The ghost of Milo stood between me and every
man I'd met since he's died, a dark, indistinct phantom that warned me away.
But not this time. The air sparked with electricity, exploded in swirls of white-hot cloud. Flames
crackled along the ceiling, flaring, hissing where ectosplasms met. I jerked up in terror, cowered
against the headboard, clutching the blankets with frozen hands. Wind battered at me, tore at
my hair. Fire scalded my skin. A portrait tore loose from the wall and crashed across the room.
The frame flew into splinters against an antique chair. A vase exploded with the next slash of
fire, and thunder crackled through the billowing mist.
 "Stop
it!" I screamed. "Stop it! What do I have to do, make a choice?"
Suddenly, just like that, everything was dark and quiet in the room. The house was empty, still
- too empty. I huddled against the headboard, heaving for breath.
"Dammit," I shuddered. "Don't both of you go."
A shadow reformed, blocking the moonlight.
He shed the sweater, the solid boots and jeans. His body was paler than Milo's, taller, heavier
about the shoulders and thighs. A breeze drifted the curtains. The bed gave, and then his arms
went around me.
I sighed, turned my head slightly, felt the sharp edge of incisors within his kiss. His hand
drifted over my breasts, and my nipples hardened and rose to meet him. He nipped my earlobe,
kissed my throat, and already I hurt for him.
"He's gone," he whispered. "you had to let him go."
"Carlo." I said.
"Wait."
He caressed me in a way I'd never felt before, his hands like the moonlight, his lips the soft
flutter of moth wings, with needles of fire beneath. Every touch inflamed me, until finally I
couldn't wait any longer. I slid down flat in the bed, reached for him, and he shifted over me.
I caught my breath as he pushed in - gasped at his first thrust into that heated, burning ache.
Then I lay helpless and shuddering beneath him, clutching him, moving as he did, my face pressed
tight against his ear.
He felt the tide rise between us, pierced my throat as it broke. I had never felt such an orgasm,
but I had guessed at it, feeling the pale afterglow that first morning after he'd gone. I rocked
beneath him and fell, lay there shuddering in the aftershocks, wondering how much blood he took
each time.
I didn't care. I was young, hot-blooded - and damnit, I had the resources to spare. I held his
cool body over mine like the missing blankets, breathing in the scent of earth and old houses
that still clung to his hair. He stirred finally.
"I was afraid you were another ghost," I said.
He shifted to one side, nipped at my earlobe again.
"No," he said, "but I do come with the house." Then he sighed in my ear. "It's been empty far
too long."
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(c) Copyright: Lela E. Buis, shown with permission from Cecilia Tan, Editor of Erotica Vampirica
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