FANGED

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"You're not in any pain?" Fang asked after he got done giving me a better pat down than any TSA agent ever dreamed of. He was so thorough, I wouldn't need another breast exam for at least three years.

"Of course not," I snapped, smacking his hands away from my chest.

Standing up, I brushed off yet another layer of grime. Seriously, my poor clothes have been put through the wringer since I hooked up with fang-a-licous. I looked at my dilapidated turtleneck which wasn't much more than a rag at this point. What do these vamps think? Cotton grows on trees? Wait? Does it? Or does it grow on bushes? Anyway...it didn't matter. My shirt was ruined and my new jeans were going to need a power washer to get off the amount of crud embedded into the fabric.

"Then what was with all the twitching and jerking?"

"That wasn't twitching and jerking...you jerk! I was dancing."

"You call that dancing?" His brows shot up to the top of his forehead.

"Yes," I hissed, putting my hands on my hips. First he attacks my singing, which I cut him a little slack on. We can't all be Beyoncé, but I draw the line at rude comments on my dancing skills. I should have you know, I put the erk in twerk.

"That's not dancing," he rumbled, giving me one of those panty melting smiles.

For a moment, I had the urge to check to make sure mine where still on. After the bra incident, one couldn't be for certain he hadn't squirreled them away like David Copperfield and they were now gracing the Statue of Liberty or something.

Before I could pull out the waistband of my jeans to take a peek, he snatched me into his arms. One of this thick, muscular thighs shot between my legs and his hips slammed into mine as he pulled me tight against him.

"This is dancing," he murmured. Flashing his fangs in a Dentine smile, he whirled me around the cavern in moves that would have made Jonny Castle look like a failing monkey. This wasn't dancing...it wasn't even dirty dancing...this was sex shimmying. Or foreplay...I couldn't be sure.

With one last bump and grind, he dipped me low enough my hair swept the floor before bringing me slowly back up and straight to his lips. He growled as his mouth took possession of mine. His arms folding me close, then closer still until not even air could fit between the two of us. I have to give the guy kudos, his kissing skills were stellar and I could taste his triumph when my lips opened of their own accord. Drat! The little Benedict Arnolds.

Why was I always allowing him to kiss me, I wondered as my tongue tangoed with his. I swear, the man never asked, but simply swooped in anytime the urge took him. I should be mad about that. What was the matter with me? Why were my arms lifting up and running my hands through his luxurious hair? Why was I still kissing him when I knew full well I shouldn't? Oh...that was a new move. How does he get his tongue to swirl like that? And why was I wasting my time having an internal monologue with myself when I should be peeling off his pants?

What? Wait! No! No depantsing! Bad, bad Melanie. With herculean effort, I pulled my lips away from his and stepped back panting like I had just run a marathon. I was hotter than if I had been watching Magic Mike while reading Fifty Shades of Grey. He, on the other hand, looked completely composed and was grinning from ear to ear. Arrogant snot.

"Cut that out!" I huffed, trying to calm my hormones which were being riled into a frenzy by my inner slut who was waving around her pom-poms like an over-exuberant cheerleader. "Can you please do me a solid and at least ask before you wrap one of those lip locks on me?"

"No," he said casually. "I quite enjoy our little interludes."

Grinding my teeth, I shoved him to the side giving him a good glare as I went past. "If you are done trying to suck out my soul, I have a plan."