Bite My Fire

Bite My Fire

2009 Mary Hughes

At last, the perfect lover. Now what?
Stake him, shoot him—or screw him?

AmazonB&NSH

Elena O’Rourke lusts for two things—her detective’s shield and a good lay. Sass-Cgal’s “Bad Girl Sex Tips” will win her the man. But keeping the shield hinges on solving a murder.

Warrior-gorgeous Bo Strongwell stands in her way.

Powerful as a Viking warship, Bo would be Elena’s one-stop solution to celibacy—except for his apartment building full of mysteries. Plus, his kisses…and nibbles…and full body tongue-swipes…keep distracting her from the case. As if a caped clown named Dracula, a hooker with a heart of gold (and boobs of steel), and Elena’s own clueless partner aren’t distraction enough.

Bo Strongwell is a master vampire who needs a cop snooping around like he needs a garlic enema. Fighting rogues keeps him busy enough without Elena trying to pin the murder on one of his kind…even if she does taste like heaven.

Two fighters for justice. One incredible attraction. A terrible secret. Drunken women dancing on the bar… It all rides on Elena solving the Case of the Punctured Prick.

Warning: Jammed with hot explicit sex, graphic fanged violence, and acid cop humor. May contain donuts.

A True Gem

Reviews for Bite My Fire

"Bite My Fire is a truly irresistible read I didn't want to end.  Ms. Hughes made me laugh, made me blush, and swept me away for hours upon hours of enjoyment with this fabulous tale.  Joyfully Recommended!" ~ Reviewed by Shayna for Joyfully Reviewed

 FAR Recommended Read! "...I couldn't put this story down...Elena is awesome...Bo [is d]istracting, mysterious, and oh so hot!...I cannot wait for the next story!" ~ Reviewed by Hayley for Fallen Angel Reviews

 
True Gem Award
A True Gem! "I was thrilled with the way the book was written. Mary Hughes brought all the characters together seamlessly." ~ Reviewed by Kitty Angel for Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews


5 hearts "...I loved this hilarious paranormal story that in turns had me laughing out-loud or fanning myself..." ~ Reviewed by Theresa Joseph for The Romance Studio

"...Mary Hughes has created a very unique and fun book to read...a book that will make you giggle and pant at the same time..."  ~ Reviewed by Holly for Whipped Cream Erotic Romance Reviews
 

Blue Ribbon Rating: 4.5 "If you like women who can stand their own, blunt jokes, sexy male companions, and save-the-day action, this is definitely a read for you." ~ Reviewed by Pamela Denise for Romance Junkies

"...a fast-paced tale filled with intriguing characters, a colorful locale, snappy dialogue and plenty of sizzling hot sex..."  ~ Reviewed by Mystical Nymph for Literary Nymphs
 

An excerpt from

Bite My Fire

Copyright 2009 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

I called it my “cop sense”, a sort of Spidey-tingling that was combination warning and awareness. Nothing mystical about it. I didn’t believe in the paranormal (enjoyed reading it but didn’t believe) so I knew it was probably just a heightened perception from paying attention to my surroundings.

But it had saved my ass a couple times. Saved other asses too. And it was never wrong.

I was sweating outside the rectory at Good Shepherd’s. Ruffles was a block over, marching away. Except for Ruffles and me, nobody alive was in the area. I’d swear to it.

But my neck prickled. A presence—something—

Someone behind me.

I spun. Went for my gun. “Hold it right there…!”

My voice died in my throat. My XD pressed against the most amazing abs I’d ever seen. Washboard, eight-pack…whatever, licking those abs would be like tongue-surfing warm ocean waves.

A black tee stretched in all the right places over a torso ripped enough to star in 300. Bronzed cannon arms, dusted with blond hair, crossed over a battleship chest.

Very male. And very big. Viking big. With him, even my five-nine felt petite. I choked on a whimper as my eyes continued helplessly up.

Strong, corded neck. And his face…sweet Suzy’s Cream Cheesecakes. Warrior big and warrior gorgeous. Cheekbones cut from granite, arching blond brows, carved jaw. Thick wavy blond hair. Eyes the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean in summer. A fiercely beautiful face, the kind that jolts you in the gut.

(*Please do not read past here unless you are over 18 and open to explicit language*)



Or that wrenches you in the cunt. Especially if it’s been a while since you got a good lay (five years, three months and three days, but who’s counting? Don’t blame me, I’ve tried. The great god of FUBAR seems to have it in for me, at least as far as consummation goes).

But big, bad and yummy here was a stranger. Worse, he was wandering near a murder scene. Alone. By the Big Book of Police Rules, that made him a suspect. I firmed my grip on my gun. “Where’d you come from?”

Viking Guy’s eyes chilled to ice blue. “None of your business.”

He spoke in a dark rumble and radiated intensity. Ultra-alpha. I tamped down frissons of arousa…annoyance. One-handed, I whipped out my badge. “This says otherwise.”

He barely glanced at it. “A cop?”

“A detective. Tell me what you’re doing here. Now.” I underlined the word with a tiny push of my gun.

“If you must know, I was patrolling. For my neighborhood watch. Please don’t shoot me—Detective.” He raised his hands and stepped back, though honestly, he didn’t seem all that worried.

But he was cooperating. Slowly I holstered my gun. “Word of advice, buster. Don’t sneak up on people like that. It might get you killed.”

He arched one blond brow, all arrogance. “Like the little man in the parking lot?”

“What?” My hand snapped back to my holster. “How’d you know about that?”

“The yellow tape does rather stand out.” The guy’s voice had smoothed down. When he wasn’t channeling Christian Bale his voice was dark silk, stroking my flesh like black satin sheets and lazy summer loving.

Shit, suspect. Not bedroom material.

Except thinking of that golden body, that satin voice in bed…I inched my hand from holster to jeans, surreptitiously adjusting the crotch.

The guy’s eyes followed. His lips started curving.

Part of me was annoyed, but part was struck dumb at what the curve did to his lips. Like a gently swelling sea, that half-smile could lap my shores anytime.

Great, I was getting horny over a suspect. I had to get laid. I yanked out my notebook. “I’ll need your name and address. Then you and I are heading to the station for a chat.”

“Ah. That might be a little difficult. I patrol until dawn.”

That’s exactly how he said it. Not “until five” or “third shift”, but “until dawn”. I gave him my best cop glare. “Let’s start with your name. We’ll see about dawn.”

He shrugged—I goggled. He was a big guy with massive shoulders, and that delicious, sinuous motion showed me he was all muscle. Acres of luscious, corded muscle.

When he plucked the notebook from my hand, it was a good thing, because the pages were starting to rattle.

Some blond men look pale and effeminate. There was nothing girly about the large dark hands engulfing my notebook. Handing him the pencil, my fingers brushed palms hard as iron.

Great galloping Krispy Kremes. Touching him was as exciting as palming my gun. My thighs were fast slicking up, and it wasn’t sweat.

I clamped my eyes shut in frustration and mortification. Years of unconsummated sexual foreplay were finally taking their toll. Apparently I wanted to jump the bones of anything wearing boxers and a blush, murder suspect or not.

There was some scribbling, then the notebook and pencil were pressed into my hands. I took a deep breath, cooling my unwanted arousal. “Thanks for your cooperation. Now, if you’ll just come with me to the station…” I opened my eyes.

He was gone.


“What the hell?” I tore out my flashlight and panned the area, staring indignantly at empty streets and blank buildings.

Where the heck was he? Viking guy wasn’t a small self-effacing dude who could disappear easily. Just to make sure, I touched my Spidey-sense. Nobody and nothing.

How could he have gotten off my radar so quickly? He must have run like the wind. I flicked off the light, then flicked it back on at another thought. But no, he’d written a name and address in my notebook. The handwriting was bold and oddly runic.

Bo Strongwell. Address on Seventh and Lincoln. Looked familiar…oh, shit.

It was the address of my sister’s apartment.


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