VAMPIRE ROMANCE: Moonlight Desires Complete Series (Books 1, 2, &3) (Paranormal Romance Collection, Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance With Sex) (Vampire Romance Boxed Set) Read online

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  © Copyright 2015 by Piquette Fontaine - All rights reserved.

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  Moonlight Desires Series

  Moonlight Desires - Book #1

  Moonlight Desires - Book #2

  Moonlight Desires - Book #3

  By: Piquette Fontaine

  Moonlight Desires (Book #1)

  Chapter One

  Grey light shone in, filtered by curtains and projected onto the blanket which cocooned the two lovers. Shana opened her eyes, catching the day’s first glimpse of the man she was spooning. As she tended to do, she lent him a peck on the neck.

  He shuffled around and groaned. Shana knew that groan and it meant he was awake. She ran the back of her index and middle fingers up Tom’s back, stroking his shoulders and neck, playing with his hair.

  “Babe, sleep.”

  It didn’t stop her, he let out that woken groan again. Sidling her lips right by his ear’s lobe as gradually as she could muster, she goaded, “Remember when we used to make love every morning?” His shoulders adjusted, either in consent or a rebuff. She took it as the former, and made her fingers crawl like a spider across the dome of his gut, crawling towards the trapped fly that was his gun in his briefs.

  The little tent pitched in the fabric meant it was morning wood, Shana’s favorite. She wrapped her fingers around it one by one and started to stroke.

  “Don’t you start the day this way?” No response but some vague vocalizations. “I know I do.”

  The receiver sidled his hips so the erection slipped her grasp. He rolled around and looked her in the eyes.

  “You know what I want to do Shana?” Shana kissed him and he received it. Tom’s breath tasted like stale meat and vodka, but she loved the musk. She once again wrapped her fingers around his throbbing morning wood. “I sincerely want to fuck the taste of your mouth.”

  She gripped the cock tight and twisted it in a direction she knew physiologically unnatural. The yelp he let out was one of a not altogether unpleasant pain.

  The bed was swiftly one body emptier, and she felt subtle deceit when she looked back from the bedroom door and saw that Tom had already snuggled back into the covers for another quick snooze. She slammed the door as hard as she could.

  A spoon swirled honey into vanilla yogurt. The lyrics were familiar to Shana and she sung along under her breath.

  At the bottom of every bottle

  The suds read clear as my eyes can see:

  The more nights I go home to you

  The more I’ll want to kill old me.

  “You are listening to 99.5, The Bullhorn, Long Island’s only country music station. Our rodeo moseys from Queens to The Hamptons. That was Christoph B. Tallweather with ‘Advice From My Beer.’ Next up, Hedy Nughes with ‘I’ll Never Forget That Horse.’”

  Shana heard all the songs on that station before. Working on wiping her mind off Tom’s refusal to fulfill her, she counted the number of times she heard “I’ll Never Forget That Horse” in the past week. Just about to recall the exact location where she heard it the sixth time, a finger running up the back of her thigh pulled her from the thought she was lost in. The finger skimmed the flesh, traveling in a diagonal to the ridge in her buttocks, meddling around her lips like a hungry garden snake near a mole�
��s little pocket carved into the ground. Shana took a spoonful of yogurt, turned out upside down in her mouth to lick the silver dry. Her hand slid down the front of her sweat pants, undoing the drawstring then circling her clit with her forefinger’s tip. The other hand did not let go of the spoon, instead clutched it tighter in the perspiring palm. Tom’s arm slid between her legs as his hand grabbed her through the outside of her pants.

  Shana reached behind herself with the spoon and pushed her lover’s forehead back. Her head turned, eyes meeting his, and she opened her mouth, rolling the white yogurt on her tongue. Breathing through his mouth like an asthmatic bear, Tom ripped off his briefs and tossed them with little care for where they landed. Shana savored her aerial view of Tom’s medium cock throbbing loudly until she noticed it levitating towards her face, Tom pulling her down by the back of her neck. Her right hand smacked the pulsing member with the back of the spoon, making Tom’s knees buckle. Taking full advantage of his prime position, Shana pushed his head down until he was eye-level with the line of pubic hair peaking over her gray sweats.

  “Give me those hands.” Tom surrendered like a teen in front of two cops. She placed one hand on each of her hips and made sure his thumbs were hooked around her waistband. “And the second the pants are off I want you to smell me.” She did a little dance to get out of the pants when they were around her ankles. Tom obeyed her command, her bush smelled faintly of vinegar and aged leather. With no prodding at all, he turned his chin up and drew his tongue from the cleft of her vulva all the way up to her clit. She liked how Tom looked with an auburn mustache. He repeated, this time taking a few seconds to bat around the wet extra flesh that draped the entryway to her womb. The tongue tread it’s path and retraced, forward and back, over and over. The thin solvent of his slobber and her juices ran down the inside of her thighs, drawing thin lines of chill. Tom’s silky paws grabbed her ass and Shana felt electricity flash all over her skin. Shana scooped yogurt out of the bowl and lent him a liberal anointment on his forehead, pushing the excess into his thinning hair.

  “What the fuck is that about?” Shana’s mind was infested with too blissful a chaos to do much explaining. He gripped her ass harder and propped her up on the counter, entering her with a strict vengeance. His slack mouth nestled next to her ear and she could feel his hot, moist inhalations and exhalations with each corresponding movement in his thrust. “Filthy. So filthy”

  “Yes I am.”

  He gave a deep thrust, but not in the right spot. When she yelped, it was barely out of pleasure. “You covered me in that bullshit yoga food you filthy bitch.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  He thrust the same way, just as hard. When her nails dug into his sweaty neck, he mistook it as a sign of approval.

  “Don’t say what? Bullshit yoga food or,” he gave the thrust a third time, “bitch.” The thrusting hips halted. Tom wheezed a little. The member slid out and Shana could feel his seed spill out of her. She gazed down and watched it ooze onto the granite counter top. By the time she looked up, Tom was halfway out the door.

  “Where are you going?” She was still buzzing, unfulfilled, sitting in a growing pearl puddle.

  “Time to meditate, sugar.” Soon the toilet seat slammed down and the bathroom lock clicked.

  “Don’t take too long in there!” she shouted at the wall. “I need to shower before I go to the airport.”

  “Whatever babe.” His indifference reverberated off the bathroom tile.

  “And don’t forget to call the caterer today. If we don’t have kosher options at the reception, your mother is going to wish she never came to our wedding!”

  “Jesus Christ, do we have to talk about my mother the second after we fuck? Let a guy do his business in peace.”

  “Fucking” was what Tom called it when she didn’t get off. She finished herself promptly, right there on the counter, quickly hitting the spots he couldn’t seem to find in his ignorant fury. Within seconds of her functional climax, she noticed that Tom’s tighty whities had landed in the pot of pasta sauce that had been soaking overnight. “The things you do for love,” Shana muttered, dumping the water out in such a way that the briefs wouldn’t fall and clog the drain.

  It was already 9:30 and her Shana’s flight took off at noon. Tom was taking his sweet time doing God knows what in there and she still had to shower, shave her legs, blow dry her hair straight, and, of course, put on makeup. The hair could wait, but the truth was that for some reason Shana always wanted to look good when she traveled out of a simple desire to be the most stunning woman stepping off the plane.

  But as 10:00 approached, it became obvious that the hair would have to wait. Thanks to Tom, she had the opportunity to check her suitcase three times over. Everything she needed for a week was in there. A dress and flats for the church service, some clothes for the heat and some layers if it cooled off, sneakers for jogging, a charger for her Kindle, good shampoo double wrapped in plastic bags. She was so bored that she even went through her carry on, ending up glad to realize that it was the wrong place to keep her pocket vibrator. It’s bad enough that those body scanners see you naked, she did not need some TSA perv checking her bag to picture her getting off.

  When Tom finally emerged, Shana demanded to know what the hell took so long. “I was waiting for an eBay auction to end.” Shana didn’t even have time to tell him he could have waited literally anywhere else and would have only wasted his time. Shana had just enough time to shower, shave, and throw on a smart, crimson sundress with a subtle paisley pattern. Makeup was applied in the car while Tom drove, weaving in and out of traffic like a maniac. At the airport, Shana gave him a long kiss goodbye and then a smitten smirk. She pretended that when she looked back to wave, Tom wasn’t checking out a sorority girl.

  Chapter Two

  “Girl, you’re looking great! Why don’t you let me video chat you? I had no idea you were so fine these days.” Suze always knew how to brighten Shana’s day, even when they were kids getting grounded for styling the dog’s fur with Mom’s good scissors, or smoking cigarettes on the Haleys’ front porch.

  “You look great too, Suze. I see those body combat classes are paying off.”

  “Oh well you know, ever since Luke saw his old Mom getting buff, he’s been putting up a lot less of a fight about going to church.” Suze flexed her arm and indeed it was toned. She looked fit for 41, especially in a tank top.

  “Is little Luke all ready for his big day?”

  “He better be! We bought him the most precious little blue suit.”

  Cleveland had not changed much in the past three years. Houses were still boarded up from the collapse, Miller High Life signs still flickered in tavern windows, waiting to get light bulbs replaced. Pot holes still littered the road and Red Rocket still had the cheapest breakfast in town.

  Lake View Cemetery still had a grey cloud hanging over it. Why that cloud never dispersed, the people of Cleveland did not know. Why the cloud seemed to have the same basic shape and remain stationary throughout the daylight, the people of Cleveland did not know. What the people of Cleveland did know, though, was that there was never a day when the sun shone on a funeral.

  But there was no grey cloud in Shana’s memories of Lake View. It was where she spent the best nights of high school, where she would go with friends to drink beer, and go alone to sort through her thoughts. It’s where she had her first kiss, where she would snuggle with Baker while leaning against whichever ornate gravestone took their fancy that night. If she ever fell asleep next to him, she would wake up alone, bathed in orange rosy sunlight.

  Lots of black was worn in those days, lots of candles lit, lots of poetry written. She didn’t much like that poetry anymore. Most of them were about Baker, as she didn’t pay much mind to the boys at her high school. They mostly cared about playing football, skateboarding, and smoking pot. She didn’t.

  Recently she had been thinking a lot about the black clothes and the candles and the poe
ms, wondering why she had given those up for good. Likely because they made her think of Baker, and that was one thing she had no choice but to give up for good. But when Suze drove by Lake View, Shana didn’t think about all the reasons she had to quit Baker. Shana thought about the black clothes and the candles and the poems, and the way Baker’s most sincere words and tender invocations of love came in whispers. His hands were rough and cold, calloused and ridden with poor circulation from years of working late nights repairing machinery at the power plant. Some nights he would meet her still wearing his weathered canvas coveralls, which betrayed the slightest hint of his defined muscles chest, arms, and shoulders.

  Bored and daydreaming, she would picture his body under those clothes. Did he have a hairless six pack, or a little patch of hair on his taught belly? Somehow his stubble was always ten days unshaven. Here was a man, she thought, who works his body until drained of the energy meals provide. She marveled that even though toil chiseled his body, he still had energy just before the crack of dawn to speculate on the drinking habits of Angela Badalamenti, May 30, 1877 to January 12, 1941, LOVING MOTHER, ARDENT SUFFRAGETTE, on the destiny of Rashad Harden’s children (October 9, 1779 to April 26, 1814 FRIEND TO ALL WHO KNEW HIS RHYTHM).

  His hands raw were worked raw, yet he had a gentle touch. His life was hard, but he seemed to understand nothing besides love. Little mysteries that riddled her narrative of him with holes: where does he live? Why does he work the night shift? Why will he only meet in this hamlet of death and decay? In truth, the unknowns only made him sexier.