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.
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 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.
To learn more, please visit http://www.maryhughesbooks.com/ or write firstname.lastname@example.org.