Blood Claim by Laura Mykles (free e books to read .txt) 📕

He stood in the middle of the bedroom, staring at nothing, his erection wilting at the thought. Even if Wolfe is interested, so what? Is he going to want a guy who won't go out of his apartment at night? He'll probably write you off as a nutcase.

"So you'll just have to work on going out,” he told himself firmly as he pulled on his dress shirt and buttoned it up. “You need to get over it and live some kind of life.” Muttering encouraging words to himself, he sat on the bed to drag on socks and shoes.

By the time he told himself to stop worrying about it and just take things as they came, he looked up and saw the clock.

Three thirty.

Where was Wolfe?

His phone rang about ten minutes later.

"I'm sorry,” said Wolfe, “Harold Jenkins from Baeler Corp. just called and demanded to talk to me.” He sounded exasperated. “We're about to get on a conference call with his CIO and CFO. I'm going to be late."

Disappointment squeezed Matt's heart, but he fought it out of his voice. “Hey, it happens. We can do this another time."

"No. I'll just be a little later. I'd rather make this quick. I'll call you when they let me go."

By the time five o'clock came around, Matt was in a fine funk. Wolfe hadn't called. He expected the other man to call and cancel at any moment, if he called at all. So sure was he, in fact, that he'd ditched the dress shirt for a T-shirt and switched the jeans for drawstring pants.

Barefoot, he stood at the window in his living room, watching the night take over from the day, imagining his hopes dispelling with the gold of the sunlight. He'd found the night so frightening for so long, but tonight it was more depressing.

A knock on the door startled him.

"Matt, it's me.” Wolfe! “Open up."

Matt stared, frozen. Inky twilight had almost given up the ghost to night's dark, and it could have been that color—or lack of it—that kept him rooted to the spot. His door had not opened except in the full light of day for so very long.

"Matt!” Knock again. “I know you're in there."

Matt found himself at the door, staring at the blank wooden panel. On the other side stood a man he very much wanted to know better. Fear paralyzed him.

"Matt!"

"What are you doing here?” Matt's voice, when he found it, was rusty and soft.

Wolfe heard him anyway, his voice tempering. “I came to apologize."

"You didn't need to do that."

"I brought food. You like Italian? I've got this pasta with garlic sausage that's simply marvelous. You have to try it."

Matt placed both trembling palms on the door, noting the contrast of the pale skin of his hand and the dark wood panel.

"Matt."

"I...” His jaw worked as he tried to force reason over fear. Wolfe was here.

"Matt?"

"I...” Heaving a sigh, he rested his forehead on the door between his palms. “I can't."

"Why not?” Wolfe's voice sounded so close. Impossibly close considering there was a wooden barrier between them. Matt could almost imagine the breeze of its passage on his neck.

He sighed again, closing his eyes. Coward. “I can't let you in."

"Matt.” Low, sultry. The very sound oozed down Matt's spine to pool hot, like lava, in his belly. He pressed up against the door, trying to get closer. “Open the door."

His hand dropped to caress the knob. Only the lock kept him from turning it fully. “I can't."

"Why?"

The knob won't turn. He shook his head, even though Wolfe couldn't see it. That wasn't right. There was another reason. “I can't."

"Matt.” Slow, reasonable, with that delicious purr. How did he do that in one syllable? “Open the door. Talk to me."

Vampires. Can't open the door. “No."

"Tell me why."

Wolfe isn't a vampire, what's the harm? “You won't believe me."

"Matthew—” His full name sounded so seductive through that voice. “—there's something that keeps you holed up every night. I'd very much like to know what it is."

He rolled his forehead on the stained wood, his hand gripping the doorknob. Warm gratitude flooded his chest. Not since his last friend had tried in the month after Daniel's death had anyone wanted to know what was wrong with him. No one had cared.

He so very much wanted this man to care.

His fingers toyed with the lock.

"Open the door, Matt, and talk to me. Whatever it is, I'll believe you. I promise."

He said garlic sausage. Is the myth about vampires and garlic true? Wait, what are you thinking? You've talked to him during the day. He's no vampire.

He turned the lock, hearing the soft scrape of metal on metal in the hushed blue twilight. Slowly, he stepped back, staring at his hands: one on the knob, one still splayed over the panel at eye level. I can do this. It's just Wolfe at my door. Just Wolfe.

He twisted the knob and took another step back to let the door slowly open.

Lust stole his breath. Lit only by the twilight and the night lamps that illuminated the street below, Wolfe was every bit as gorgeous as the pictures promised—and then some. Tall. His sharp chin would rest easily on top of Matt's head if they embraced. If he did that, the silky, curly black hair that fairly floated loose about his head and shoulders would drift down to caress Matt's cheeks. Sharp, sculpted black brows swept up sharply from the bridge of his narrow nose toward his temples. His pale cheekbones followed a parallel line. The eyes between them were by far the most amazing, impossible green that Matt had ever seen. How could he see that color so very clearly in this lighting? He stared, captivated by them and the thick, curled lashes that surrounded them.

For a moment, Wolfe stared, eyes a little wide, lips parted. He looked almost as stunned as Matt felt. But it was brief. He smiled, and Matt's attention was redirected to