Mon Rôdeur

Cross was being watched.

Nestled among the din of the wealthy, his little stalker appeared to blend in well. Not to him.

His stalker remained buried in the shadows, speaking to no one while nursing a glass of Krug Brut vintage. Though he took not a sip. Cross noted the tell-tale signs of hunger in his dark gaze. Sure enough it wasn’t for the salmon tartare or roasted Muscovy duck, either.

Cross chuckled as he returned his attention to the hostess of tonight’s dinner fête. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said in perfectly accented English. “There are certain bodily functions of which I must attend to.”

The petite woman blushed as she caught his meaning. “Second floor,” she said. “You’ll find privacy there.”

Merci.”

As the hostess skittered off to find another, Cross peered over his shoulder. His stalker was still watching him. Their gazes met across the room. Cross smiled as the man placed his glass of champagne on the windowsill behind him.

He moved to approach, but Cross strode out of the large dining room. He ignored the other guests while he entered the grand foyer with its marbled floors, antique furniture and Swarovski crystal chandelier. He walked up the winding staircase and crossed the threshold of the second-story loft.

The quiet was a relief, despite the footsteps behind him. Down the hallway, there was more of the same artwork from Florence. More antique décor. Another merveilleuse chandelier.

Cross slipped inside a random room. Judging from the sheer size and décor, it was likely the Master suite. He sauntered to the mini-bar just as the ornate door closed shut.

He was locked inside with his stalker.

Cross turned to take in the sight of him. The man was impeccable in a black Hèrmes suit. Black lambskin gloves sheathed his large, elegant hands, while an Audemars Piguet watch decorated his wrist. Tall and attractive, his short blond hair was styled off his forehead. His dark gaze was filled with sinful intent.

Cross gave a lazy smile as he grew aroused. “Forgive the delay.” He filled a chute with Bollinger rosé. “Care for a glass?”

His beautiful stalker’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not funny.”

Cross chuckled as he tipped the glass to his lips, savoring the sweet liquid burn in his throat. He unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off, setting it on the back of an antique French chair. He smiled at the trembling man, his lips parting with need.

“Come, Lucas, mon chéri,” Cross beckoned. “You must be starving.”

The lights were willed off, plunging them into moonlit darkness. Cross was wrapped in Lucas’ strong embrace. His heavy breaths were hot against his cool skin. A heartbeat later, Lucas pierced his neck with sharp fangs.

“Mmm,” Cross moaned, allowing himself to be lowered onto the marble floor. Lucas’ heavy body covered his while he drank in hungry pulls. Cross’ eyes fluttered closed as desire washed over him. “Please me, Lucas,” he commanded.

“Yes, Master.”

 

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