What to Buy for the Vamp Who Has Everything (3 page)

“We can go see it next month,” I say. “That’s how long it’ll take for the engraver to finish it.”

“Yeah.”

“If you want, of course. If you don’t…”

“Yeah, I’d like to see it. Thanks.”

The mausoleum at Forest Lawn has a room just for cops. It’s the sort of thing the old Adam would have made fun of, but I guessed this new Adam might go for it. They’d never found his body because, well, duh. But he was declared legally dead. And now his name will rest with his fellows. It’s the sort of thing I’ll want some day. Which is why I bought the little box next to Adam’s. Not telling him that, though. Least not today.

And then he looks up and his eyes are bright and he’s fully there in a good way. Not distant or fuzzy. “Thanks a lot, Peter.” He reaches into his back pocket. “I got you something, too.”

I am so completely surprised I just take the card and don’t do anything.

“Open it.”

It’s your typical Hallmark card. Some joke about a reindeer and Santa that I can’t remember because at the bottom he’s signed it. “Merry Christmas. Love. Adam.”

I read it again. Now, you gotta understand, there are words that Adam uses and then there are words that he doesn’t. The man swears like a marine. Well, actually he WAS a marine so that would figure.

“Love. Adam.”

Damn, I don’t know what to say. Where to look. I can’t look up from the card.

What to Buy for the Vamp Who Has Everything

15

So he just takes it from my hand and he sets all the gifts and wrapping over there on the floor and he takes my face in his hands and pushes me down on the sofa and sticks his tongue down my throat.

It’s just what I needed.

Now he has his arm around me and his face buried in my neck again. It’s his favorite place to be, I think sometimes, and I go with it. Big strong arms around me. Low voice growling meaningless things in my ear. Slow and easy is Adam’s way most the time. The urgency comes of his need, his fear. The loneliness.

Slow and easy, mouths soft against each other, tongues pressing together.

He breaks and his eyes are dark and glowing. “You taste like vanilla.”

“My aunt’s cookies,” I tell him. “There’s some in the refrigerator.”

His gaze rolls to the little fridge. Guilt, longing. “I wish you didn’t have to take care of me.”

“I don’t have to Adam. I want to.” Anything you want, Adam.

His hand has been traveling up and down my ribs, rucking the shirt as it goes. Now it slides underneath, feeling me, my belly, my chest, fingers over my nipples. His eyes on mine and I wonder if he can feel my heart straining, hear my breath speeding up.

Well, of course he can, but he probably thinks I’m just horny.

He’s grinning at me now. Yeah, he’s evil. He lifts my shirt off, lowers my zipper.

Tasting my cock like it’s a raspberry popsicle on a hot summer day. He buries his face in my balls and I arch and moan.

Our pants are open and he holds his weight with his arms as he moves against me; our cocks bump and slide together. He watches me as I arch again, pressing into me.

I’m tired and emotional and I’ve got the self-control of a rabbit when I’m like that. His eyes are glowing green as they stare into mine and I come.

16 A. M. Riley

I help him, my hand knows his rhythm and those eyes keep watching me, unblinking, until the moment when he ducks his head, shuddering. Hiding himself from me in his orgasm.

We lie entwined around each other for some time after and I think how sometimes it’s just a few days, sometimes it’s a whole week, but its all about this moment, laying in his arms. Quiescent and as peaceful as he ever gets.

“Merry Christmas,” I whisper against his ear.

A rumbling agreement, fingers touching my lips. “Best Christmas I ever had,” he tells me.

A lump in my throat surprises me. God, what would I do without him? “Me, too, buddy,” I whisper back.

A. M. Riley

A. M. Riley is a film editor and sometime poet, living and working in Los Angeles, with an interest in paranormal, erotica, and anything that tests established boundaries.

Find out more about the author by visiting http://www.amriley.net/.