues that had led her to believe he was a vampire. The dirt might’ve come from a potted plant, even though he didn’t have any living plants—or fake ones, for that matter—in his apartment. The howl might’ve been an overly excited Fluffy or—considering some of the sounds she’d made last night—a very happy woman somewhere on the third floor. The hypnotizing eyes…Simon just had great eyes, and that was enough of an explanation to suit her.

So she didn’t tell anyone that she’d suspected her neighbor of being a vampire, or that she’d decided she was wrong and last night they’d eaten spaghetti in her kitchen—both of them starving from marvelously vigorous and unrestrained sex—she wearing nothing but her bathrobe, he in nothing but those incredibly sexy black jeans. She didn’t tell them that for the first time in a very long time, she was happy. Tired, but happy.

Happy as she was, she tried not to get her hopes too high. She’d been burned before, after all. A man who wanted a woman in bed might say or do anything to get her there, and then…then there were phone calls that never came, an old girlfriend who just happened to make an appearance, or that horrible “It’s not you, it’s me.” For all she knew she’d get home and find out that her neighbor had moved during the day just to get away from her, or else he had a wife who’d show up out of nowhere, or else—worst of all—he’d ignore her and pretend that nothing had happened.

Claire was thinking about Simon so intently her fingers quit moving across the keyboard. She simply stared at the screen, imagining the worst. The worst, at this moment, had nothing to do with vampires.

She jumped when the phone on her desk rang, and answered it quickly with a too-curt, “Claire Murphy.”

“Hello, Claire Murphy.”

She smiled. No one else had a voice like that. No one else could make her shudder simply by saying her name. “Hi, Simon.”

“What are you doing?”

“Working.” Trying to, anyway. Her heart lurched. “How did you get this number?”

“I asked the building manager where you worked, and then I used all my detective skills to thumb through a phone book.”

Would he go to so much trouble just to inform her over the phone that it wasn’t going to work? That he was already tired of her? That he was married?

“What time do you get off work?” he asked, and when he did the co

“Four-thirty.”

“That’s too long. Ever leave work early?”

“Sometimes.”

“Leave now,” he said, his voice low and commanding and sexy as hell. “Right now.”

Claire’s heart fluttered. “I really shouldn’t…”

“To hell with shouldn’t. I need you.”

Her mouth went dry, while between her legs she was anything but. “I suppose I can take half a sick day.”

“Do it.”

With that, he ended the call. No “See you later,” no “Bye, now,” No “I can’t wait.” Just a command and a click and a dial tone.

Claire closed down her computer program and picked up her purse. Her hands were trembling, and she couldn’t wait to get home. Usually on pretty days she walked home, but maybe today she’d grab a taxi. She informed her boss that she was going home, and since she’d been yawning and droopy-eyed all day he didn’t give her the third degree. In fact, he told her that she looked a little flushed and should stay home until she was sure she didn’t have anything contagious.