Murder at Chipmunk Lake
Nixie’s lost her mojo!
A Nixie and Julian Story. *Paranormal. Hot.*
Nixie Emerson, punk rock musician and first-time mom-to-be, has a stalker. Her band Guns and Polkas has gone national after their big stage debut, but the price of fame is the stalker trying to scare her into leaving the band.
Her husband, master vampire Julian, whisks Nixie away to the Wisconsin north woods–where they meet the stalker on the pier of their cabin and he again threatens Nixie.
Julian punches him out and the couple walks away thinking the problem is over. But when the next evening the stalker is found dead, they find out the trouble is only starting.
Warning: contains a cranky pregnant lady trying to control her swearing, a master vampire appeasing his wife with food and creative sex, murder, mayhem and several arguments over what to name the baby.
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Chipmunk-Biting-Short-Bites-ebook/dp/B00M8PLC2U/
The fang-plucking action had finally gotten through, and my husband Julian was up for a round of bed bingo.
But between pregnancy, the stalker, and dealing with my apex-predator hubby, I was both keyed up and too tired. “I want to, but…well.”
He smiled. “While I am always ready, willing and able, I actually didn’t mean sex. How about a massage?”
Every aching cell in my body jerked to attention. I blinked. “Foot rub?”
“And back rub and thigh rub, plus I’ll massage oil into your belly.”
I put my hand in his. “Baby Jayden would be grateful.”
“We’re not naming him Jayden.” He drew me to my feet then picked me up and glided with me into the bedroom. “What kind of name is Jayden? No history to it. Now John, or William, or Peter—”
“A potty, a willie and another willie? Uh-uh.”
He sighed as he laid me gently on the bed. “Open your jeans.”
“Don’t you want them off?”
“This is a non-threatening belly rub. But feet first.”
As I fumbled with the maternity jeans’ fastenings, he pulled off my shoes and socks, picked up the lotion, pumped a handful, and warmed it with a brisk rub of hands. Taking my foot, he worked the lotion into the ball.
I groaned. “I love you.”
“This is to make sure that you keep loving me.”
“This is to make sure I keep functioning.”
“That too.” He knuckled the sides of my foot, rubbed the heel, then massaged each individual toe, pulling more ecstatic groans from me.
I managed to get my pants open but my blood pressure was dropping by the minute and my fingers were lovely relaxed noodles. “That’s sooo wonderful. Don’t stop.”
“I value my life, so I wasn’t planning to.” He did the other foot then massaged up my calf.
My tension dropped a level with each circle of his warm, strong fingers.
So by the time he got his hands on my jeans-covered thighs, my fatigue was gone and my tension had turned to something warmer.
I wrestled to my elbows. “How about you help me off with these pants?
He continued to knead muscles, smiling slightly. “In a minute.”
That smile meant he’d expected my change of heart. I love it when he knows me better than I know myself. Being six-plus of jaw-dropping gorgeous doesn’t hurt. “How about now.”
“As you wish.” With one smooth tug he depantsed and depantied me, and with another, slid off both my smock top and bra.
“Dang, you’re good. Practice?”
“Motivation. My lovely wife.”
“And motivation to practice on my lovely wife.”
“Okay, you win.”
I spread my legs, expecting his agile tongue.
He surprised me by standing. “Let’s start with a warmup.” He unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes a heated blue on me, sizzling toward vampire violet. He exposed his hard muscles and bronzed skin inch by inch.
I squirmed. Yum. I quirked a couple fingers at him, a “come here” so I could palm those hard mounds, feel those acres of silken skin under my lips.
He only smiled.
“What are you doing? The band’s already warmed up. Get on the bed.”
“Not yet. There’s an opening act for the audience first.” He turned and shrugged the shirt off his shoulders. It made all sorts of lovely ripples across that broad, muscular expanse.
“Don’t need an opening act.” I panted it. “Ready for the main show.” I slid a hand between my thighs to prepare the stage. My fingers skidded on hot moisture. I was ready and then some.
He shot me a hot look over one shoulder, his fangs extending between his lips, his eyes shading toward red. “Not even this?” He spun front and unzipped his trousers, revealing the trail of black hair, leading from his dent of a navel to the top of Mr. Big Gavel which was expanding rapidly and trying to tear free.
“Oh. Okay.” My heart was pounding a Sousa march. “Loving the opening act.”
He turned away again but before I could protest he dropped trou, revealing roped, cuppable glutes. A pang of need hit me, so sharp I started rubbing myself, trying to relieve the worst of it.
“Hands off.” He growled it. “That’s my job.”
“How can you tell what I’m doing? You’re turned the wrong way. Speaking of, turn back so I can see.”
“I can hear you stroking. Stop it. I want you screaming for me. Stop it, or the show stops.”
I took my hand off myself so fast my arm flung onto the bed with a whump. “Stopped. Turn now. Wanna see.”
He stepped out of his pants and slowly turned. His jutting cock hove into view, bobbing as if it was nodding, happy to see me.
“Is this what you want?”
I nodded and licked swollen, throbbing lips.
He smiled with masculine satisfaction. “Now, what do you say?”
I reached for it, waving my hands in the air at him. “Gimme.”
“Not what I had in mind.” He stalked toward the bed, eyes glowing red, fangs straining. His chest rumbled with a vampire purr. “Try again.”
He laughed through his purr. “Good enough.” He climbed onto the bed between my legs.
As a girl, I spun romantic, happily-ever-after stories to get to sleep. A husband, two degrees, a blackbelt and a family later, I’m delighted to spin them for readers.
I’ve lived with love and loss, in bright times and dark, and learned we can all use a break from reality every now and then.
So join me for action, sparkling wit and red-hot love. Strong men. Stronger women.
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