My guilty pleasure books sit on a shelf all to themselves, and truthfully, it’s been awhile since I’ve picked one up. Since the boys came along, there’s been little need for the type of sappy entertainment they provide. However, tonight I am in a mood, and I grab one of my favorites, smirking at the corseted woman on the cover. I take a deep draught of wine, and pull the afghan over my legs. Peeking about to make sure that Raj is still off pouting, I pull out my glasses and slip them on. Yet another thing I haven’t worn in quite awhile, but the makeup in my contacts forced me to soak them for a bit.

I open the book to a random page, having read it some many times that the plot is ingrained in my head, and being to read. I get lost in the ‘forbidden love’ story of the young girl, only pausing to chuckle with a writer’s glee at the trite love scenes. Stopping for a moment, I reach for the pen and paper by the phone, and start making a list of phrases never to use in a story again. I tap the pen against my teeth, and ponder going back to make sure I haven’t already, and then flogging myself if I have.

I’m too lazy to look now, but I make a note of it at the top of my list page, and then sink back into reading. As she starts to realize she loves him and it will change everything, I finish my glass of wine, giggling to myself as I pour another. Why on Earth I used to find these things so engaging is beyond me, and I grow more amused by the word. What had made me think this was what love was? There was precious little of the grit and lust and dirty stuff that often accompanied true love, and I was almost growing bored with the poor prairie girl’s plight. Why the hell didn’t she just jump his bones and be done with it? It wasn’t like he couldn’t defend himself if her father came after them…

Another giggle escapes my throat as I contemplate this, and suddenly, I sense him looking at me. I pretend not notice and go on reading and making copious notes on what sounds completely ridiculous when read by someone other than the author. He doesn’t approach me, so I become engrossed again, not paying a lick of attention to the clone as he watches me.

I’m just finishing a particularly hysterical sex scene when my glasses start to lower from my face. His mouth is on my exposed neck, and I sigh for second, enjoying the attention. He reaches over and tosses the blanket off my bare legs, growling when he sees how little I’m actually wearing. His lips meander down to my collar bone and he unbuttons the long pajama top slowly. I am reminded of the scene I just read, and I begin to laugh deep, wrenching belly laughs as I realize I’m just living one of the silliest scenes in the book.

He scowls, sitting down on the ground and glaring daggers at me. “What the bloody hell is so funny, may I ask?”

“You just… I-I’m reading… I can’t believe…,” I gasp, trying to stifle my giggles for a moment so I can soothe his obviously bruised ego.

His scowl deepens and I take slow calming breaths, trying to compose myself. He looks down at the cover of the book, and raises an eyebrow. “Sunset Embrace, luv?”

It feels like my blush has spread from my face to the tips of my toes as he picks up the book and starts reading aloud. “His rasping curse singed her lips a moment before he kissed her. His hand was bolder now, but no less gentle as it fondled. Two of his fingers found the snug cleft and slipped into its liquid embrace. His thumb massages the tiny, magical hood.”

He throws the book down and gives me a look of disbelief before starting to laugh as loudly as I had before. “How the bloody hell do you read that crap? It’s about as realistic as a bloody soap opera.”

I shrug, suddenly embarrassed by his critical assessment of my reading material. It occurs to me that the reason I was sitting here reading the garbage to start with was because he’d acted like an ass, and I fume. “I wouldn’t be sitting here reading anything if you hadn’t been such a jealous, over possessive ape!”

He rolls his eyes dramatically and looks toward the ceiling. “Are we back on that again?”

“Why not? You saw fit to come in here and pass judgment on my book. Why can’t I pass judgment on your behavior?”

“Because I’m allowed to say I don’t want someone telling my woman he loves her and then expecting me to clear out while he moves in on her!”

His face has changed in his anger, and even though I don’t want to, I feel myself getting wet. I love when he gets growly and mad; there’s no aphrodisiac in the world like a pissed off Spike. Especially this one. But I can’t let him win, at least not yet. So I retort, “Moves in on me? Please. You know better than that, just as sure as you know that’s not how he meant it! You’re just so damn bull headed…”

“I don’t know that. All I know is what I saw, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave you alone in the house with him. You’re mine, my mate, and I can --”

“Go straight to hell. I don’t like having my leash yanked. And I certainly don’t like you acting like you can’t trust me.” I’m done with this conversation, and I start to turn away, when he yanks me back, pulling me flush against his hard body. It’s all I can do not to moan when I realize he’s just as turned on by this as I am, and our lower bodies are only separated by two thin layers of cotton.

He sniffs the air, and his face slides into a toothy grin. He smirks and rubs his hips against mine teasingly. “Well, well. Looks like someone is ‘aching to feel my throbbing manhood’…,” he says, his eyes twinkling merrily.

I throw my head back, and roll my eyes, groaning. “Gods, that was awful.”

He pays my sarcasm no heed, swooping down on my exposed flesh with the precision of a predator. His fangs are buried in my neck within in an instant, and he’s drinking, making guttural moans and snarls as he marks me. I feel the flesh tear more as he gets more insistent and I gasp, both at the pain and the desire still coursing through my body.

When he finally lifts his head, his golden eyes meet mine and hold my gaze before growling, “Mine.”

I nod slightly, trying to keep my grasp on reality as the blood loss hits me. I can feel my heart pumping wildly, and the blood has started to trickle down the neck of my silk PJ top. I wave my hand toward the bedroom weakly, and he picks me up, cradling me in his arms. I amazed to look up and see the ridges still present, even though he is being gentle and kind, laying me on the bed as if I’m made of porcelain.

“What can I—what do I...,” he stumbles over his words, also in awe of the need to mark me as his so prominently.

I smile a slow drugged grin as his eyes rove over my form hungrily. “Get a towel. A dark one. And maybe some water,” I say, struggling to keep my eyes open. The wine and the blood loss are making me sleepy, but I know better than to fall asleep or to say anything to make him feel guilty.

As I lay there waiting for him to return, my mind wanders back to the forgotten novel lying on my living room floor. I decide that I’d much rather be here, staunching the blood flow from my neck with a towel than prancing about in a dress and worrying about convention. I’ve always thought lust was much more fun than romance anyways.