Given a death sentence by her doctor, Ambrosia Thatcher is a woman with little time and a single wish; to experience passion once more. Seeking answers to her unbearable paralysis at three thirty three, every single morning, the enlightenment she is offered from the ramblings of a crazy old gypsy holds no solace. The services of 1Night Stand is the only prescription to cure her longing for passion, but will she survive long enough to see it through? Desmond Jacobs is an immortal haunted by a woman he cannot find. The prospect of eternal seclusion without her has no appeal, so he has a plan. With the aid of his creator, he will to go to sleep, and never wake up again. Despite his determination, he agrees to one last request from his friend; seek the services of 1NS to find another. Which will overpower him first; his hunger for sexual healing or his thirst for blood?
About fifty feet back through the crowded midway, her legs grew weak and tired and she had to slow down or collapse. Fighting to catch her breath, she stumbled a little, lost her balance, and bumped into the back of a stranger with a clumsy thud.
“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to….” She stopped. The tall man turned, his black T-shirt outlining a toned chest and muscular arms. Her lungs tightened as she struggled for oxygen—and fought her unexpected reaction.
“Are you all right?” His deep velvet voice shrouded her just before her knees gave out. Strong hands gripped her arms, easing her onto a bench at the side of the fairway.
“Thank you. I’m so embarrassed.” Tears blurred her vision. Blinking them away, she found a striking man with shoulder-length, ebony hair, kneeling before her. He watched her with dark, smoldering eyes.
“I shouldn’t have been in the way; I didn’t realize there was a relay race going on tonight.” His luscious lips curled back into a charming grin.
“My legs—just got away from me, I guess.” Ambrosia ran her hands down her numb thighs, trying to force feeling back into them. The noise and clatter faded and she felt enveloped in a cloak of peace.
“You’re very pale; should I get some help?” His eyes scanned her. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” Self-conscious, she shifted her tank top into place and smoothed back her thinning hair.
“Are you sure?” He cupped icy fingers under her chin.
“Yes, thank you. Now that you mention it, you’re a little pale yourself.” Her teeth began to chatter.
“Well, you just about swept me off my feet.” He grinned, evoking the flutter of manic butterflies in her stomach. The man oozed charisma.