It’s Mardi Gras, cher, but this year le bon temps kick off with murder…
For generations, the White Monks have treated the vampire Thaddeus Dupont as a weapon in their battle against demons. However, when a prominent matron drops dead at a party, Thaddeus and his lover Sarasija are asked to find her killer. Their investigation leads them to an old southern family with connections everywhere: Louisiana politics, big business, the Church, and an organization just as secret as the White Monks.
Meanwhile, an esoteric text containing spells for demon-summoning has disappeared, Thaddeus is losing control of le monstre, and Sara is troubled by disturbing dreams. These nightmares could be a side-effect of dating a vampire, or they could be a remnant of his brush with evil. As the nights wear on, Sara fears they are a manifestation of something darker – a secret that could destroy his relationship with Thaddeus.
Nocturne is only $2.99 (40% off) through Oct. 12.
A novel in the Hours of the Night series
Irene and Liv are giving away a $25 Gift Card to Amazon or Barnes and Noble.
Father Patrick did hear my confession before he left, and as penance he asked me to read Pope Francis’s apostolic letter Misericordia et Misera, Mercy and Peace. I surprised myself by finding the document with my iPad.
I surprised Sara even more when he found me reading.
“All the Pope’s encyclicals are online,” I protested in the face of his amusement. I’d dimmed the lights in the rear parlor so only a small reading lamp competed with the white light from my computer.
“Yeah, but I have trouble seeing you and Google together.” He hitched a hip on the arm of the club chair where I sat. His scent, warm and sweet, distracted me from our pontiff’s thoughtful prose. I closed the document and leaned into him. He leaned back.
“I should take a shower.”
“Mm. Did Nohea drop you off?”
“Yeah. Said she’d talk to us tomorrow.”
I rubbed my cheek against the soft cotton of his shirtsleeve where it stretched tight over the muscles in his arm. Even more than his absolution, Father Patrick’s promise had lightened me. I trusted the Church in all things, but most especially in this.
And with that lightness came freedom. I set the computer aside and reached up, pulling Sara into my lap. He laughed, his arms flapping awkwardly.
“I really do need a shower.”
I made a show of sniffing the tender skin of his throat. “You’re fine just as you are.”
Our gazes caught, and for a moment, I looked, really looked at him. The tiny scar above his brow had been joined by a more recent painful wound, a fine seam running down the side of his face. His eyes, though, bottomless dark, called to me, and his mobile lips demanded a kiss.
I lowered my head, brushing his lips with mine.
“What are you doing?” he murmured against me.
“Seducing you.” I pulled back to meet his gaze again. “I hope.”
“Oh yeah.” His laughter drew me in further, until I silenced him with a kiss. This was no gentle brushing, but the sweet preamble to a dance we both knew. He tasted of oranges and sugar, as if he’d drunk juice after training. Beyond that, he tasted of himself, a unique—and quite addicting—flavor.
We kissed until he grew pliant in my arms, then I carefully nibbled down the side of his neck. I would feed, but not yet, and I teased him with nips and licks and nuzzles. In response, he ran his hands through my hair, hitching his hips in invitation.
In my current mood, I needed something from him, something we had not done before. Licking a long stripe up to his chin, I straightened. “Will you…” I did not know the words, or if I did, they’d fallen from me in disuse. “I would like you to…”
His brows drew together as he parsed my meaning. “Are you asking me to fuck you?”
The crude word landed like a match thrown in tinder. “Yes.” I rose, lifting him easily, and carried him upstairs. His laughter lightened my load.
Setting him down on my bed, the bed he’d dressed in soft sheets and a warm quilt, I took another moment to simply look. His hair was tousled, his eyes blown wide and dark, but still his smile begged me to come closer.
When I’d first become as I am, I’d taken many lovers, finally settling on one man who stayed with me for years. More memories assaulted me, bittersweet moments of intimacy that I’d avoided until now, activities I hadn’t engaged in until now. Hadn’t wanted to engage in until Sara.
“Don’t think, Thad.”
I brought my attention to the task at hand. He lay propped on his elbows, knees bent and spread wide. The flash of his tongue across his bottom lip brought a corresponding catch to my breath. I tugged the shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor, and scratched at the scattering of hair on my chest. “Will you do it?”
Join Liv & Irene in their private reader group, After Hours!
About Irene Preston
Irene Preston has to write romances, after all she is living one. As a starving college student, she met her dream man who whisked her away on a romantic honeymoon across Europe. Today they live in the beautiful hill country outside of Austin, Texas where Dream Man is still working hard to make sure she never has to take off her rose-colored glasses.
Where to find Irene
About Liv Rancourt
I write romance: m/f, m/m, and v/h, where the h is for human and the v is for vampire … or sometimes demon … I lean more towards funny than angst. When I’m not writing I take care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether I’m at work or at home. My husband is a soul of patience, my dog’s cuteness is legendary, and we share the homestead with three ferrets. Who steal things. Because they’re brats.
Where to find Liv