Read Online Nice Girls Don't Live Forever by Molly Harper - Free Book Online Page B

Misadventures of Millie ,” I read, thumbing through the slick paperbacks. This went way beyond the cover of your average bodice-ripper. Let’s just say more was being inserted than fangs. “I didn’t order this! This is … porn! Vampire porn, but porn all the same.”
    “I think the publishers prefer the term ‘erotica.’”
    I shot Andrea my best withering glare. She shrugged, all wide, innocent eyes betrayed by her madly twitching lips. “Well, you said you were going to be lacking in sexual companionship. I thought maybe you decided to expand your horizons.”
    “Your perception of me is disturbing.” I shuddered. “Is there a packing slip?”
    “‘Hope you enjoy these samples. Let me know about ordering. Talk soon, Paul,’” Andrea read aloud before showing me the innocent slip of white paper. “Who’s Paul?”
    “Paul Dupree, one of my suppliers in Atlanta. He specializes in vampire publishing. Normally, he sends me diet guides and self-help books.”
    “Technically, that could be considered a form of self-help.” Andrea wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.
    “Ew. I’m leather-bound editions, not this!”
    “Maybe he just got stuck on leather-bound,” she said, cocking her head to get a better look at Millie, who seemed more than thrilled to be tied up, hanging upside down, and leered at by a vampire with implausible pecs.
    “Did Dick give you a list of dirty quips? You’re enjoying this way too much.”
    She snorted. “I’ve seen some of the titles in your personal library. I don’t think I would be too judgmental.”
    “I’m not going to enter into a censorship debate with you. I have other things on my mind right now— Stop laughing!” I cried when she collapsed onto a chair. “All I can say is thank goodness Gabriel’s not here to see this. He’d probably go after Paul and rip his arms off for sending me this sort of thing, professional relationship or no … or he’d just say, ‘This porn stash is probably for the best’ and gift me with a lifetime supply of batteries.”
    Andrea doubled over, laughing. I was glad someone could enjoy my pain. The truth was, I didn’t need any form of artificial stimulation. My body refused to believe that Gabriel and I were no longer together, unwilling to give up the orgasms he gave me, even if they had to be manufactured in my dreams. Every night, I had vivid, full-color dreams of Gabriel, his body, his lips, that thing he used to do with his index finger. My cruel subconscious dredged up memories of real encounters or provided elaborate scenarios, like the dream where Gabriel was a police officer and I had to use all my wiles—and a lap dance—to persuade him not to give me a speeding ticket. Or there were the dreams where he just stalked into the house, threw me down on the kitchen table without a word, and took me. Each night, I woke up in the middle of a screaming, head-spinning orgasm and was brought crashing down when I realized that I was alone. I was caught between being afraid to go to sleep and wanting to go to bed hours too early.
    Finally recovered and rubbing at the stitch in her side, Andrea wiped her eyes. She sighed. “Still haven’t heard from him?”
    “Nope.” She followed me into the kitchen, where I dropped the empty pitcher into the sink and pulled a Faux Type O out of the fridge. “And I’m caught in that hellish ‘I want to call him, but I would rather he call me, because that proves he wants to talk to me’ limbo. When did my life become a tragic episode of Felicity ?”
    “I don’t know what that means.”
    “It means that I feel like I’m waiting for that very special boy to call, only that very special boy isn’t breathing. And he told me it was probably for the best that we part ways more than three thousand miles from home, and he hasn’t deemed it necessary to contact me in two weeks. Not even to make sure my plane didn’t crash into the Atlantic. At this point, I’m not entirely sure he’s