Just One Bite by Kimberly Raye Read Free Book Online Page A

vamp.
    Sure, I’d given up dead-end relationships because I was ready to settle down, but not with Ty. We were all wrong for each other. I knew it. He knew it. That’s why we put on the brakes after monumental, fantabulous sex and a crystal-clear connection even Sprint couldn’t screw up. We weren’t going anywhere.
    Except maybe the Guinness Book of World Records for the most orgasms in a twenty-four-hour period. Fantabulous orgasms. The kind that made your toes curl and your skin tingle and your knees go weak and… oh, baby.
    My cheeks heated up (along with a few other places) and I gave myself a mental shake. We had no future together.
    Made.
    Born.
    Comprende ?
    Whatever waited in the box—even if it was the gargantuan marquise with the side baguettes and platinum setting I’d been lusting after forever —was going straight back to the store.
    Not happening.
    Forget it.
    No thank you.
    And so there was no reason to torture myself by looking, right? I should simply call Ty, tell him that what we had was beautiful, but strictly superficial. It was over and I was terribly sorry if I misled him.
    At the same time, he’d probably gone to a ridiculous amount of trouble to pick out just the right thing. He’d probably spent days, maybe even weeks, searching for the perfect thing to wow me. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t at least take a quick peek and admire his selection?
    I tore off the bow and gripped the lid.
    Easy. My conscience went from preachy to reasonable. It might not be platinum. It might be silver. Or gold. It might not even be a marquise. It might be a princess cut. Or a solitaire. Hell, it might not even be a ring at all. It might be a diamond necklace. Or one of those divine filigree bracelets. Or a pair of bloody fangs —
    My mind went numb and my stomach dropped to my ankles as I stared at the surprise nestled on a bed of white satin.
    After several heart-pounding moments, I snapped the lid shut as quickly as I’d opened it. I stood there doing more of the heavy-duty stress-reducing breathing I’d seen on Dr. Phil. The frantic in and out of oxygen only made my pulse beat that much faster. The panic mounted. Cold horror slid through me and I became quickly aware of the dark, ominous hallway that lurked around me.
    I forgot all about the key in my purse, twisted the knob on my door, and pushed. Hinges strained. Wood cracked and splintered and I rushed inside. I slammed the door shut behind me, stuffed the nearest chair I could find under the doorknob (on account of I’d just taken out the dead bolt and a good chunk of wood), and went in search of coping mechanism number two—alcohol.
    Since I’m more of a social drinker (Cosmos with The Ninas, appletinis after work with Evie, Jell-O shots while helping my human sister-in-law pick out an atrocious wedding dress), the best I could come up with was a travel-sized bottle of Crystal left over from a cruise I’d taken with my family ages ago in celebration of Moe’s going national.
    The cork popped, the opening gasped, and I downed the entire bottle in one long, desperate gulp. By the time I finished, I felt loads better.
    Okay, so loads was stretching things a bit, but I felt calm enough to evaluate the past few minutes rationally.
    Who? What? When? Why?
    The questions raced through my brain, none of which could be answered unless I grew some big ones, opened the box again, and gave the contents another look. Just to make sure, you know, that the ghoulish things weren’t some stress-induced figment of my imagination.
    I had been threatened and slimed, and all in the same night. That was enough to wig anyone out and send them off to the Land of the Loony.
    I braced myself and reached for the box.
    The good news was that I wasn’t a hallucinating nutcase. The bad news was that they were still there.
    Gleaming white enamel. Razor sharp ends. Bloody stumps.
    My chest tightened and a lump worked its way up my throat.
    Like I know crying is