Daylight - Book 1 (No Death for the Wicked) by Karli Rush Page B

dethrone my feet from the torture devices they call heels. He extends a well sized hand for me to shake. This is the moment when my dependable glamour would become most useful and I can try to substitute my needs with him. 
    “I'm Nixon, and you are?”
    I glide my hand into his and begin to use my tricks of the trade, pulling him intimately closer . I whisper, “Does it matter...?” My eyes clash into his sky-blues, transcending him from a man in control to a man transfixed, more than eager to accommodate. I try to block out Graham as my lips poise over, fangs aching to be present, body coiled so tight I'm ready to pounce.
    The scent of his stout cologne rattles my senses in all the wrong ways, his eyes dissolve before me and all I can smell and see is Graham. I can't do this. Remembering his hand grasping my own I shake it free, using what little tack I have left I tell him, “You're going back to the Cathedral and forget that I was even here.” His eyes still glued to me, he nods mirroring my vigorous nod and I bolt out of the car.
    As luck has it , I flash next to the river walk where I can easily leg it to the Hotel. Carrying my heels in hand as I walk gives me the time to get a fucking grip. I actually thought my hunger for blood would cure this throbbing, juvenile ache. I want him , I want Graham so bad that it hurts and I was willing to use somebody to kill this need inside me. Even if it only lasts an hour, or two, and hell better have some mercy because things will get a little messy with a horny vampire on the loose. 
    I unlock the door to my suite and chunk my shoes to the floor. I make a path straight for the shower, thinking, no hoping this ridiculous nagging, conjuring scenario will settle down. He's Death with a capital ‘D’ and I'm a vamp seriously lacking in sex. Stripping the dress off, I take the chance to study my face in the dual mirrors, inspecting my mending lip. That's the up-side to my immortal life, we heal fast. My outward appearance matches my inside frustration, I snag my toothbrush, foam up my mouth, brush, spit, and seize the shower before I decide to change my mind. Lathering the soap I brood over Graham, our dance, and the indescribable way he touched me. My mind flits through every stroke, every caress, and I look down to find I'm nothing but suds. AHHH! Damn you Reaper!
    I rinse off and pad my way to the bedroom in a pl ush cotton bathrobe. I jerk the duvet back and crawl into bed. For shits and grins and mainly to keep my sanity in check, I flip to the music channel on the forty-two inch flat-screen TV. Folding the sheet snugly around my chest, and listen to Placebo , a second passes and I grunt amused at the fuckin' frilly room I'm staying in. This bed is monstrous and I ponder about how many others have laid in this soppy romanticist bed. How many slept, how many had sex, how many wanted to be with someone and couldn't? 
    I fling the sheet off and kick until it's nothing but a white jumbled ball of mess at the edge of the bed. I plop one arm over my face and blow out a rush of aggravated air. My skin prickles with an unbearable restlessness and I'm growing more depressed. It's impossible to get him out of my mind. What if I use this to my own advantage? Just like Estella said even though the point may be moot, I can still use it to my advantage. It's not the first time I’ve fantasized about him in bed. I mean why fight it?
    I close my eyes and untie the belt on the robe, pulling it open , I guide my hand downward. Relaxing and allowing the music in the room to take me and my convoluted imagination far away. Both of my palms are flat as I graze them across my body, my motions are gentle at first as I use the tip of my fingers to tweak my nipple. Twisting and teasing it till its engorged and stiff, my natural response kicks in, my mouth parts as my fangs lengthen. I'm radiating off a heat that tells me I'll explode in less than a nanosecond if I don't slow it down.
    A heaviness