Christmas Bite: A Golden Vampires of Tuscany Novella

by Sharon Hamilton

  He stoked the fireplace with several new pieces of split oak. He washed his hands and then laid his canvas satchel next to the sink. He slowly approached with his head bowed. “I have very few things in this world that I care about. I require little in the way of comforts. I don’t like jewelry or adornments. I am a simple man, Phoebe. You’ll learn that about me in time.”

  “Am I—?” She was going to touch his cheek again, but he caught her wrist in mid-air.

  “You make it difficult. Please, let me get my bearings first. My primary job is to keep you safe. I can’t do that if I don’t concentrate.”

  Her eyes teared up. Perhaps she’d been wrong, and what she was feeling wasn’t matched on his side. Or maybe it was her mortality that caused her to be needy. He was warning her, and all she wanted to do was run into the danger of his arms.

  It took courage to turn away from him and walk toward her doorway without looking back, until she heard the warm whisky of his voice.

  “But the answer to your question, dear Phoebe, is yes. You are one of the things that I care about, a dangerous and pleasurable joy.”

  When she looked over her shoulder he didn’t hide the deep studying perusal, drinking in every contour and feature of her body as if it was the last time he’d see her.

  There. You feel how I want you, see you, Phoebe? Is it enough for now?

  She knew he was hoping for a de-escalation between them, but her heart wouldn’t let that happen. She dropped her arms by her sides.

  It is not enough, Lionel. It will never be enough for me.

  He reacted like he’d been slapped. He gulped in air and squeezed his hands into fists. She knew he was at the same edge she was, and it took her breath away.

  They heard her mother and father were making their way upstairs. She waited for him to break eye contact first, and then swung herself over to the landing, embraced her mother, and kissed her good night. Her parents retired up the stairs, holding hands. Her mother was babbling about something she’d seen today at the market and was not paying attention to her, or to the dark man at her back whose eyes Phoebe could feel, whose hot breath warmed her from ten feet away where he stood at his own doorway, ready to fall into Hell with her, or anything else she might command.

  Chapter 13

  FEELING HER THOUGHTS was like watching a woman undress behind a frosted glass curtain. Occasionally, he’d catch a tinge of red or a fold of flesh with a charcoal grey shadow separating a smooth surface from a mysterious cavern.

  The scent of her arousal seared his nostrils and made him bite his own tongue. He licked his lips and extended his hand so that his fingertips rested on the white flesh of her delicate shoulder. Pinching an errant curl from the back of her neck, he tucked it into the crystal-studded clip clasped there. His palm widened as he traveled the arch of her neck from the top of her blouse until his fingers dove into her hairline.

  Phoebe leaned her head back, and he angled forward where he could place his cheek against hers. He inhaled her perfume, dabbed beneath her ear in the fine, delicate hairs. His lips parted as he ran his tongue along the jugular vein and felt the movement of attracted tissue below the surface.

  She grabbed his hand and placed it to her breast, mating with his fingers and squeezing her flesh.

  “I have never tasted anything so exquisite, Phoebe.”

  She slid in his arms to press her gentle body against his, pressing her mounds of flesh against his knotted nipples reaching out to her through the cotton of his shirt.

  “I have need, Lionel. I can’t think.”

  He held her head, his hands sliding to the graceful arch of her neck to clutch and pull her face to him.

  “It is wrong, Phoebe. You know this is wrong.” He marveled in the smooth marble of her skin, planting little kisses and hearing his love purring in her ear.

  Having charmed her, he was going to pull away and flee to the safety of a locked oak door, but she lowered her chin, placed her fingers at his lips, and whispered, “Then kiss me like an appropriate arranged marriage partner would. Teach me how to be obedient to your will, my future consort, so that I can bloom alongside of you and give you comfort as a good wife should.”

  The prospect of teaching her about sex, being her first experience, patterning kisses over her body with the ancient mating knowledge, and filling her every orifice with his seed brought down his canines. As their lips met, she opened to him, sucking his tongue deep inside the warm cavern of her mouth. He repeated the kiss, curling to cover her tongue, caressing it under his sharp incisor and pricking the surface to taste her sweet elixir.

  Her fingers covered his lips, her hot breath and mouth feeding from him. He clipped his own tongue and spread his blood over her teeth and gums, which made her shudder.

  “Too much?” he whispered, running his fingers over the blue vein in her neck, admiring it like the wonder that was her body.

  “No. Never too much. I. Need. This.” She grabbed his head, deepening her kiss until he could barely breathe.

  She pulled him backwards into her room and closed the door behind him. Then she began to disrobe.

  “No.”

  She didn’t pay attention and removed her blouse and a lacy undergarment.

  “No, Phoebe. I won’t be able to stop. We cannot do this.”

  Her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt and jerked, popping the buttons all over the floor.

  “Phoebe, your desire for me is flattering, but it’s dangerous.”

  “Then do what you can. Do everything you can. Everything a husband is legally required and commanded to do. Serve me, Lionel. Make me whole. Change me forever.”

  He was losing the will to think. If he did not figure out something and quick, they’d not live to have another encounter.

  He lifted her, draping her gently over her bed. By the light of the fireplace, he watched her peach body wracked with need. Her bare breasts stood in stiff peaks, her nipples bright red and bursting with the blood he’d summoned in her body. Seeing the power he had over her emboldened him further. His cock ardently sought redemption, but he denied himself, instead pulling up her skirts and exposing her sex to him.

  He slid to the bed with his knees bent, supporting her buttocks in his lap, steadying her hips in an angle for his hungry tongue. He licked the gash between her legs, rubbing his sharp canines over her little bud, nicking it.

  Her eyes flew open, and her hands clutched his thighs. Even through his trousers, she’d drawn blood. Her petals fell back on themselves as he pressed his thumb into her opening, then pinched and bled her nub, bringing the blood of her sex to his mouth.

  “Yes. Taste me, Lionel.”

  He bent down, curling his tongue, before sliding it in and around the fleshy plug that held her virginity safely in place. He sucked at the young girl she was, begging her to become his woman with every stroke lovingly delivered.

  He righted himself slowly, noticing the pain and satisfaction crossing her face and her desperate need for more. He considered the gray area in which he tread. Pleasuring her orally, he could make her come for him over and over again. Of that he was certain. He could fill her body with such exquisite pleasure she’d never want to be without him. He could give her all that.

  But he could not give her the blood bite ritual that would forever alter her trajectory and rob her of her mortal life. He could lead her up to the precipice and then let her fall back into his arms over and over again until she had no strength left, until there was no breath in her body. She was not Maria. She was the woman Maria primed him for, the one he’d waited centuries to claim as his own.

  But he’d have to wait a bit longer. He had no right to claim her fully. Not yet.

  “Taste me,” she moaned.

  With hot tears in his eyes, he cried for the fourth time. He licked the delicate, engorged lips of her sex, applied his spittle to the soft bowl between those golden folds and the top of her thigh, then bit deep and hard, robbing her of her blood, but not her
virginity nor her mortal life. As her warm elixir traveled over his tongue and down his throat, everything became very clear.

  They were indeed a fated pair, but they’d have to wait to assuage what he really needed most, and until he got permission, he’d have to remain unsatisfied.

  Someday, he’d claim her for all eternity, for his own.

  And nothing would be able to stop him.

  Chapter 14

  PHOEBE AWOKE ALONE, the sheets of her bed twisted and torn from the mattress. The taste of his sweet kisses still lingered in her mouth. She inhaled, stretching, feeling the power of the fire growing in her soul. She was going to find it difficult to spend the many daylight hours until they could physically be together again.

  Selena arrived and put her hand to her mouth at the shocking sight of her ravished bed.

  “Miss Phoebe. You had a difficult night?”

  Phoebe rolled her head slowly in a careful circle, allowing her hair to hang and cover her laughing face. “Dreams. I had so many wild dreams.”

  “Your illness has returned then? Are you with fever again?” The young woman felt her forehead and shook her head, no. “Your stomach?” The attendant began to lift her nightgown, and Phoebe pressed it back down.

  She didn’t even remember putting on the gown, or what time it was when Lionel left her bed. Her petticoats and frock were thrown in a bundle in the corner.

  Her bed was re-made, and she was ushered to the shower. “Your mother is waiting for you downstairs. Your future husband has locked himself in his room, but Samuel is awake and taking breakfast with your brothers.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.”

  The soapy bubbles were soothing, until she felt the dull ache at the top of her leg next to her sex. Her fingers traveled over two swollen bumps, once deep puncture wounds now healed but still evident. Her fingers came back without blood. She pressed the delicate tissue, and the pain made her cry out.

  She quickly washed her hair, combing it out with the rare oil her father had brought back from one of his visits to North Africa. Her favorite pair of sloppy jeans slipped easily up to her hips and didn’t disturb her wounds.

  With her light pink lipstick applied to cover the raw red color her lips had become, she tied her hair back in a ponytail, and danced her way downstairs barefoot.

  Her brothers were eating waffles and orange juice, as was Samuel, who sat across from them. She joined her family and took a fresh-squeezed glass for herself. Her parents sipped their daily cappuccino and shared a handful of grapes.

  Freya was studying her carefully, her eyes boring into her flesh. Phoebe pretended not to notice by changing the subject.

  “Samuel, tonight is the dance celebration. Perhaps we could go over to the hall and practice before nightfall?”

  “Nothing would please me more,” he said with a smile and toasted her with his orange juice.

  Salvatore Dominichelli studied a paper in German, one of seven he read each day. Phoebe and her mother’s eyes finally met. “Mother, would you like to attend the party this evening?”

  “No. Our dancing days are over for right now. But we are going to the Monteleones’, to listen to some new recordings Marcus has obtained. Very old and very rare.” She lowered her lashes and smiled to her cappuccino. “And I’m going to discuss some arrangements for the wedding with Anne.”

  Of course, Phoebe thought. Lionel was not a man of means, and he only had bachelor brothers without wives, so there was no one on his side to help with the preparations.

  “He likes things simple. Not fancy or ornate.”

  “Well then,” she cleared her throat and returned with, “When he finds a fated female and has daughters of his own, he will understand that the groom has very little say about it. Everything is about the bride.”

  Samuel gave a puzzled expression, but her brothers kept eating.

  PHOEBE AND SAMUEL rode their bicycles over to the studio. A car with two additional protectors followed a distance behind. The fall colors were ripe with oranges and deep burgundy, leaves skittling over the narrow cobblestoned streets.

  The dance hall had been an assembly hall during World War II, a place for political speeches and protests, even some bloodshed, or so she was told. Her father confided to her about the olive oil and money he donated to the Italian armies, especially when they returned from losing campaigns. The family had considered moving to the States, but Salvatore was certain the winery and olive groves would be confiscated and never returned to them. They stayed to defend their lands, while appearing to defend the armies of their country and whatever politician they could befriend and trust.

  But now the wooden building had been renovated and painted a soft peach. The wood floors inside were sanded and re-finished, making them perfect for dancing. The huge windows let in the most beautiful sunlight by day, showing full moon and stars at night.

  A ballet class currently practiced, with youngsters of preschool age, dressed in pink tutus, taught by a skinny nun in a black modern habit. She and Samuel sat quietly and watched their attempts at running, leaping, and assuming various positions. The sister’s exacting fingers, tried to make them do what their little limbs could not yet achieve.

  The pianist was also the woman who occasionally drove several of the parish priests on their errands. She was a full-time resident at the Catholic school Phoebe had attended.

  At last, she smiled in their direction, collected her music, waddled across the floor in lace-up shoes that squeaked. The bevy of young dancers disappeared like petals in the wind as their parents stopped by to pick them up.

  Samuel took her hand and pulled her around the dance floor. She threw her head back and allowed the centrifugal force to pull her body, making it feel like she was flying. He broke his hold to turn on the music, and they cavorted back and forth in an Argentinian Tango. He held her close, then pushed her hip away with the palm of his other hand until she ran out of tether and came back to him. He spun her, slid on his knees to her feet, and even worked a cartwheel into the routine.

  Phoebe was filled with delight.

  “Where did you learn this?”

  “I watch television, but my mother had always wanted me to be a dancer,” he said, breathing heavily. “She took me everywhere to live shows. I loved them.”

  “But I can see you took it up. You’re a natural.”

  “Never took lessons until recently, with you. But gymnastics was my gig. And then there was soccer—football as you call it here.”

  She followed his lead through several other sets and knew that, had she never met Lionel, she could convince herself to want to spend time with a man like this. He was handsome, athletic, and he liked to move and to laugh. He enjoyed exploring, and he smiled often. Life would be uncomplicated with someone like him.

  But there would be no passion, no fire. No danger. She wanted to be stalked, hunted, and claimed. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was dancing in Lionel’s arms.

  As the next piece came on, Phoebe recognized the rhythm of a waltz. She assumed her square box arms position and allowed him to glide her across the floor, twirling, leaning back as she did so.

  The two American protectors from the car showed up in the doorway.

  Samuel shrugged. “I think this means we have to go home.”

  THE AFTERNOON HOURS dragged on. She attempted to read a book. Then she took a nap by the fireplace downstairs. Samuel studied some maps, then grabbed his computer to order several items online. He called one of the other team members who were readying a trip back to California with Marcus and Paolo and the family.

  Phoebe’s mother and father left with her brothers for the evening with the Monteleones as the sun was setting. Her heart began to race the deeper blue it got outside, until she heard the distinctive turn of the lock and the heavy iron hinges squeak, indicating Lionel was now awake.

  “He’s up,” she whispered to Samuel. “I’m going to try one more time to get him to come with us
.”

  “Good luck with that. I’m going to shower, so I’ll be ready whenever you are.”

  “Thank you for today. I had a wonderful time.”

  “Me too.” He embraced her, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek.

  Phoebe felt the hot eyes of her future husband burning a hole in the back of her neck and what sounded like a growl. She was not surprised to see Lionel standing at the foot of the stairway with his hands made into fists.

  “Oh, I’m glad you’re awake.” She walked carefully towards him, slightly embarrassed by the fantasies dancing in her head she was trying desperately to mask. “Remember about the dance at the hall, Lionel? Samuel and I are going to go this evening. I know you’ve said no before, but could you please find it in your heart to accompany me—us?”

  Samuel was motionless, waiting for Lionel’s response.

  “How long?” he asked.

  Samuel spoke first before Phoebe could. “Not long. An hour, two at the most. She’d like to show you the routines we’ve worked out.”

  She heard his soft growl again.

  Fingering a buttonhole in his shirt, she whispered, “And I wanted to formally introduce you to the other couples. It’s not a large crowd. Why don’t you come? I think you’d like it.”

  Please, Lionel. I would like you there, and I also think it would be smart.

  “Okay, but I have no other help tonight, and your parents are gone. Hugh is with Jeb.”

  “Thank you.” Phoebe turned to Samuel. “Go, off with you. Get your shower in, quick!” She clapped her hands, and Samuel shot to the back of the kitchen and disappeared.

  She returned to the buttonhole, but he caught her hand before she could slither her errant finger through to touch him.

  Phoebe closed her eyes and angled her mouth up towards him. “Give me one of those appropriate, arranged marriage kisses that makes me loose my mind.” Her lips created a generous pucker for effect.

  He covered her mouth and gave her a taste of his blood, which sent an electric shot down her spine that made her tingle all over.