Demon Moon

gave him the half-hearted, quick glance so common from a woman alone at night.
    She stopped. Disbelief emanated from her psychic scent. Her pulse pounded, and she turned to him with her eyes wide. Silently, without expression, he let her stare; she’d make the decision now—to speak with him or not.
    “I know you,” she said.
    He was not surprised. Inevitably, this happened—he was too old for it not to, now and again. “When did you know me?”
    As if his soft question had been a command, her gaze unfocused. “Twenty-three years ago. I…dreamed of you. You came to me one night and I invited you up—” Her voice failed, and her cheeks filled with color. Blood, just under her skin. “It was a good dream.”
    He couldn’t keep the bitter smile from his lips. A night of extraordinary pleasure from a stranger, and he always became a drunken hallucination or a dream. Yet she remembered him better than most; he must have remained in her bed throughout the night instead of immediately forcing her to sleep.
    “And you’re still so beautiful.” A wistful note lilted in her voice, but she glanced down at her hands, not at Colin. His gaze followed hers. Age had not settled deeply on her fingers, but he could see the slight loosening of the skin, the veins more prominent than a young woman’s would have been. “Will you come up again?”
    He placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Yes.”
    Walking drew his attention to the stiffness of his cock. He’d not noted it over the bloodlust, but now it annoyed him—how vulgar it was for one’s prick to lead the way to dinner when its destination should be to bed. He loved the blood, he loved sex, but the mindless rutting that often accompanied the bloodlust could not even be considered fucking.
    Not that they were of a mind to complain once he began feeding.
    That did not mean, however, that he had to be an animal up to that moment. He’d have little choice if the bloodlust demanded the rut—and if she willed it. But until he lost that choice, he refused to devolve into barbarity or to rely upon the rapture for his pleasure and hers.
    He looked down at his companion as they stepped into the lift. A mirror screamed at him from inside the tiny cube; his focus narrowed to a swath of pink silk. “I pity the gentleman for whom you meant that astonishingly lovely dress. Did he see you in it before he cancelled? He must not have.”
    “No.” She blinked and shook her head as if to clear it. “How—?”
    Her skin shivered beneath his fingertips as they followed the U of her neckline from shoulder to the upper swell of her breast. “One does not cover beauty with drab.” Smiling, he tugged on the collar of her well-worn mackintosh. “This is the coat of a woman who has no fear that her lover will arrive early.” After a glance at her left hand, he amended, “Or her husband.”
    “Barely. We’re reconciling, but his standing me up tonight reminds me why we split.” Self-consciously, she checked her reflection—and didn’t notice Colin wasn’t there. The lift doors opened, and he pulled her quickly through.
    She hesitated in front of her flat. He took the keys from her, and once inside, there was no hesitation in her kiss. Colin kept his eyes open, surveyed the room. The edge of a mirror frame was visible in the hall; he’d not take her to the bedroom, then.
    It hardly mattered; the front door worked well enough. Her mouth moved beneath his—experienced, aroused, but not hungry for him.
    Savitri had been starving for his touch, her lips and tongue eagerly seeking his, her body a sweet weight, the scent and sound of her passion all the flavor he needed.
    Until the bloodlust.
    He edged the pink silk down over her breast, licked and suckled; she was lovely, but there was no flavor here, just the need to bite, to feed, to take the blood inside his mouth and fuck.
    I don’t want you tonight. Only your blood .
    But his hands lifted her against the door. He closed his eyes. Savi had wanted him. He’d not needed to pierce her shields to sense her desire. Ten minutes of seduction, and she would have willingly been his. One taste of rapture, and she’d not want to relinquish it. If he’d had her here, in the car, standing or lying…it would have been of her free will.
    Why the bloody fucking hell was he taking a substitute?
    Fear crashed through him—not his. He looked at her. She stood frozen, her body taut. Her lips trembled. Her eyes filled with