Concern on his face, Dante began to chafe her hands. As he did, he said, “My brother and I were born in 1906. I am over a hundred years old. I cannot read or control you. Among my people that means you are a possible life mate for me.”
“What’s a life mate?” she asked with bewilderment.
“The one person we cannot read or control and whom we may be happy with for all our days. Our mate for our very long lives,” he said solemnly.
“And you think because you cannot read or control me I’m this life mate for you?” she asked
“It is one of the signs,” he said simply.
“What are the other signs?” Mary asked uncertainly.
Dante stopped chafing her hands and met her gaze. “Shared dreams . . . like the ones we experienced last night.”
“What?” Mary stared at him blankly. “You mean you know what I was—?”
“I know what we were dreaming. Yes,” he interrupted solemnly. “I was there with you every time. I held you in my arms and made love to you while we slept.” Pausing, he grimaced and added, “Well, I tried to, but every time we got close, Bailey would wake you and—” He stopped and eyed her warily when her hands jerked in his and she made a choked sound in her throat. Squeezing her hands gently, he said, “Shared dreams too are a sign of a possible life mate. Along with shared passion.”
“What’s that?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know. This was all madness. She’d gone off her rocker, she was sure.
“When I kissed and touched you earlier . . .” Dante paused and then added dryly, “When we were actually awake before Dave interrupted . . . I was experiencing your pleasure as I gave it to you.”
“You were?” Mary asked shakily, and when he nodded, frowned and asked, “How?”
“I am not sure,” Dante admitted. “As much as we understand it, it seems that the pleasure between life mates is shared somehow. It bounces back and forth between them, growing with each pass back and forth until it is overwhelming, and when the couple finds their release it is usually so overwhelming they both briefly lose consciousness.”
“Oh,” Mary breathed, and then simply stared at him for a moment, unsure what to think. After a moment though, she said, “But you keep saying possible life mate. It’s not for sure?” she asked, trying to grasp what he was telling her. “It’s just possible?”
“Yes, well . . .” Dante hesitated and then sighed and said, “The truth is that for me, you are a life mate. But the decision is yours as to whether you agree to be that life mate I can share my long life with.”
Mary’s eyes widened. He said the word life mate as if it was something special, even sacred.
Raising her hands, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then met her gaze and said solemnly. “You are my life mate, Mary. And I would like to claim you. Will you accept me as such?”
Dante sounded like he was reciting some kind of marriage vow and Mary stared at him, her heart in her throat. She was tempted to just throw herself at him and say yes, then rip off his clothes, but . . . shaking her head, she whispered unhappily, “But I’m so old.”
Her words brought a tender smile to his face and he pointed out. “You are almost half my age.”
“Oh, right,” she muttered, doing the math in her head. Born in 1906, that made him almost fifty years older than her. It boggled the mind. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five and she said, “But you look young.”
“Oh, Mary,” Dante said with exasperation, then smiled slightly and said, “I have lived a long time and seen much. I have learned not to judge a person by the number of wrinkles they have or a few gray hairs.” Shifting her hands to one of his, he used his other hand to tilt her face up until she met his eyes and then said, “To me you are beautiful. Your laugh lines and crow’s-feet say that you know how to enjoy life, and the scars and marks left by time show that you have lived life.”
That was so sweet, Mary thought weakly, but . . . “I have stretch marks,” she admitted with embarrassment.
Dante shrugged. “They show that you love life and enjoy the pleasure it offers.”
“Yeah. Too much,” Mary muttered under her breath. She’d long ago given up her battle of the bulge, and had never regretted it so much as in that moment when faced with the possibility of Dante seeing her naked.
“There can never be too much pleasure,” he assured her solemnly, drawing her attention back to him.
Mary narrowed her eyes at the smooth line and said a little acerbically, “That sounds like an argument the snake would have used in the garden of Eden to tempt Eve.”
Releasing her hands, Dante placed his hands on either side of her legs and slid them up to clasp her by the hips, then asked huskily, “Are you tempted?”
God help her, she was, Mary realized. It was madness. He was telling her vampires existed, that he was old and just looked young. And there he knelt before her, a beautiful olive-skinned Adonis, claiming that he didn’t care that she wasn’t some sweet young thing with a perfect body and bouncy boobs. He wanted her.