Free Dark Desire by Christine Feehan Page B

her head down toward his. Shea closed her eyes, wanting, yet dreading his taking her blood. "I'd hate to have to feed you every day," she muttered rebelliously.
    And then his mouth touched hers. Featherlight, a skimming brush Shea felt right down to her toes. His teeth scraped her lower lip, teasing, tempting, enticing.
    Darts of fire raced through her bloodstream. Her stomach muscles clenched. Open your mouth for me, stubborn little red hair. His teeth tugged; his tongue followed with a soothing caress. Shea gasped as much at the tender, teasing note as at the feel of his lips on hers. He took advantage immediately, fastening his mouth to hers, his tongue exploring every inch of her velvet-soft interior.
    Flames licked at her, swept through her like a storm. Electricity crackled, and Shea knew the full meaning of chemistry. Feeling. Pure and simple. There was nothing else but his mouth claiming hers, whirling her into another world she hadn't known existed. The ground shifted, and Shea clutched at his shoulders to keep from floating to the clouds. He was sweeping aside every resistance, demanding her response, taking her response, all hunger and desire. Then he was in her mind, white-hot heat, possession. She was his, only his, always his. Smug male satisfaction.
    Shea shoved at his broad shoulders, then tumbled backward to the floor, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. They glared at one another, until amusement crept into her mind. Low, male, taunting. Nothing showed on his face, not a flicker in the ice of his eyes, but she knew he was laughing at her.
    It took a moment to realize her robe was gaping open, giving him a generous view of her bare skin. With great dignity Shea dragged the lapels together. "I think we need to straighten something out here." Sitting on the floor, struggling desperately to get her breathing under control, to throw ice water on the raging fire in her blood, Shea was afraid he wasn't going to take her seriously. "I am your doctor. You are my patient. This…" She waved a hand, searching for the right words. "This sort of thing is unethical. And another thing. I am in charge here. You follow my orders, not the other way around. Absolutely never, under any circumstances, do that again." Involuntarily she touched her fingers to her lower lip. "It wouldn't have happened at all if you hadn't infected me with some sort of, I don't know, rabies strain." She glared at him.
    He simply watched her with his disconcertingly steady gaze. Shea inhaled, wrinkled her nose, desperate to change the subject to something safe. He was supposed to be half-dead. He should have been dead. No one should be able to kiss like that after the agony he had been through. She had never, ever responded to anyone the way she had to him. Never. It was shocking, the effect he had on her.
    There was a sudden glint in his eyes, somewhere between a flame dancing and amusement. No other man must ever make you respond to him. I would not be pleased.
    "Quit reading my mind!" Her cheeks flushed a bright red; she glared at him. "This is a totally improper conversation between a doctor and a patient."
    Perhaps, but not between us.
    She clenched her teeth, her green eyes smoldering. "Shut up," she said rudely, a little desperately. She had to find a way to get control back, and he wasn't cooperating. She took a deep, calming breath to restore her dignity. "You need a bath. And your hair could use a good wash." Shea stood up and gingerly touched his thick ebony hair, unaware that the gesture was curiously intimate. "You were number seven. I wonder if any of the others live. God, I hope not. I have no way to find them."
    As she turned, he caught her wrist. What is number seven?
    Shea sighed softly. "Those men, the ones who hunt me, had photographs of some of their victims murdered around seven years ago. Eight bodies were found, though likely there were more victims than anyone knew. People refer to them as the 'vampire' murders