by Cecilia Tan
“I suppose you identify with the Count himself?”
She was kissing her way across his collarbone now, savoring the smell of his sweat as she got close, then to close to his neck. But she didn’t sink her fangs in, not yet. This one was no rush hour quickie. “Hardly. So why were you following me on the subway?” She ran a finger lightly over his erection and he strained a little at the cuffs as his body tightened up.
“I wanted to see what you’d do. How’d you end up like this anyway?”
She reached behind her to unlace his shoes and he kicked them off without argument. “Mom had me before she was done being turned and decided not to finish me off. Dad can be very persistent. Besides we’re not as bad as you guys would like to believe.” She rose to tug his jeans down over his hips and solid thighs. His hard-on rose, tenting his briefs until the rosy tip of his penis appeared above the waistband.
She sucked in a deep breath, licking her lips as his scent slid down her throat like a cocktail. Its warm glow heated her cold flesh and trailed delicate fingers down her slick thighs. The hunt had her now and she undulated onto the bed, conscious of nothing but Chris’ nearly naked body and her own need.
His briefs parted under her sharp nails and slid away from his hips as she mounted him, sliding him between her legs. Her back arched as she rocked against his thrusts, her fingers finding her clit as she rode him. Her fingers circled the sensitive flesh, sending ripples of fire through her. She leaned forward to nip gently at his nipple, then at the skin over his collarbone and he groaned, watching her through half-closed eyes. “Take the cuffs off... please.”
Instead she rocked against him, grinding her hips into his thrusts. Then she pulled herself forward to kneel on either side of his face and lowered herself onto his tongue. His hands strained at the cuffs but he licked her hard, his tongue swiping its way first inside her then over her clit. He caressed it, tasting her until she came, thighs shaking, hands clutching the bed to keep her balance. Then she slid back down his body, mounting him again.
It was time. She was drunk on their desire and she reached out with her mind to soothe his fears. He met her eyes in the darkened room, sinking into them until he was all hers. Now to give him something no mortal woman could. She dropped over him and nuzzled her face into his neck. Her first vampire hunter, now that was something. She remembered the stake and the crossbow and she smiled.
Still, part of her was almost surprised when he didn’t resist, despite her mind touch. But the vein in his neck pulsed against her nose, calling to her until she couldn’t resist it anymore. She bit him, gently at first, letting lust shield him from pain until the blood began to well up to his skin. She sank her fangs in as he started to come, thrusting wildly against her as she drank.
His blood was sweet, far better than wheat grass, and she licked it enthusiastically, imagining what it might be like to sate herself utterly in him. He groaned and it took her a moment to recognize the word. “Harker.”
“What!” She reared back, his blood still running from her fangs down her chin.
The wooden slats of the bed gave way as he yanked hard against them and dropped his still handcuffed arms around her. That must have hurt. She couldn’t suppress the thought as the hunt faded from her mind, releasing her. “What happens if I drink your blood, Mariel? Do I get to walk the night at your side, feeding on the blood of innocents?” He murmured the words against her neck, accompanying them with a not very gentle bite. “It’s not twilight anymore. You’re almost human now, aren’t you?”
Mariel panicked, trying to catch herself against the bed to get enough leverage to get away from him. But his arms were like iron around her back, holding her still as he bit the skin over her collarbone, his teeth too blunt to do more than bruise. With a swift gesture he rolled them over, trapping his hands under her body but pinning her at the same time. He was hard again, though that shouldn’t have been possible. Despite the danger, she felt her hips rock up against his, snarling when he chuckled. “Give me the key to the cuffs and I’ll give you anything you want, provided it’s not fatal.” He leaned down to draw one of her hardened nipples up between his teeth.
Her back arched and she moaned, burying her fingers in his hair. He tongued her nipple against his teeth and she could feel her legs spread open despite her panic. He rocked back, pulling her with him until she sat up with him inside her, legs wrapped around his waist. “Unlock the cuffs, Mariel.” His voice was nearly a growl now and he held her against him until it felt like they had one body.
“Why should I?” She gasped, her skin on fire as the cold of twilight melted away. The last of the hunt surged back into her brain, making it hard to think. His cuffed wrists were around her hips now, shifting her up and down as he thrust his way into her. His teeth were on her neck, just grazing her flesh and sending a warm shock through her. He bit down and she moaned, digging her fingers into his hair. His thrusts were harder now, making them both gasp for air as his teeth pierced her skin.
Startled, she tried to yank away but his arms were iron around her. She fell into him, absorbing the small pain as he came with a soft shout. There was a crunch of metal and one of his freed hands reached up to cup her breast as she rode out the last of his orgasm.
“What the....” With a start, she realized her danger and dragged his face away from her neck. She was just in time to see something she should have noticed before even though his fangs were smaller than hers. “You’re another half-blood!”
“Well, it is genetic, you know. The whole undead thing was just something old Van Helsing told Stoker when his wife left him for a certain Transylvanian count.” He licked her blood from his lips and gave her a wry smile. One of his hands was working its way between her legs, his fingers finding her clit.
She pushed it away. “So what’s with all this vampire hunting crap?”
“It’s the family business. Besides, it makes me better at it and I’m very selective about who I slay. Do you really have any complaints?” His blue eyes glowed a little in the dark as he managed to slip his hand back between her legs. This time she let it stay. Twilight was about to get a lot more interesting.
Music From My Bones by Anya Levin
“You would be beautiful.”
My eyes strayed from the screen to Joyce’s cheekbones. The high curves were decorated with pinpoint, sparkling stars that glittered in the amphitheatre’s recessed lighting. Her eyes were hidden by that same lighting, but I knew them without seeing them. I shivered as her hand slid against my back and her fingers brushed against my nape.
“You would,” she whispered insistently, still watching the screen.
I returned my own gaze to the spectacle being played out for our enjoyment. The man’s cool planes and angles, the vibrant colors of his flesh-white hands, sky-blue eyes, reddened, blood-engorged penis. The monitors and cameras were high-end; I watched as a tear slid down his drawn cheek.
Pain or pleasure?
The moans that sounded through the amphitheatre weren’t that much of a clue either way.
She huffed and her fingers dug into my nape before falling away. My eyes slid closed for a brief second before focusing again on the performance. The man’s mouth opened in a scream of ecstasy as he came, semen shooting in pearlescent bursts and smearing on his thighs and belly.
It was beautiful.
I joined the rest of the audience in thunderous applause.
The envelope arrived a handful of days later, hand-inked on expensive ivory paper. “Please join me,” it began, and continued on to list particulars.
It was nicely worded, beautifully seductive. Nor Walman, world-renown artist, wanted me to participate in his next performance.
I put the invitation back in its envelope.
“What is this?” Joyce demanded, brandishing the envelope over her head in a white-fingered hand.
“An invitation,” I replied.
“Who does he think he is?” she asked, settling herself on the couc
h next to me.
I touched the remote and silenced the viewscreen just as the image returned to the news room and the news anchor smiled a white-toothed smile and began to speak.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, turning to give her my attention fully. “It’s just an invitation. I don’t have to go.”
“Be his guinea pig, you mean!” She glared balefully at the envelope, as if it personally had done her wrong. “You aren’t going,” she announced.
“No,” I agreed.
She looked poleaxed, and some of her ire leached away from her eyes and lips, relaxing her face. Her tawny eyes traced over me. “Alright, then,” she said finally, gruffly.
She sauntered from the room and I touched the remote to return the sound to an audible level.
The news anchor, ironically, was talking about Nor Walman’s latest reviews.
I thought of the invitation again that night, when I was in bed waiting for her. The sheets were fresh, as always, and soft. They smelled of jasmine and summer evenings. Outside the apartment it was January, and dirty snow was backing up traffic around urban areas across most of the country.
I liked to smell the summer.
As I lay there, I remembered the performance she had taken me to, and the comment she had made as we sat in the darkness of the amphitheatre and watched that man—his guinea pig, as she had called him—become aroused and fall into paroxysms of pleasure under the performer’s masterful touch and manipulation.
It had seemed magical, honest, and strikingly visceral.
She had said that I would be beautiful.
Even as the clocked ticked, I tossed the coverlet aside and crossed the room’s plush, wine-dark carpeting to look at myself in the full-length mirror on the opposing wall. It wasn’t hard to be critical. I was far from perfect. Never one for the expensive treatments that other women seemed to be so fond of, I had resisted all attempts, societal and those of my lovers alike, and retained my natural form.
“I take care of myself,” I said defiantly to the empty room, twisting and turning to look at my waist, my ass. I was nearing thirty, but my age didn’t show. Exercise and good food seemed to keep my flesh taut and toned.
But my breasts seemed loose compared to hers, lumpy, not perky, and my legs were thick with muscle, not slender and sexy.
I liked myself, but I didn’t deceive myself.
“Darling!” She walked in, surprising me.
I twisted, my hair sliding down my neck and back as I dropped my hands, and she slid her arms around my waist and pulled me close to her. Her hands were cold. She kissed me soundly and let her fingers flutter up my ribcage. My nipples pebbled in response and she tweaked one gently before she drew back and began taking off her jacket.
“Were you waiting for me?” She laid her jacket on the end of the bed and sat to unzip her boots, which she tossed to the corner. Her eyes were on me the entire time, watching hungrily. It was exciting, and by the time she had gotten down to her sleek-legged pants and her silk shell, I was wet and anxious for her.
She pulled me down to the sheets and her arms and I went willingly, my mouth seeking and finding hers, our hands brushing and entangling as we touched each other. She knew me, my body, my wants and desires. Her fingers found the right spots to touch and linger over, she slid her palm between my breasts and down to my cunt, just brushing my clit, just when I needed her to.
Inflamed, I peppered kisses down her chin and neck to savor the warmth of her throat and the smooth lines of her collarbone. Her skin was sweet and soft and I loved it. I loved her.
Her fingers knew my secrets, and when they danced over my thighs and then settled on my clit I moaned into her shoulder. I let my own hand trace its course down her flat belly and into her warm folds. She liked to be manipulated, toyed with, touched and played with, and I obliged her, rubbing the heel of my hand against her swelling clit. She arched her back and hissed between her teeth, pressing herself into my hand when I slid a finger into her wetness.
I lathed her nipples with my tongue, one then the other, and began a driving rhythm with my hand and fingers. Her hands clutched my shoulders and her head fell back to the mattress as I slowly withdrew my touch and worked my way down her body until I could sweep my tongue across her slit.
Time blurred then, as I sampled her, punctuated only by her twists and turns and, finally, her breath whispering over my heated sex.
I groaned. She liked to tease. Her laughter tinkled in response and I stiffened my tongue and licked her clit with short, hard strokes in retaliation. Her hand slid immediately to my cunt, fingers slipping and sliding until they found their places and took on an unsteady rhythm.
My body knew hers, had been trained by hers, and I found my orgasm close on the heels of her fingers.
I redoubled my efforts, striving—wishing—to achieve that rare simultaneous feat and erupt in pleasure with Joyce, but her fingers shook and quivered as my tongue worked her and then stopped altogether as her eyes slammed shut and her teeth sank into her lip. She shook with the pleasure, and I changed my stroke to one more soothing even as my hand quested to my abandoned flesh to drive me those last few strokes to relief.
I curled around her and her hand found my hair, fingers twisting in the curls.
“I love you,” she said.
With effort, I twisted to her. Our mouths meshed once more, then Joyce’s hand fell from my cheek and sleep overtook her. I pressed a last kiss to her soft lips and nestled against her.
Even as the lights faded to dimness—the time was pre-set—my thoughts turned back to the ivory invitation and Joyce’s murmur in the shadowed amphitheatre.
I found myself thinking of it more and more often over the next week. First it was amusing, but it quickly became something else. Something that deepened when Joyce called to say she was out with friends and wouldn’t be home until late, and deepened further when she came dragging in after the sun had risen, eyes wide and bright and clothing wrinkled from a night of wearing them.
“You’re up so early,” she greeted when she saw me at the kitchen table. I tilted my chin to meet her “I’m home” kiss, but she was smothering a yawn with her hand and didn’t see.
“Joyce?” I didn’t know what I was going to ask, didn’t know what I wanted to say.
“Just a minute, love. I need caffeine!” She made a beeline for the coffeepot and dialed herself a cup, blowing on the brew to cool it before taking a deep, long drink. Her eyes closed and she leaned against the counter with a contented sigh. “Fabulous!”
“I tried to call you....”
“I know,” she said, pulling out a chair and sliding into it. “We went to a club. I had to turn the phone off.”
I nodded, but I didn’t understand. Why would you have to turn your phone off? Why would Joyce turn her phone off? What if she were to miss an important call?
She stifled another yawn, set down her coffee, and slid her hand into mine to squeeze my fingers. “Busy day ahead?”
“The usual,” I replied absently, my attention absorbed in the feel of her flesh and mine touching. How long had it been since we had held hands?
“You should get moving,” she advised, pulling away and standing, taking her coffee mug with her.
I stood as well, not agreeing, not disagreeing. I felt distinctly out of sorts and bleary. I hadn’t slept well during the night, had been attuned and waiting for her return even as I drowsed, and waking hadn’t worked wonders. Even a shower hadn’t been sufficient to rouse my thoughts from the mire they had, it seemed, sunken into. Thoughts of Joyce and distance—and questions.
“Are you going out?” I asked, mechanically taking my jacket from the chair back and slipping into it. “You should rest.”
“I will, darling,” she agreed, finally leaning over to peck me on the lips. I slid my hand along her cheek to the back of her head, capturing her, and deepened the kiss, involving lips and tongues and passion and need.
She laughed a little as I pulle
d back, and met my gaze with wide eyes. “What was that for?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, and went to work.
He came up to me at lunch, and I didn’t recognize him at first. He wasn’t naked.
“Can I sit?” he asked.
I stared at him long enough that he began to blink and shift uncomfortably, then nodded. I was still trying to place him.
He pulled off his sunglasses, revealing sky-blue eyes.
“You’re....”
His cheekbones colored faintly. “Right,” he said.
“You clean up nicely,” I offered after a minute. I didn’t really know what else to say—and it was the truth. Today he wore pants and casual pullover-type shirt that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. When not stretched out in near-orgasmic agony on a viewscreen, it seemed that he was a man of nice proportion, average height and slightly better than average features.
Having seen his cock, I knew that that particular feature was nothing for him to be ashamed of, either.
My eyes ventured to his face and I smiled. His cheekbones were now boldly stained with red. I licked the yogurt from my spoon. “What did you want?”
His eyes met mine. They were electric, entrancing.
“He asked me to talk to you,” he said, gaze falling to the table.
“He? Oh.”
“He said you haven’t answered his invitation,” he said.
“I....”
A smile flitted across his lips and he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the tabletop. “I didn’t either, at first. But then....”
“You did,” I said.
He nodded. “You should.”
I had no intention of becoming a piece of living artwork, and I told the man so in no uncertain terms. “I’m happy in my job. My career. I’m fulfilled. And my girlfriend....” There I trailed off. I didn’t know what to say, how to finish the sentence.
