Hunter √

Chapter Seven

Hunter at the side... So handsome ;)

Chapter Seven

A NIGHTMARE.

That's what Devon decided when she opened her eyes. She was stretched out in the backseat of her car parked in front of the-story brick colonial she'd brought two years ago. Flower beds of Texas sage and lantern lined the walked way to the front door and a well-tended ivy covered trellis decorated the right front of the house.

It was an older house and somewhat small, but it was well-kept and, more importantly it was all here. She'd scrimped and saved for years, living in a one-room efficiency over the local bakery and stashing every extra penny from her job at the senior center until she'd finally had enough for a down payment. Her sisters hadn't thought she'd be able to do it, but she had. Just as she'd put herself through college. And graduate at the top of her class.

The house, however was her biggest accomplishment. Her pride and joy.

She'd refinished the kitchen cabinets and retailed the bathroom floor and she was now in the process of repainting her bedroom a creamy yellow with pale pink trim.

A far cry from the moldy,peeling papered walls of the trailer where she'd grown up----where her sisters still lived---which was the point entirely. She'd wanted out of that life, and she'd made it.

Almost.

Relief threaded through her as she blinked against the blinding morning sunlight. A nightmare, all right, and now she was home. Safe.

She glanced at her hands just to be sure.

Sure enough, there wasn't a trace of blood anywhere. None on her clothes. Or the seat. She sat up and glanced in the rear view  mirror. Other than a major case of bedhead, she looked the she always did. No bleeding cuts or bruises. Nothing but the smooth  slight skin of her forehead.

She was never drinking again. Or having hot, wild sex with a vampire.

Her thighs trembled and her thoughts careened to a halt.

Wait a second.

A vampire?

Hardly. Vampires didn't exist. Only in the minds of cable TV producers, ambitious horror writers and women hung up on the ultimate alpha male fantasy.

Her mother had like vampires almost as much as she'd liked cowboys.

She'd lust over Brad Pitt  in interview with the vampire until  she'd practically worn out the DVD.

They were the stuff of fantasies, all right. As in fake. Fictitious. Unreal.

She remembered Hunter's hit mouth on her nipple and the nub tightened. Her thighs still tingled from the rough feel of his hands.

Real.

The sex, that is. But then she'd  crawled into the backseat of her car and passed out, and dreamt up all the rest.

So how the hell had she gotten home?

A good Samaritan, obviously. She'd been in no condition to drive, which meant some do-good-er had happened along and given her a lift. That, or maybe one of the bouncers had played chauffeur. Or maybe a tow truck had hauled her home. Or, something. Anything. Because no way had last night actually happened.

Hunter the cowboy vampire had been just a figment of her imagination. A margarita-induced hallucination. And now it was over.

She gathered her resolve and climbed from the car. For having tied one on---they must let the worm trough when they poured the tequila for her margarita---she actually felt pretty good. No lingering headache or nausea. Just an ache between her thighs that reminded her of the most glorious orgasm of her entire life.