Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(31)

“Teach me,” she said darkly, her lips parting, her hips rolling under his own. “Take me.”

Her hand moved between the two of them and found his erection, rubbing at it, making him moan.

“I am empty without you,” she said. “Fill me. Now.”

With an invitation like that, he didn’t give anything else a second thought. Fumbling around, he shoved his scrubs down his thighs and then. . .

“Oh, f*ck,” he groaned as his hard cock slipped up her slick core.

One shift over and he would be buried deep, but he forced himself not to breach her sex. He was going to kiss her first, and more to the point, he was going to do that right because . . . she’d never been kissed before—

Why did he know that?

Who the f*ck cared.

And her mouth wasn’t the only place he was going to go with his lips.

Pulling away a little, he ran his eyes down her long neck to her collarbone . . . and went even lower—or at least tried to.

Which was his first clue that something was off. Although he could see every detail of her strong, beautiful face and her long, braided black hair, the sight of her breasts was hazy and staying that way: No matter how much he frowned, there was no clarity coming. But whatever, she was perfect to him no matter what she looked like.

Perfect for him.

“Kiss me,” she breathed.

His hips jerked at the sound of her voice, and as his erection slid against the very heart of her, the friction made him groan. God, the feel of her pressed up tight to him, with the head of his cock having parted her and burrowed in, searching for that sweetest spot. . . .

“Healer,” she gritted as she arched back, her tongue coming out and dragging over her lower lip—

Fangs.

Those two white tips were fangs, and he froze: What was underneath him and ready for him was not human.

“Teach me . . . take me . . .”

Vampire.

He should have been shocked and terrified. But he wasn’t. If anything, what she was made him want inside her with a desperation that left him in a sweat. And there was something else . . . it made him want to mark her.

Whatever the hell that meant.

“Kiss me, healer . . . and don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he moaned. “I’m not ever going to stop.”

As he dipped his head to bring his lips to hers, his cock went off in an explosion, the orgasm shooting out of him and going all over her—

Manny came awake on a gasp that was loud enough to rouse the dead.

And oh, shit, he was coming hard, his hips grinding into the sofa as delicious, hazy memories of his virgin lover made him feel like her hands were all over his skin. Fucking A; even though the dream was clearly over, the orgasm kept coming until he had to lock his teeth and jack one of his knees up tight, the jerking pumps of his cock fisting the heavy muscles of his thighs and chest until he couldn’t breathe.

When it was all over, he sagged face-first into the cushions and did his best to grab for some oxygen, because he had a feeling round two was going to get its groove on soon. Tendrils of the dream tantalized him and made him want to go back into that moment that had not existed and yet felt as real as the consciousness he had now. Reaching into his memory banks, he tugged at the filaments of where he’d been, bringing the female back into—

The headache that plowed into his temples all but knocked him out—sure as hell, if he hadn’t already been horizontal, he would have landed on the damn floor.

“Fuuuuck . . .”

The pain was astounding, like someone had nailed him on the skull with a lead pipe, and it was a while before he had the strength to shove himself onto his back and try to sit up.

The first attempt at vertical didn’t go well. The second was successful only because he braced his arms on either side of his torso to keep from pulling a down-and-out again. As his head hung like a deflated balloon off his shoulders, he stared at the Oriental rug and waited until he felt like he could make a beeline for the bathroom and fire back some Motrin.

He’d had these headaches a lot. Right before Jane had died—

The thought of his former chief of trauma brought on a new wave of someone-please-shoot-me-between-the-eyeballs.

Breathing shallowly and purposely thinking of absolutely, positively, f*cking nothing somehow got him through the attack. When the agony had mostly passed, he lifted his head experimentally . . . just in case a minute change in altitude brought on another pounder.

The antique clock behind his desk read four sixteen.

Four a.m.? What in the hell had he done all night since leaving the horse-pital?

As he thought back, he remembered driving out of Queens after Glory had come around and his intention had been to go home. Clearly, that hadn’t happened. And he had no clue how long he’d been asleep in his office. Looking at his scrubs, there were drops of blood here and there . . . and his kicked-off Nikes were in the blue booties he always operated in. Apparently, he’d worked on a patient—

A fresh flare of pain burst into his mind, causing him to brace every muscle in his body and fight for control. Knowing that biofeedback was his only friend, he let all cognitive processes go lax as he breathed slowly and evenly.

Focusing on the clock, he watched the hands click to seventeen . . . then eighteen . . . then nineteen. . . .

Twenty minutes later, he was finally able to stand up and lurch over to his bathroom. Inside, the private room was Ali Baba gorgeous, with enough marble, crystal and brass to be castle-worthy—or in the case of tonight, make him curse at all the bright-brights.