by Renee Rose
I want more of her blood, but that’s not possible: I don’t want her to know what I’m doing, and I certainly don’t want to weaken her. I lick my teeth for the residual essence and curse softly. Next time, I’ll suck for just a second longer.
“Locke?” She turns to me, sweaty and sleepy, her face sated.
“Temi.” I kiss her lips. “How are you?”
“Good.” She smiles and flushes. The bite I gave her took away some of the pain from the spankings, although the endorphins rushing through her body surely had already numbed the most of it. I want her to feel sore tomorrow—but just a little. Just enough to remember me. I don’t want my toys to truly suffer, unlike some other vampires, who take things (in my opinion) too far for humans.
“I still have the…” She waves her hand, as if she doesn’t want to say the word plug.
“I know.” I take her hands in mine. “I turned off the vibration feature. But I want you to keep it in for now, until I tell you it’s time to remove it.” I look into her eyes. “Yes?”
She goes pink again. “Okay. Yes.” She shifts on the bed. I smile. Now that she’s had her incredible orgasm, the plug probably feels less sexy and more like a task, a fullness, and she’s ready to remove it. Having her wait will remind her of her submission, though—a good task for her to undertake. I won’t make her keep it in too much longer, but she won’t know the time frame.
“Don’t ask me when it’s coming out,” I warn her softly, nipping her neck.
‘Yes, Sir.” She shifts again, and I stifle a chuckle. Too bad I didn’t use a slightly larger plug. Next time.
I find her soaked and stretched G-string and slide it past her ankles and up her thighs. “Put this back on. If you pull it tight again it will help the plug stay in. I don’t want you to play with the plug or try to move it, Temi. Just accept that it’s there.”
“Yes, Locke.” She reaches down and adjusts herself until the panties are settled back against her skin.
“Wet, you got them so wet, Temi.” I touch the crotch between her thighs. “For the rest of the night, you can think about how you came so hard, you dirty, sweet girl.” I find her dress. “Let’s get this back on, and then we’ll get you a drink.” I tuck her pretty mask into my pocket. I like seeing her entire face.
She’s a little shaky so I help her pull the fabric back onto her body, smoothing out wrinkles. I noticed she touches her ears a few times, checking to make sure her jewelry is still in place. It must mean a lot to her.
She shifts her thighs once her heels are on and touches her backside once, a soft rub, and I know she’s getting accustomed to the plug. I give her a look and she blinks and removes her hand—good. She’s learning her lessons nicely.
When we head back to the bar, the club is even busier, and the air of revelry is intense. Sighs of pleasure mix with cries of pain and ecstasy, and the room smells of roses and sex. I take a deep breath—it’s the scent of life, pure vibrant life, something I can pretend is mine for as long as these nights go on.
“Sit, please.” I pull out a seat for her at the bar. She hesitates before settling on it. I can tell she’s not in pain but do like that she’s feeling a little awkward discomfort from the plug. She wanted that, after all—I could see her memories of fantasies full of things just like this. I only hope she likes it as much as she thought she would.
From the way she came, screaming in my arms like an avenging night angel, I assume she did.
“Champagne?” I look at her face—really look at her. She’s got the glazed expression, the after-sex high, that I like to see in my women. It means I did my job admirably. But there’s something more there, a kind of passion I don’t usually find. A hunger for more. A rare intelligence.
I’m reluctant to stop staring at her, but I can’t afford to get too attached. So I turn to the bartender and pull over the crystal glasses, handing her one.
“This one,” I murmur, “is just for your lips, not your tits. Although I do intend to drink from you again.”
When I say this, of course I also mean that I’ll take her blood, but she doesn’t need to know the hidden meaning. She likes the first one well enough.
“Good.” She smiles at me. “I look forward to it.”
“Dance?” I stand and take her hand.
“Here?” She laughs a little bit. The music playing is sexy and exotic, but not really made for dancing; it’s more upstairs where the people dance their way into the passions as foreplay before they fuck. “What will people think?”
“Why not?” I take her into my arms, smelling my scent and hers on her body. Her delicious blood, full of endorphins and adrenaline. “Haven’t we done far more?”
It amuses me that she’d allow me to spread her legs and whip her pussy in front of strangers, but dancing together is taboo.
“Well, okay.” She settles into my arms, a little shy. “Let me just arrange…” She tugs at her dress to pull the skirt around, and adjusts the top. “You’re so tall.” A second later, “Just here, at the bar? We won’t be in anyone’s way?”
But a second later we melt together, and it’s like we just… fit. She sways in my arms and I hold her close, and for a few minutes—a few precious ticks of interminable time—I forget the intolerable heaviness of immortality and just exist in her aroma, her hair tickling my cheek, her body urging me on to passion I remember from ages ago.
I need to be careful with this one. She makes me want too much.
She nestles further into me, and the urge to hold her tightly—for a long time—comes over me.
I clear my throat, my voice a little gruff. “It’s getting late, Cinderella. Time to get you home.” It’s nearing the early hours of the night, and dawn will approach; I’ll need to be safely in my lair, away from the sun. Something she can’t—and will never—know.
“Locke?” She looks up at me, confusion in her big eyes. “Well, okay.”
I soften my tone. “It’s been a taxing evening for you, sweet girl. You need to rest up so we can do it again.”
At this, her features relax. “I suppose that could be a good idea,” she agrees. “I did work you out pretty hard, after all. You probably need your beauty sleep.”
I chuckle. If she only knew…
I take her back into our private room and slip out the plug, patting her softly on the ass. “Maybe next time I’ll have you wear it all night.”
She shudders, but I smell her flash of arousal. Jesus! Could she be more perfect? So far, she’s loved every depraved, dirty thing I’ve done.
I drive her home to her small house in the run-down neighborhood where she lives, and walk her to the door. “Sleep well,” I whisper, as I kiss her lips.
“You too.” She slides her key into the door. I wince at the weak doorframe (one slight kick would break it in) and the lack of a security system. Someone as valuable as Temi should have round the clock security—
“See you soon.” She waves and closes the door. I hear the lock click, and stand there for a second, trying to make sense of my thoughts.
The odd thing is, she’s still there, too. I hear her with my vampire perception, and she’s standing, facing the door, with her hand on it. I listen to her fingers tracing a pattern over the worn wood. Just like she touched my body earlier…
I put my hand up where hers is and touch the door on my side, and for a second it’s like we’re linked, just as closely as we were back in the club.
Then I force myself to swivel and walk away, because my actions are not sensible.
But before I drive away, I glance at the dark house, the windows like blank eyes, and imagine Temi’s vivacious smile and deep gaze. And I smile.
Chapter 12
I wake up feeling so alive and eager the next morning that I leap out of bed and hurry to the kitchen to throw open the window. The cool air is fresh on my face, and I close my eyes and inhale the scent of the flowers that Abuelita has in the pots along the wall. Grinding coffee is a dream; the scent of the
beans transports me to a pre-breakfast ecstasy.
All the while, images of the previous night dance through my mind, flashes of incandescent joy. While the coffee percolates, I go back to my room and get the sapphire earrings. Holding them reminds me of the brilliant night with Locke, and I quickly put them back on. What the hell—Locke even said I should be in jewels every day. And why not? Feeling pleased, I go back to the kitchen, enjoying the dangle of the gems.
I’m hardly sore at all; there’s the very faintest blush of pink on my ass (I checked in the mirror this morning) and my nipples are a tiny bit tender. But it’s minimal at best, and the memories live on in my mind, not written out on my body.
“You’re up early, mija.” Abuela emerges from her room, a shawl over her shoulders, one she’s knitted herself, years ago. It’s got Mayan patterns on it, and people don’t believe me when I tell them this, but she free-handed it all without using a template. I’m positive I inherited my art skills from her. “I would have expected you to sleep in.” She peers at me over the top of her glasses and moves her hands slowly at the wrists, in little circles, to tease out the arthritis.
I smile. “The world is so pretty, isn’t it?” And then, “I guess I’m not that tired.”
“Who was the young man who brought you home?” She settles into a kitchen chair.
“You saw him?” Startled, I stop and look at her, my hand on the coffee grinder. “I thought you were asleep.” In fact, I know she was, because I peeked into her room and she was snoring softly, soundly in dreams.
“He is handsome.” She laughs at me. “Just a quick glimpse.”
Maybe she saw him in her visions, but I don’t ask. “His name is Locke.” I’m probably pink because my face is warm. “Antonio, but he goes by Locke, his last name. He’s… nice.”
“Mmm.” Abeula makes a sound that could mean anything. “He’s good to you?”
How to answer this? “Yes.”
“Good.” She sounds so satisfied, it’s like she picked him out for me herself, a present from a catalogue. “Very good.”
The coffee pot hisses and rumbles and starts burbling out a spurt of coffee into the carafe, and we sit together for a few minutes as the odor fills the room.
“You know,” she says, adjusting her shawl. She’s not looking at me. “There are many ways to live a life.”
Oh my God. She doesn’t know what I did with him, does she? She’d never approve. I swallow. “Of course, there are. Yes.”
“People think there’s one way.” She stretches out her index finger. “But if you look beyond the surface, there are more options.”
Just like the other day, she’s being extra cryptic. “I agree.” My voice is neutral. “What are you trying to tell me, though? Do you think I should be doing something different, or…”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Culture can dictate one thing. But if you follow your heart, you find paths that might bring you satisfaction.”
“Okay. I agree.” I’m still looking at her, anxious, trying to figure out what she means.
Finally, she looks up at me. “Don’t judge yourself, and don’t turn something away because it’s not typical. I would never want you to conform to something that doesn’t fit. If you’re given a choice, don’t be afraid of it.”
Now I’m almost one hundred percent sure she suspects there’s something different about Locke—is this her way of telling me she’s okay with it? I’d never talk details with her, but I’m grateful for her roundabout support. “Is this about… relationships?”
“It’s about more than that, Temi.” Her face is earnest. “It’s about different ways of existing, I suppose.”
Now I’m really lost. “Abuela?”
She smiles and looks away, her face sad. “I love you and always will, no matter what. Don’t forget it.”
A sort of sick feeling fills me. “I love you, too. Is everything all right?” I love hearing that she loves me, but her tone of voice and the melancholy look she has make me wonder if she’s sick. God, please don’t let her have cancer, like my mother did. Please give her a long life.
She stands up. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to make you chilaquiles for breakfast. Your favorite. Let’s talk about the fall garden. Will you help me harvest the peppers today? There’s a batch ready. We should spend time in the sun while we can.”
I accept her change and we talk together, enjoying the morning. I can’t escape the fact that she knows something—or thinks she knows something—mournful, but she’s smiling and happy, telling me tidbits about my childhood, and soon I’m back in my exuberant mood. I love spending time with Abuela, and in the back of my mind the whole time, there’s Locke.
I can’t wait to see him again.
Some time later, my cell phone vibrates, and I grab it.
Is it Locke already? My heart beats faster, but it’s a number I don’t recognize. It’s a local one, though, so I answer. “Hello?”
“Artemis Garcia?” It’s a man I don’t recognize.
“This is Artemis.” I stand up and adjust the phone at my ear.
“‘This is Carlos Alvarez from the Tucson Arts committee. We’ve reviewed the submissions for the art exhibit in the city hall building, and your paintings have made the final selection. If you’re still interested, we’d like to display your art in the Fall exhibition.”
“Oh my God!” I put a hand to my mouth. “Yes! Yes, I’m interested. Definitely. Thank you.”
I turn to Abuela and whisper, “I got it! They accepted me to the thing!” She knows what I mean; we’ve talked about it extensively. One of the paintings I entered was a rendering of my mother, copied from a photograph, but imagined in a graphic modern style.
I grab my notebook and jot down the details: his name, phone number, information about where to bring the art.
“I can’t believe this.” I give Abuela a huge hug. “It’s been my dream for so long. I’m so excited. Once it’s up, I’ll go there every day and look at it on the walls. I’ll take you every day.”
“Maybe we’ll go at night.” Abuela touches my hand. “Night is good, too.” She’s got that sort of sad look on her face again.
“Sure, but you get tired in the evenings. And everyone will be there during the day.” I’m babbling, dizzy with eager excitement. “I’ll invite everyone. I’ll tell my Photoshop class, too, especially that snotty kid who thinks he knows everything. The crew from the warehouse.” Maybe my coworkers at the shipping place don’t know much about art, but we’re fiercely supportive of each other, and they’ve been rooting for me.
“Good.” Abuela smiles. “Good for you, Temi.”
I have to tell a few friends, so I sit down at the table and dial.
Before I can connect with many, though, Eddie comes in.
“Yo, anyone home?” His voice is loud, like usual, and he carries an aroma of stale marijuana along with the usual cigarette smoke. “I need to crash for a few days, Abuela, is that cool?”
My joy evaporates. I look at her, trying to keep accusation out of my gaze. I whisper, “It’s okay to say no.”
But she’s already up, making her way to the front room. “Eddie, of course. Just please, I don’t want your friends here because they’re a little bit… messy.” Last time, he let some really fucked up people in, and I swear, we were terrified the cops would show up.
“Whatever. Can you order me pizza?” His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s clearly upset. Angry? Stressed? It’s hard to tell.
“What’s wrong, mijo?” Abuela puts a hand on his arm.
He pulls away. “Nothing, okay? I’m just hungry. Why is this place always so dark like a funeral parlor?” He tugs open the curtains at the front, his gesture rough. He peers up the street, and down, then pulls the curtains shut.
“Are you expecting someone?” Abuela looks at him evenly.
“No.” He scowls. “I need to sleep.” He peers out the window again for a long moment, then goes to the couch and sinks down. �
��God, can you two stop staring at me for a second?”
Abuela just goes to the kitchen and I hear her on the old cord phone, calling Tino’s for a large pepperoni.
“You can’t keep doing this!” I snap because I’m pissed.
“Whatever.” He looks at me for a minute. “Those new?” He narrows his eyes and points at me.
“What are you talking about?” I’m confused.
“You got some money lately or something? You keep complaining that you’re so poor.” He snorts. “Those earrings look like they’re worth some bills.”
I touch my ear protectively. “They were a gift from Abuela.” Then I wish I hadn’t said it. Will he start bugging her for more stuff now? “None of your business.”
“You’re so full of shit, Temi. You act like you’re so much better than me, but you take from her even more than I do.” He scoffs and rubs his forehead. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He slaps his thighs and shouts it. “Fuck!”
I step back. He’s clearly out of his mind in some way. “Eddie, settle down.”
“I’m fine.” His voice is dull, low and quiet. “Everything is fine.” He rubs his head, then sits up. His eyes dart to the window again. “Did anyone call?” There’s a tension in his voice that I don’t like.
I shrug. “I don’t know. No. Who would call?”
When he doesn’t respond, I head to the kitchen. “He’s getting worse,” I whisper to Abuela. “You have to make him stop.”
But what he should stop, or how she should make him do this, are beyond my comprehension. Eddie is like a stone around her neck. A weight on her ankle. A tumor she can’t get excised, because it’s woven into her essence.
“You know I love him, too. He’s my grandson.” Her voice holds rebuke.
“I do know that. It’s just—”
She knows. “Temi, let’s go out for the day.” She announces it like an edict. “I will get my pocketbook. I want to visit the farmer’s market and buy some sunflowers for you. Let’s go enjoy the city together. Maybe you bring me by some art gallery. Show me where your pictures will go.”
