Chapter 3
Mon soleil. He slipped up only once, but I swear on my designer handbag my ears didn’t deceive me.
The words bounce around in my head as I stand under the scalding shower water. “Mmm… At least the big, grumpy bull has an endless supply of hot water.”
Wracking my brain, I try to remember some of the remedial French I studied at one of the many boarding schools I attended as a child. After more than eighty years, I’m a little rusty, but I’m fairly certain it’s a term of endearment.
My sunshine. My light.
Why would he call me something so romantic and sweet, only to turn around and be an utterly giant asshole?
“Hmph. Men. They’re only good for one thing.” Turning off the water, I draw back the shower curtain and grab a clean towel. Here I thought I was in for a night of hot sex with a rugged minotaur.
If his grouchy demeanor is any indicator, it’s more likely I’ll be going to bed early and beating it out of here at the first rays of sun—if my car isn’t buried by a mountain of snow.
Before my shower, I sent Viktor a text so he knew I was safe and snowed in with his grumpy neighbor.
There was minimal berating when I reminded him that, at the ripe age of one hundred years old, I’m a big girl and can, in fact, take care of myself.
Even though we’re twins, he’s somehow the only one who inherited the worry-wart gene from our mother.
I roll my eyes, swiping the towel over the beaded water on my arms.
Once I’m dry, I slip on the knit sweater Jean-Luc supplied. Even at six feet tall, it hangs down to my knees.
Similarly, the sweatpants have to be rolled at the ankles, and I cinch the tie around my waist as tight as I can. If it were up to me, I’d go sans pants, but something tells me the grumpy bull wouldn’t appreciate my long legs being on display.
Or maybe he would.
An evil smirk curls the corners of my lips, and I whip off the sweatpants, chucking them in the small laundry hamper behind the door.
To torture him further, I drape my soaked dress, bra, and thong over the shower curtain rod. So they can dry, of course.
After a quick glance in the mirror and a zhuzh of my hair, I’m ready to turn this evening around. I grab my purse off the counter and open the door.
Steam billows after me when I emerge from the bathroom. From his spot in the kitchen, Jean-Luc’s head snaps up, and his nostrils flare wide.
Assessing and icy, his eyes caress my exposed legs as I cross the room. Goosebumps cascade across my skin, and I shiver. Not from the cold, but from the absolute inferno blazing in his ocean-blue gaze.
Do I add a little extra sway to my hips? You bet I do. Can’t blame a girl for working her assets.
My head swings around the small cottage. It’s rustic and charming. Pine panels line the walls. Flames flicker inside a large stone hearth located opposite the front door. An oversized couch and chair face the fireplace, dividing the open space from the kitchen and dining area.
Wooden beams along the peaked ceiling draw my eyes back toward the kitchen, where the glowering minotaur stands behind a butcher block-topped island.
Worn white cabinets line the wall behind him, along with the refrigerator and oven.
It’s not much compared to my luxurious brownstone in the city, but it’s cozy and inviting. A place I wouldn’t mind spending my time under different circumstances.
Snow careens through the darkened sky outside the row of windows along the back of the cottage. Clutching my purse in my hands, I settle onto one of the stools at the island. “So… it’s Christmas Eve.”
“Oui.”
Quite the conversationalist. I resist an eye roll. “Where’s your Christmas tree?”
He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. I lick my lips, eyes glued to the massive biceps that stretch the fabric of his shirt to within an inch of its life.
Mmm… I bet you could bounce a quarter off his huge pec muscles, too.
And a thick tuft of dark-brown fur spills over the neckline of his flannel shirt, making him even more ruggedly sexy.
“Don’t have one.” The rough clip of his voice stops my eye-fucking, and my mouth drops open.
“But it’s Christmas. Everyone needs a tree—”
His broad shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Just me out here, ma chère. Don’t need one.”
“Even a curmudgeon like you could use a little Christmas cheer.”
His upper lip twitches, like he’s fighting a smile, the movement barely noticeable. But I notice.
“Did you just call me a curmudgeon?” Thick eyebrows drop low over his eyes, creasing in the middle.
I shrug. “If the shoe fits. So if you don’t have a tree, what do you—” Before I can finish my question, my stomach twists into a knot. A knife slices through my abdomen, making me groan and double over. Shaky fingers clutch the soft knit sweater over my belly. “W-What time is it?”
Jean-Luc turns toward the stove. “6:42.”
“Shit.” Setting my purse on the counter, I unzip it and stick my hand inside.
But my clammy, trembling fingers are too clumsy to find what I need.
“Come on. Where is it?” In a haze of irritation and hunger, I dump the bag upside-down, and the contents spill onto the pitted and scratched wood in front of me.
As soon as I spot the familiar red single-serve packet, my racing heart slows.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe? What are you looking for?”
I wrap my fingers around the packet, lifting it up, only to have my stomach plummet—and cramp—when I see the torn end. “We might have a slight problem.” I wince, swallowing down bile and peeking through my lashes at Jean-Luc.
He snarls. Honest to god, curls his lip and snarls like a wild animal. “Osti! What now? You’re a walking problem!”
Blotting out the burning hunger for a moment, anger vibrates my hand, shaking the empty blood packet clutched in my fingers as I shoot to my feet.
“I am not! You’re just an inconsiderate asshole!
” Jaw grinding, I spit the words through clenched teeth.
Plopping back on the stool, I blow out a breath and open my hand.
His eyes drop to the crumpled packet. “And this problem affects you, too, big guy.”
Thick fingers pluck the foil wrapper from my outstretched palm. His brow furrows. “Crimson Destroyer.” The way the words dance off his tongue with his heavy French accent makes them sound lyrical. Beautiful.
When, in fact, it’s a gym bro supplement Viktor found. The taste is the most authentic to real blood when mixed in the proper liquids. Milk is best.
Crystalline eyes rise to meet mine, a question lingering there.
“It’s a synthetic blood supplement. I thought I had a few more packets in here for emergency situations”—I wave my hands around wildly—“like this. But I guess I ran out.”
“You guess?”
“Yeah, so sue me.”
His nostrils flare, jaw tightening. “So what happens without it?”
I clutch my hands together in my lap, and my eyes fall to the countertop. “I have an unusually fast metabolism for a vampire. If I don’t feed every twelve hours or so, things get… bad.”
“Bad. What does this mean?”
Unable to meet his gaze, I whisper, “Bloodlust. I could kill you.”
“Merde. That is a problem.” He rubs his chin. “And you, what? Want to feed on me?”
“Do you see another option?” Finally lifting, my head swings around the small cottage.
A sound rumbles deep in his chest, like a jungle cat preparing to pounce. It zips straight to my clit before another stab to my gut has me hoping I don’t vomit. “Brat.”
Guilt joins the party, churning my stomach. Just because I’m hangry, that doesn’t give me an excuse to be rude when he’s opened his home to me. “I’m sorry for calling you an asshole. I get a little irritable when I’m hungry.”
Jean-Luc nods. A gusted exhale leaves his full lips, and he scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for being harsh, too. You can feed on me.” His tone is reluctant, and tension radiates between us, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “How do we do this?”
“Umm.” I spin on the stool and point to the large couch in the living room. “There. S-So we’re comfortable.”
Crossing the room, Jean-Luc settles on the couch. The springs groan under his massive body. Over his shoulder, he clips, “You coming?”
My feet blur across the hardwood, and I sit next to him right as a violent cramp hits my stomach. I groan and massage my abdomen over the thick sweater. “A-Are you sure about this? You don’t seem to like me. Why would you let me feed on you?”
“Like you said, this becomes my problem if you try to kill me. I’d rather give up a little blood now than worry about you losing control and draining me dry later.”
Touché. Before another wave of burning nausea hits me, I twist so I’m on my knees, facing him. “Can you take off your shirt?”
Jean-Luc’s eyebrows rise.
Clarifying, I add, “So I can find a good spot to feed. You’re kind of… hairy.” Tufts of fur burst from the neck of his shirt, and I’m not sure if his whole body is covered in the same way or if there are open patches of skin.
Skin would be preferable so I don’t end up with a mouth full of hair.
“Fine.” With a grunt, he unbuttons the flannel and shrugs it from his shoulders before draping it on the back of the couch.
Holy balls! My eyes widen. He’s gorgeous.
Thick pecs lined with a dusting of dark-brown fur that’s speckled with hints of gray draw my eyes.
Two gold bars gleam in the dim light of the cottage, bisecting each nipple.
My tongue drags across my lower lip, wishing it was the cool metal of his piercings instead. So fucking hot.
Boulder shoulders lead to biceps that are as big as my head.
I’m a tall girl, and at six feet, I’ve been taller than most of my past partners. Which is fine. But next to Jean-Luc, I feel almost tiny. And I think I like it.
“Did you find a good spot?”
His words stop my drooling, and I focus on the velvety soft skin as I run my fingers over his chest. Warm to the touch, his skin is a dark brown that matches the color of his fur.
Concentrated on his chest, the fur narrows into a thin trail over his thick belly. That might be my favorite part of him. Jean-Luc may have sculpted, powerful muscles in his chest and arms, but his belly is soft, hanging over the buckle of his belt a little.
The perfect pillow to rest my head after a long day.
“Vanessa.”
“Hmmm.” My fingers weave into the short silken strands on his chest.
A hand cups my cheek, directing my eyes up to his as he speaks. “A spot. Did you find a good spot to feed?”
Heat flames a path across my face. I’m not one to get flustered easily, but something about this minotaur knocks me off balance. “Oh. Y-Yeah.” Tapping a finger over the skin on his collarbone, I say, “Right here will work. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice is raspy and low, like he’s just as affected by whatever magnetism is buzzing in the air.
There’s obviously an attraction between us, and he’s fighting it for some reason. Another churning wave in my gut clears any coherent thoughts from my mind. Fuck this weird chemistry. I need to feed.
Swinging my leg over his thigh, I straddle the thick muscle and brace my hands on his chest.
If he’s startled by my sudden movement or the proximity of our bodies, he hides it well.
Eyes pinging between his, a burst of clarity hits me, and I say, “There’s something you should know first. A vampire’s bite is an extremely powerful aphrodisiac. And it usually happens during a sexual encounter.”
His throat muscles ripple with a swallow. “Okay?”
“So you might come when I bite you.”
Sending vibrations through my body, his chest rumbles with a deep, almost possessive sound.
“And I might come, too.”
One big hand lands on my hip, the fingers digging into my skin in a bruising grip. “How soon until bloodlust sets in?”
“Like I said earlier, my metabolism is faster than most vampires, which is why I feed so often.” I shrug. “I’d say within a few hours.”
Carding his fingers into my damp hair, he leads my mouth to his flesh. A whiff of sweetness hits my nostrils. The ache in my fangs becomes unbearable, and saliva pools in my mouth.
“Then you feed, mon soleil. Until you’re no longer thirsty.”
Fuck, that nickname again. The way his tongue glides over the words has my pussy fluttering. Sunshine.
His sunshine.