Page 73 of Good Vampires Go to Heaven

“Neither of those,” she said. “It’s only eight o’clock.”

“I have two more hours then.” He plopped back down, wanting to burrow back into that soft, peaceful sleep.

But she leaned over him. “You smell so good,” she said in a low, husky voice that every male recognized. Female arousal!

That thought caused an instantaneous reaction down below, and there was nothing halfway about it this time. He was wide awake now and tried to calm himself down as she continued to lean over him, enveloping him in her own spicy scent.

“Some men would take offense at being told they smell,” he told her. And couldn’t help himself from reaching up and stroking several loose strands of her hair behind her ear.

She arched her neck, like a cat being petted. In fact, she made a low, purr-like sound.

“What are you doing, Regina?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, nuzzling against him, her face now resting on his chest, and one knee raised over his thigh. “Something woke me up and told me to touch you.”

“The devil made you do it?” he teased.

“No, I think it was someone else.”

“What? God . . . or Michael . . . told you to put the moves on me?”

“I’m not putting the moves on you,” she said, even as she tucked a hand under his T-shirt and ran a fingertip over one of his many scars, this one running from his rib cage to his navel. “I’m just cuddling.”

To keep himself from rolling her over and taking her like a randy war horse, he made a silent count to ten in Old Hebrew, then Latin, then two different versions of Arabic. When he could finally speak above a squeak, and had pulled her hand out from under his shirt, he said, “Hah! Cuddling is just another word for foreplay.”

She was running a forefinger over his bare forearm now. Up, down, up, down. Then she asked with a coyness he didn’t know she had in her, “Does that mean you object?” And she made a quick pass over the bulge in his jeans. It might have been an accident. It probably wasn’t.

“Bloody hell, no!” He tugged her over so that she lay fully atop him, his hands resting on her butt. “Am I going to lose my chance to become a vangel if I do this?”

“We don’t have to do that. Besides, we have our clothes on.”

“Surely you’re not so naïve as to think sex can’t happen with clothes on.” Can anyone say “dry humping”? He decided not to share that crude expression with her.

“Well, clothes are a deterrent.” She sniffed at his neck.

Not much of one, at the moment. Damn, damn, damn! Her scent is killing me!

Her fangs were elongated, he noticed.

So were his.

He groaned, trying his best to resist her temptation. Forget counting to ten in various languages. He thought about Lucipire slime, Jasper’s fury, oatmeal, which he abhorred, rap music, prunes, bad wine, soap operas. Nothing worked.

“I have an idea,” Regina said then as she very slowly moved her hips from side to side over his crotch . . . his very happy crotch.

Beware of women with ideas! Or was that, welcome women with ideas! He never could get that straight.

“Trond always claimed to have invented something called ‘near sex’ that was allowed for vangels, or leastways not forbidden. Did he ever explain it to you?”

Did he ever! “He might have,” Zeb admitted.

“Show me,” she demanded.

Zeb was no fool.

Amazing what two people could do with their clothes on! . . .

Regina might be a witch, but it was Zeb who was casting a spell on her. It was either that, or she was losing her mind.