Matheus Taylor didn’t ask to be murdered. Quin didn’t care. Now, Matheus runs for his life, questions his sexual orientation & defies a mysterious new threat to vampires within his city.

Hands grasping, stroking flesh slick with sweat, lips parted, wet, moans escaping, teasing, licking, dark and salty, twisting, arching back, hard bodies pressing together, tangling, the scent of lust, tasting overwhelming sensation, pale skin, slim and soft, then melting, shifting to golden brown, rough angles, promising bruising caresses and shuddering release.

Matheus woke up.

“God-motherfucking-shiteating-cocksucking-dammit!” he shouted. He’d needed only five more minutes. Three, even. Hell, with the way the dream was going, he’d have managed with one. Matheus cursed every god he’d ever heard of, then made up a few more, for good measure. He shifted, hoping to finish things off by himself, but Alistair sprawled over him, literally a dead weight, trapping Matheus’ arm between them. Matheus paused, considering the implications of jerking off while lying beneath a corpse. He shuddered.

Craning his head to see over Alistair, he whispered, “Sorry,” to his cock. His cock refused to cooperate. Okay, thought Matheus. You’re squished underneath a dead body and you have a hard-on able to etch glass. Oddly enough, this situation had not come up in sex ed class. He glared at his cock.

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