Bloodlust

He slid onto the bar stool beside her and flashed his most engaging grin, knowing the effect it had on women. Dazzling white teeth coupled with a tanned, handsome—but not too handsome—face, tall, muscular-but-lean body clothed in a perfectly-fitting Armani suit as black as sin. He was every woman’s dream.

She said, “Don’t get too close.”

He said, “Why…you don’t bite, do you?”

She sipped the drink he’d bought her. “I might.” Her cool, gray eyes met his over the rim of the glass, laughter dancing inside storm clouds. She licked salt from her full, red lips.

“And I just might like it.” He bent his head, and moved in close, letting her catch a hint of his expensive, musky aftershave.

She leaned away and their eyes made contact again. Swirls of darkness ebbed and flowed inside the gray. He’d never seen eyes like hers; they excited him even though no blood smeared her body.

She said, “There’s no might about it.”

Her lips parted in a smile that left him breathless. And he wanted her. Badly. He wanted to tangle his fingers in the mass of curly, blonde hair that fell almost to her waist. Wanted to bury his face in the cleavage of her tight, scarlet dress and breathe in her scent. Wanted to run his hands up her shapely thighs and rip off her panties. He wanted to do everything imaginable to her—but kill her. Not yet.

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