music, she traced a slow line over the swell of her bare breasts, circling the nipple on each until they puckered into hard tips.
A shot of heat stabbed into her pussy and she closed her eyes, releasing a soft, hitching sigh. She wanted to feel Ven’s fangs on her nipples. He’d never drawn blood from her there, no matter how often she’d suggested he could. He’d bitten her once or twice, but never with his fangs. Never to feed. What would it feel like for him to do so? To suckle her blood from the tiny wounds he made as he massaged and cupped and squeezed each heavy curve of flesh?
Her pussy fluttered at the thought and she whimpered, arching her back a little to press her thighs together.
Opening her eyes again, she studied the small black cracks marring the white plaster of her ceiling. They looked like tiny varicose veins.
The comparison made her think of her own blood and she lifted her hand to her neck, fingering the pulse beating just below her ear. Ven’s preferred spot to bite.
For three years, she’d been his primary feed source. Almost every night he came to her, made love to her, drank from her. Not just her blood, but her juices as well. He made her come with his mouth and his teeth and his cock and fed on the product of each. Her blood and her cream.
The burn of his penetration—both fangs and cock—was something she didn’t want to live without. It consumed her. The nights he didn’t come to her, she lay waiting, her body on fire, trembling, aching for the pain and the pleasure he brought upon her.
She was a good feed. She knew that. Always there for the vampire when he needed her, never saying no to anything he suggested—and when the mood took him, he suggested some pretty kinky things—offering herself to his every whim and desire. Just as a loyal and loving pet should.
Amy released another sigh, this one not so ragged. Loving. What a hideously dangerous word. A word fraught with pain and complications. How had she let herself fall in love with a vampire? A vampire who’d once been a surfboard-riding journalist, of all things. A smoothie both with his body and his words.
If she’d known what he was when she’d first met him—during a nighttime beach volleyball game at Bondi where he and his brother were wiping the sand with their opponents—she wouldn’t have asked him out for a beer.
Who are you kidding, Amy? The idea of vampires has turned you on since you first saw Brad Pitt as Louis de Pointe du Lac.
A shiver rippled through Amy and she rolled her eyes. Ven made Brad Pitt’s vampire look like a reject from a bad TV show. That he hadn’t revealed to her he was a vamp for close to a month after that first post-beach-volleyball beer only made his appeal all the more intoxicating. She’d been well on her way to falling for him as a human, his dry sarcasm making her laugh, his smoldering green eyes making her burn and his tender, attentive lovemaking making her melt. When he’d finally revealed her fangs to him, his eyes almost nervous, she’d wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, bowed her neck and whispered yes, oh, Lord, yes , without hesitation or fear.
Three years later and here she was—in lust, in love and intoxicated.
Pressing her fingertips harder to her neck, she licked her lips. She’d asked Ven to “turn” her the last time he’d come to her. She’d practically begged him. The rapture she felt whenever his fangs punctured her neck, the deep, steady burning sensation through her body as he drank from the twin holes… Fuck, she couldn’t go without that. Even twenty-four hours was almost impossible to bear. If she were a vampire too…
A shudder wracked Amy’s petite frame and she let out a gasp. An eternity of that drawing burn was too exquisite to ponder. The idea almost made her come there and then.
Rolling her head to the side, mouth dry, sex throbbing and wet, Amy looked at the clock beside her bed. She frowned.
Nine-sixteen p.m.
Ven
A shot of heat stabbed into her pussy and she closed her eyes, releasing a soft, hitching sigh. She wanted to feel Ven’s fangs on her nipples. He’d never drawn blood from her there, no matter how often she’d suggested he could. He’d bitten her once or twice, but never with his fangs. Never to feed. What would it feel like for him to do so? To suckle her blood from the tiny wounds he made as he massaged and cupped and squeezed each heavy curve of flesh?
Her pussy fluttered at the thought and she whimpered, arching her back a little to press her thighs together.
Opening her eyes again, she studied the small black cracks marring the white plaster of her ceiling. They looked like tiny varicose veins.
The comparison made her think of her own blood and she lifted her hand to her neck, fingering the pulse beating just below her ear. Ven’s preferred spot to bite.
For three years, she’d been his primary feed source. Almost every night he came to her, made love to her, drank from her. Not just her blood, but her juices as well. He made her come with his mouth and his teeth and his cock and fed on the product of each. Her blood and her cream.
The burn of his penetration—both fangs and cock—was something she didn’t want to live without. It consumed her. The nights he didn’t come to her, she lay waiting, her body on fire, trembling, aching for the pain and the pleasure he brought upon her.
She was a good feed. She knew that. Always there for the vampire when he needed her, never saying no to anything he suggested—and when the mood took him, he suggested some pretty kinky things—offering herself to his every whim and desire. Just as a loyal and loving pet should.
Amy released another sigh, this one not so ragged. Loving. What a hideously dangerous word. A word fraught with pain and complications. How had she let herself fall in love with a vampire? A vampire who’d once been a surfboard-riding journalist, of all things. A smoothie both with his body and his words.
If she’d known what he was when she’d first met him—during a nighttime beach volleyball game at Bondi where he and his brother were wiping the sand with their opponents—she wouldn’t have asked him out for a beer.
Who are you kidding, Amy? The idea of vampires has turned you on since you first saw Brad Pitt as Louis de Pointe du Lac.
A shiver rippled through Amy and she rolled her eyes. Ven made Brad Pitt’s vampire look like a reject from a bad TV show. That he hadn’t revealed to her he was a vamp for close to a month after that first post-beach-volleyball beer only made his appeal all the more intoxicating. She’d been well on her way to falling for him as a human, his dry sarcasm making her laugh, his smoldering green eyes making her burn and his tender, attentive lovemaking making her melt. When he’d finally revealed her fangs to him, his eyes almost nervous, she’d wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, bowed her neck and whispered yes, oh, Lord, yes , without hesitation or fear.
Three years later and here she was—in lust, in love and intoxicated.
Pressing her fingertips harder to her neck, she licked her lips. She’d asked Ven to “turn” her the last time he’d come to her. She’d practically begged him. The rapture she felt whenever his fangs punctured her neck, the deep, steady burning sensation through her body as he drank from the twin holes… Fuck, she couldn’t go without that. Even twenty-four hours was almost impossible to bear. If she were a vampire too…
A shudder wracked Amy’s petite frame and she let out a gasp. An eternity of that drawing burn was too exquisite to ponder. The idea almost made her come there and then.
Rolling her head to the side, mouth dry, sex throbbing and wet, Amy looked at the clock beside her bed. She frowned.
Nine-sixteen p.m.
Ven
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