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hers, nudging her face up to his. Pillow soft lips teased over hers with the tempting promise of their salty-sweet euphoria. “I can think of much more fun activities for your lips.”
    Her breath caught, swelling in her chest until it seeped past her lips in a throaty sigh.
    “Plus,” he murmured against her neck , kissing and nibbling his way down to her shoulder, “I wouldn’t miss this show for the world.”
    “Show? You mean my life?” She wanted to bristle at his words, maybe form some small iota of indignation. Unfortunately, he’d pushed the strap of her black tank top aside and was implementing a masterful technique with his mouth along her collarbone that made coherent thoughts unattainable.
      “Actually, I just introduced Rip to Breaking Bad and am looking forward to Old English calling everyone bitch,” Noah clarified, his voice noticeably low and husky. “But you keep things interesting, too.”
    With a clearer head Ireland may have been annoyed at his cavalier view of her curse. Right then, she couldn’t think beyond her own desire that scorched more white-hot than her blazing skin. Weaving her fingers into his hair, she claimed his mouth with a primal urgency, making the message clear of exactly what she wanted.
    Lifting her from the cement balcony, t he muscles across Noah’s back flexed in an impressive masculine display. Ireland’s legs snaked around his waist, eliciting a deep animalistic growl that rumbled from his throat. Her fingernails raked down his back, her breath coming in urgent pants as he spun them toward the room. Pressing her back against the stucco wall, its rough surface scrapping her skin and fueling her desire, he freed one hand to fumble with the door. Ireland ground her hips against his, enjoying the swell of his excitement. Her hands traveled the expansive spread of his back, delving beneath his waistband to the seductive rise of his perfectly formed ass.  Groaning against her neck, Noah forced the door open and plunged inside. A sheen of sweat glistened from the pair as they collapsed on the bed locked in each other’s embrace. 
    What does a monster do at night? The y live.

     
     
    4

    Edgar
     
    Edgar slid the gloves over his hands that betrayed him by trembling with the relentless quakes of those inflicted with the fevers. All the while he murmured a silent prayer to get his shaky digits concealed before Father came in to witness his state of unease. Such a display may prompt him to take back his agreement and force Edgar to stay home for yet another year of tutoring under the leadership of the dreadful Mrs. Nesbit. Often Edgar amused himself during her long-winded lectures by picturing her stern expression if she ever dared a smile. Such a simple act would surely shatter her firmly puckered face into a million tiny shards.
    No sooner did Edgar secure the supple leather of his second glove around his alabaster wrist than John Allen, his adoptive father, strolled in, trailed by his mother, Francis. While her porcelain face remained purposely neutral, her own case of nerves showed itself in the way her index finger brushed her cheek as she twirled one chestnut ringlet. Edgar expected her to rush to his side and fret over him: finger-combing his hair, straightening his collar, smoothing the creases of his tweed coat. He winced in shock when, instead, Father took a knee before him and grasped Edgar’s narrow shoulders in his large hands.
    “You look well, son. A strong lad well prepared for this endeavor.”
    Edgar nodded his enthusiasm, a lock of onyx hair falling forward and tangling in his lashes. “Yes, Papa. I am.”
    Mother stifled a high-pitch yelp of protest behind her hand, causing Father to silence her with a firm scowl before returning his attention to his son. “I know how much you want this, Edgar. Even so, you must consider how difficult it is for your mother and I to let you go. If anyone were to discover your … affliction —”
    “They could not