Jane Jameson 02: Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men by Molly Harper

Author:Molly Harper [Harper, Molly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

11

Over the past 100 years, female weres have embraced certain human mating rituals. Werewolf males who neglect to present their mates with meat or floral offerings on a birthday or anniversary can expect to sleep in an actual doghouse.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

I was a little nervous about what vampires get each other for Valentine’s Day, because, as far as I knew, it could involve actual hearts.

So, when I found a white box on my doorstep, tied with a huge red bow, I went into full-on spastic girlie-girlie mode. There was squealing. A lot of squealing. For just a minute, the inside of my head was like a living Lisa Frank poster.

The contents were … unexpected. For one thing, I didn’t know whether Gabriel was actually going to be in town on Valentine’s Day. And second, I’m usually a white cotton panties kind of girl, occasionally a black cotton panties kind of girl. But if Gabriel was game for the red satin bustier thing, I could give it a try.

Yes, giving your girlfriend naughty lingerie for Valentine’s Day is tired and cliché, and I’d spent years railing against the commercialism and crassness of a holiday designed by corporate America to compel men to buy their way into a lady’s affections and make single women feel pathetic and alone. Of course, at the time, I was pathetic and alone, so pardon me for taking the opportunity to feel smug for a day.

Gabriel’s gift was a modern twist on the classic Victorian corset, buttery soft satin in a perfect Valentine’s red, stretched over whalebone. It was some sort of miracle underwear, cinching my waist into a tiny point and giving me anatomically improbable cleavage, all without cracking my ribs. The hem of the bustier just barely skirted a pair of satin briefs, which were connected to a pair of lacy black stockings with the thinnest of red silk ties. I struck a languorous pose in the mirror and—despite looking pretty damned hot, if I do say so myself—felt a little ridiculous. I looked like a cover model for the romance paperbacks my mother read. All I needed was a title like The Tempestuous Schoolmarm spelled out over my head in an overcurlicued font.

Still, I slinked around the house and lit the vanilla candles. I wanted to build some ambience for Gabriel to appreciate before I jumped him. My home was considerably more welcoming than it had been the last time he visited. I hadn’t had disposable income in a while, so after months of scrimping and saving and buying generic market-brand blood, I went into a sort of online shopping fit. I bought blackout curtains for every window in the house, a new comfy couch, a bigger fridge. I even booked a prefab contractor to come out and attach the garage to the house with a covered walkway. It was like babyproofing for someone with fangs.

I was feeling adored and very in touch with my inner sex kitten when he showed up at my door later that night.

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