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Matty concentrated on breathing through her nose as Turner held her head and gently fucked her mouth, sliding deeper with every thrust. When the tip of his cock hit the back of her throat he let out a strangled moan. Matty swallowed hard against his shaft and he moaned louder. She was desperate to rub her clit but her palms were glued to Turner’s butt. He moved one hand to her neck and stroked her there with his thumb and Matty realized he was feeling himself move in her throat.

“Oh God,” he groaned.

His cock grew in her mouth, went hotter and then his body shuddered against her. Thick pulses of cum splashed against her throat, but most spilled from her lips. Turner pulled out, let her go and stood, trembling, in front of her. She wiped her mouth with her hand and couldn’t look up.

That was so good.

That was so bad.

What had she been thinking?

He’ll think I’m a slut.

I am a slut.

She’d just yanked his pants down and sucked him off without even a second thought. He had to be disgusted. Well, satisfied
and
disgusted.

Say something. Touch me. Hold me. Please don’t walk out.

That was singularly the most incredible thing Turner had experienced in—
Oh God, I have no idea.
Not that sinking his cock into Matty’s soft folds hadn’t been incredible too, but he’d forgotten how it felt to have a woman’s lips wrapped around his cock, soft hands cupping his balls. He looked down. Why wouldn’t she look at him?

Turner’s heart hardened as his cock softened. He was a fool. She’d not sucked him off because she liked him but because she wanted something. He ought to have
Don’t Trust Women
tattooed on his cock to remind him. Along with
Don’t Trust Men Either
on the other side. Turner scooped up his clothes and shoes and walked out.

The gently swaying cradle of post-coital bliss in which he’d hoped to recline had tumbled from the tree to bring him crashing to the ground. Alone. He was an idiot. He wondered what else she had planned. Sex toys? Ropes? His cock twitched, and Turner groaned.

A renewed urge for sex wasn’t his only problem, though he felt certain his ravenous libido was actually the cause of the other issue. For the second time, Turner had wanted to bite her, had been desperate to bite her and yet something had stopped him, a sense that there would be no point. What the hell sort of vampire was he?

Chapter Seven

Matty slipped onto the midmorning bus to town behind the last person in line, and found a seat at the back. The moment the vehicle reached the outskirts of Milford, her anxiety soared and her heart began fluttering. She didn’t like to stray far from home; it made her nervous and unsettled, but she needed things she couldn’t get in the small village store.

She leaned back in her seat, looked out of the window and tried to relax. She’d completely wiped last night’s blowjob from her mind.

Wasn’t going to think about it at all.

No idle supposition about how he’d felt, no rehashing how she’d felt—either before or after.

Matty wouldn’t give it another thought.

Not a one.

Turner obviously hadn’t. There’d been no return to the door of her room to inform her she still had to leave. Nor had he used that irritating wheedling voice to order her to go. He hadn’t even said she had lovely lips and a little devil’s tongue and would she use them on him again? Please.

Matty’s mouth twitched in a smile and then she chewed her lower lip. She hadn’t done something wrong, had she? Well, obviously dropping to her knees and yanking down his pants had been the first mistake, but after that, had she pressed too hard with her lips, pulled too tight with her hand? Had he wanted something more? Something less? Something kinky? She cringed. Not that she was averse to a certain level of kinky but—

This time the pain came out of nowhere. It rippled through her body in a gathering wave to center on her chest and overwhelmed her to the point that her mind emptied of everything else. Ah, well maybe not such a bad thing this time if it stopped her from thinking of Turner.

Matty pressed her forehead against the glass and tried to breathe through the cramping agony, but her lungs struggled to inflate. What the hell was the matter with her? Apart from everything else in her weird, shitty life, why did things have to hurt as well?

After a couple of minutes, the talon-like grip on her heart eased and Matty let out a long expiration of air. It might be her imagination, but these episodes seemed to be coming with more regularity—as though something was building to a climax. She swallowed hard, not liking the idea of that. As a large man lumbered down the aisle with his eye on her seat, Matty moved to plonk herself opposite. She pressed her face against the window and watched the world pass by, wishing she was properly part of it.

* * * * *

When Matty had piled all she needed in her basket in the grocery store, including a funny birthday card, she made her way to the register. The line for self-checkout snaked back to the cereals.
Damn.
No point waiting. She’d not get a chance to scan all her purchases before someone pushed in. Matty roughly totted up how much she owed and slipped fifteen pounds in front of a cashier sitting at a regular till. The gray-haired woman picked up the notes and gave them a bewildered look.

“Sorry, in a rush,” Matty said.

She needed to hurry. The longer she stayed away from Milford, the more tired and anxious she became. Back on the main street, Matty wandered up and down, trying to find something for Turner’s birthday. She didn’t care if he thought she was trying to bribe him into letting her stay. A bit of her was, but Matty knew what it was like to spend a birthday alone, with no presents, no cards and no cake. A month ago, that had been her. Twenty-nine years old and not one “Happy birthday” had been tossed her way. Maybe a slice of her chocolate cake would warm Turner’s heart. George had made her promise not to give up, no matter how cold Turner seemed. If she could hang on until George returned, maybe he’d have some suggestions how to crack Turner’s shell.

Matty smiled when she spotted the perfect gift for a miserable guy who slept all day—a solar-powered orange light encased in a glass cube. A fragment of sun trapped in a jar. She put twenty pounds of her precious cash on the counter and left with her purchase.

Forty-three pounds remained in her purse. When that was gone, she’d have to take what she needed without paying. Matty gulped. She didn’t want to steal, but she had no way to get more cash. When she’d attempted to take money from a machine in the wall it had eaten her card and told her to inquire inside. Those were the early days when she’d still been open to trying to communicate. Now she knew better.

She caught the next bus back and walked from the middle of Milford village, feeling better and brighter with every step. Turner’s car didn’t look as though it had moved. The lazy lump was probably still asleep.

The light blinked on the phone in the hall, the connection restored. Her heart fluttered at the thought that the message might be an old one for her. Every week or so, she listened to the same three messages on her pay-as-you-go mobile, her friend Sally wondering where she was. Matty’s finger hovered and then she pressed the button.

“Good morning, Mr. Turner. My name’s Diana Rolfe. I’m treasurer of Milford’s Winterval committee and I’m calling to remind you you’re hosting our get-together this evening at seven thirty. Looking forward to meeting you. Bye.”

Matty sighed. Not for her. She pressed the save button.

“Message deleted. You have no saved messages,” said a woman’s voice.

Shit.
Now she had to admit to incompetence or invasion of privacy. Or say nothing. It seemed Turner had been told about the meeting, so maybe keeping quiet was the best option.

There was no sound or sign of Mr. Grumpy, which was just as well as she needed to use the kitchen. Matty put the solar cube on the windowsill to charge in the sunshine and set about making the chocolate cake. She longed to scoop up a spoonful of raw mixture but restrained herself. She wouldn’t be able to swallow it.

While the cake was baking, she tore chunks from a pack of fondant icing, colored them different shades and shaped them into a decoration for the top of the cake—a dark-haired guy tucked up in bed. Matty hoped Turner thought it was funny.

Neither the kitchen cupboard nor fridge showed any sign of his having shopped for food. Maybe he lived on take-out. George hadn’t said what Turner did for a living. Matty had watched the removal guys carry lots of boxes into the stable block, and she’d wondered if they had something to do with his work. She was
not
going to peek. Obviously whatever it was, Turner did it from home. At night.

Once the cake was cool, she covered it in foil and hid it in the back of a cupboard along with the edible decoration and four packs of candles.

In the attic, she put Turner’s present under a skylight to maximize its charge and chewed the end of her pen while she thought about what to write on his card. Would wit impress him? Charm? Flattery? Kisses? Matty smiled. No way would she believe he hadn’t enjoyed kissing her. But should she write love? What would he think? It was just a figure of speech—right?

* * * * *

Turner was awake and alert in an instant. He looked across the room at the chest of drawers he’d pulled across the bedroom door and sighed. Relief or disappointment that she hadn’t tried to get in? If he was being honest, a little of both. He showered and dressed quickly. He needed to get to the estate agents before they closed. He’d eat when he got back.

When he opened the bedroom door, he found Matty standing against the wall opposite, her hands behind her back.
Bloody hell.
It was like having a stalker.

“Hap—” she began.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, and held up his hand. “On second thought, don’t bother giving me an answer.”

Turner strode away from her. When he reached the stairs, he glanced back. She was clutching something in her arms. Turner hoped it wasn’t some stray cat or lost puppy. He left the house and hurried to his car.

As he pulled down the drive, his bad temper evaporated. He was such an idiot. Why did he have to be so unpleasant? Last night she’d done something wonderful and he’d walked away without a word. He’d just had a chance to at least apologize and he’d stalked off again. What had she been about to say?

Luckily there was a place to park right outside Hartley and Stonehouse, the estate agents. Unluckily he had to maneuver into a gap between two vehicles and after ten minutes’ effort, ended up with two wheels on the curb. He hadn’t the energy to repark.

Turner’s lip curled when he saw they’d put a tacky nativity scene in the window. A stable surrounded by an arrangement of plush animals, fake snow sprinkled on their heads. A dinosaur stood next to a zebra.
Lovely.
He pushed open the door and went in.

A young man working on a laptop glanced up. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve just moved into Milford Hall and—”

The man leapt to his feet. “Mr. Turner? Pleased to meet you.”

Turner shook the proffered hand. The name tag said Steven Foster.

“There’s a problem,” Turner said, and the man’s hand went limp as a dead fish. Turner dropped it.

“What sort of problem?”

“One of your employees is living in my attic.”

Foster gulped and his eyes widened. He reminded Turner of a carp but then the pulse in his neck throbbed and Turner remembered he hadn’t fed. All these years managing with Plasmix and one irritating female had thrown him out of kilter.

“What?” Foster asked. “Who?”

“Matty Hobsbawn.”

“There’s no one of that name working here.”

Turner gritted his teeth. Had she lied about her name? “She’s tall, slim and has white hair. Not well cut.” Though it wasn’t as spiky as when he’d first met her. “Her eyes are gray, she has soft lips—”
Idiot. Idiot.
“She
must
work here. She gave me the keys to the property.”

The estate agent went over to a filing cabinet and unlocked it. A moment later, he turned and held out a set of keys. “We still have them here. We were waiting for you to call.” He handed them over.

Turner wrapped his fingers around them.
What the hell is going on?

“How long have you worked here?” Turner asked. If Foster was new, then—

“Nine months.”

Bang went that theory. “Did you handle the sale? Was it you who spoke to my assistant?”

“No, one of my colleagues.”

“Can I speak to him-her?”

“He’s on vacation.”

Of course he was. Everyone Turner needed was on vacation. “Remind me of the vendor’s name.”

“Strachan.”

Not Hobsbawn. Turner sighed. “Which lawyers handled the sale?”

Foster consulted the file. “Jenkins and Stour. Based in Derby.”

“And the purchase?”

The question caused another fish impression. “You don’t know the name of your own solicitor?”

Turner was aware how that sounded. “My assistant handled the whole thing. He’s on vacation too.”