by Trisha Telep
The thick fringe of her lashes fluttered, shielding her eyes. But he didn’t need to see them to know the answer. He slid his hand down, curving it over her neck, his thumb resting on the shallow notch at the base.
“I’m the same man now that I was then,” he told her, his voice harsh. “The same man you picked up in a bar, the same man you followed to his hotel, the same man who made love to you and held you when you cried. If I didn’t hurt you then, why would I do it now?”
Her body shuddered and Wyatt tore away with a curse. He stalked away but the sound of her footsteps on the floor behind him made him pause. “Sara –” He turned, certain she’d be running for the door again.
But she wasn’t. She took another step towards him. Another. Another. “You can’t expect me to unlearn everything I’ve believed since my brother died, Wyatt,” she said.
“I don’t.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “I’m not an impulsive person. Or at least I didn’t used to be. I didn’t pick up men in bars. I didn’t go to hotels with strangers. I never would have believed I could develop some bizarre Buffy obsession and start hunting for monsters that can’t exist.”
Am I doing this? Without a doubt, the answer was yes. And it was what Sara had wanted to do from the time she opened her eyes and saw him sitting in a chair, his gaze focused on the setting sun. She’d watched as his face flushed red, as though burned, watched as blisters formed and then faded moments later as the sun disappeared.
If she’d harboured doubts over what he was, they would have died in that moment. But even the knowledge of what he was didn’t stop her.
She doubted anything could.
There was no reason for what she was doing. Couldn’t be. Nothing rational, nothing sane, but she still didn’t stop. She took another step and this one brought them so close, their bodies all but touched. “And I also wouldn’t have thought, even a few hours ago, that anything could change my mind about what a monster is. And what a monster isn’t.”
She lifted her head, stared into his eyes. “I’m not willing to change my mind on it. Not yet. Maybe never. I don’t know if I’m ready to give that up.”
Reaching up, she traced a finger across his lips and whispered, “But I can’t change my mind on you either.£ She pressed lightly on his bottom lip and opened his mouth, slowly, just a little, as though he didn’t want to at all. His fangs weren’t showing, but she could remember how they looked, found herself wondering why they weren’t visible now. “Even with these.”
Sara thought back. He could have hurt her at any time during the day while she slept. Or on any number of occasions a year ago, and he hadn’t. Deep inside, she knew he wouldn’t . . . couldn’t. As strong as her grief and rage was, her belief in him was even stronger. Her knees went weak as his lips closed around her finger, sucking lightly, nipping on her fingertip as she slowly pulled her hand back. “I dream about you and I know I’m not ready to give that up.”
His pupils flared, a harsh breath escaped him. Pushing up onto her toes, she pressed her mouth to his.
For the next 30 seconds, he stood almost frozen as she kissed him. Still, so still she was starting to develop a complex but then his hands came up, grasped her waist.
“What are you doing, Sara?” he whispered against her lips.
“Can’t you tell?” Tipping her head back, she smiled at him and slid her hands under the shirt. “We did it plenty last year. I thought you said you remembered everything.”
The hands at her waist shook, a convulsive, involuntary tightening that drew her closer. “Are you sure about this?”
“No,” she replied honestly. “But I am sure about you. You wouldn’t hurt me. I’ve spent the past year dreaming about you and I’m tired of dreams.” Holding his gaze, she pushed up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.
And this time he kissed her back. His arms banded around her, pulling her off the floor. The room spun as he pivoted, walking backwards to the bed and falling down on it, taking her with him. The time spent apart ceased to exist as they fought free of their clothes. His body was hard, cool against the warmth of hers, but with every passing minute, his body heated until his skin seemed to burn as hot as hers.
His hands raced over her, touching her with a desperate greed that she recognized. It seemed as though Wyatt was as greedy for her as she was for him. He nipped her lower lip, kissed his way down her neck, took one aching nipple in his mouth. As he suckled on her, he wedged his hips between her thighs and pressed against her. She moaned out his name, fisted her hands in his hair and tugged until he brought his mouth back to hers. His taste – it was like nothing she’d ever known. She loved it. It was addictive.
Just like his touch. Just like his hands and his body. The way he looked at her, the way he stared at her as he played with her hair, the way he whispered her name as she drifted off to sleep in his arms. All of him. Everything.
He pushed inside her and she tore her mouth away from his to suck in a desperate gasp of air. His lips brushed against her cheek, to her neck. He kissed a hot, burning path down to her neck, across her collarbone, before he pushed up onto his hands and stared down at her as he started to move. “You wouldn’t believe how often I’ve wanted to do this,” he rasped.
She reached up, brushed her fingers across his upper lip, lingering at the faint bulge of fangs just underneath. He tensed, tried to turn his head away, but she slid her hand behind his neck, tangled her fingers in his hair. “As often as me?” she asked, tugging his head down towards her. “Kiss me.”
He did, but it was careful. Cautious. She hated it. Instinct drove her and she deepened the kiss, took it rougher. She felt the response inside her body, in the hard, driving rhythm of his hips against hers. Not enough, again. It was instinct that had her pulling back from his kiss – just a little. Just enough. Enough so that she could sink her teeth into his lower lip and bite. He froze. A smug smile curled her lips as she met his eyes.
A rough growl escaped him. His eyes dropped to her mouth and he swore, crushing his lips to hers. At the same time, he slid a hand down her side, palmed her bottom and lifted her. One deep thrust, then another. Another. It hit hard, fast hot, slamming through them with hurricane force. Tearing her mouth away, she cried out his name while he buried his face in her neck, groaning.
Heart pounding in her ears, struggling to breathe, she closed her eyes. He rolled off her and pulled her up against him, stroking a hand up and down her back. “Are you OK?”
“Hmmmm.” Sara couldn’t quite find the energy to lift her lids, but that was OK.
“Not an answer, damn it. You’ve got a concussion. What in the hell was I thinking?”
Heaving out a sigh, she forced her eyes open and reached up, pressing her fingers to his mouth. “Stop. I’m fine. Tired. But fine.”
Very, very tired, actually. Her lids felt weighted and she didn’t bother fighting it any more. With his hand stroking up and down her back, and his body warm and strong against hers, she felt more at peace than she had in months. Since the last night with him.
Sleep dropped down on her hard and fast.
She could have been asleep for two minutes or two hours. Sara didn’t know. All she did know was the warmth and security she’d felt while she slept in Wyatt’s arms was abruptly gone and she was unceremoniously shoved off the bed, hitting the floor on the far side.
“Stay down,” Wyatt growled.
Blinking, trying to force her brain to wake up, she peered up over the side of the bed as the hotel door flew open. The vampire standing there was the one who’d grabbed her the night before. He flicked her a glance, a wide grin spreading across his face and then he looked at Wyatt. She saw his hand come up. Saw her crossbow.
She screamed.
Wyatt dodged away, evading the other vampire with ease. Sara scrambled across the bed, reaching for her gun. A cold hand grabbed her ankle.
Wyatt snarled. “Let her go.”
She kicked out, connecting with
a belly that felt as hard as iron, but he didn’t let go. He tugged and she lunged, made another grab for her gun – and this time, she got it. Because he’d let her go – or rather, been forced to let her go. Drywall cracked as Wyatt threw him into the wall.
Sara turned just in time to see Wyatt reaching for the other vampire and the other vampire lifting her crossbow. Time slowed down to a crawl. There was a scream trapped inside her head, one that couldn’t break free. But as the silver-tipped bolt pierced Wyatt’s chest, Sara jerked her gun up, sighted and pulled the trigger. The muffles pop sounded terribly loud, although logically she knew nobody outside the hotel room could have heard it.
Blood, bone and more grisly matter exploded and the other vampire slumped back. Dead. Totally dead, his body limp, the top half of his head gone.
But Sara didn’t care. She was too busy moving for Wyatt, catching his swaying body before he could crash to the floor. Under his weight, she fell onto the bed, clutching him against her. “Wyatt . . .”
His amber eyes turned blindly towards her. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Get out of here, Sara. Somebody . . . probably called the cops.” He started to cough and more blood stained his lips when the fit passed. “Get out.”
“Not without you.”
His lids lowered. “Can’t. Too close to the heart. I’m not going –” his body arched and shuddered “–anywhere. Not strong enough right now.”
Desperate, Sara shoved him off her lap, braced his weight on her side. “You’re not dying. I’m not leaving you here.” She closed her hand around the bolt and jerked. It wouldn’t budge. “Help me, Wyatt.”
“Get out of here, Sara!” he rasped, his voice harsh, but weaker.
“You want me out, you help me.”
He swore, but reached up, grabbed the bolt and ripped it out. It fell to the bed beside him as dark, dark red blood flowed from the wound. “Get out, Sara.”
She barely heard him. She was too busy staring at the silver-tipped bolt. Her bolt. Her weapon. He was going to die because of her.
No.
His voice came back to haunt her as she stared at the bloodied arrow. Most of the mythology surrounding vampires is either pure nonsense or highly exaggerated.
Most. Not all. She barely remembered reaching for the arrow. Didn’t remember pressing the barbed sharp edge to her wrist and slicing her flesh. Didn’t remember anything until she wound her hand in his hair and guided his mouth to her wrist.
He jerked back. “No.”
“Yes.”
Wyatt grabbed her wrist and shoved it away. “No. Get out of here, Sara. Get out, now.”
“You want me gone you’ll have to make me. You can’t do that if you die.”
He shook his head, but even that took too much effort.
She went cold, somehow realizing he was out of time. Sliding off the bed, she knelt so he could see her face. “Don’t die on me, Wyatt. Please don’t die. I haven’t spent the past year dreaming about you because the sex was good. I need you.”
His lashes barely flickered. Breath rattled out of his lungs. All but blinded by tears, she shoved her wrist to his mouth once more. He brushed his lips, against her wrist. His lashes lifted and she stared into his eyes. “Please.”
He struck.
It didn’t hurt. That was all she could think of as his mouth worked at her wrist. It didn’t hurt – and it didn’t last more than a few minutes. Still too much time thought, because, as he shoved off the bed, moving far too slow and stiff, she could hear the wail of sirens in the distance.
“Get out of here,” he muttered, turning his head to look at her.
The hole in his chest was no longer pumping out blood but he still looked too damn pale. She grabbed her shirt from the floor, her jeans and hurriedly put them on. “Sure. You’re coming.”
His lids flickered. But he nodded, stumbled towards the door, just barely thought to grab the keys from the table and his shirt. On the way outside, she wrapped it around her wrist in a messy, cumbersome bandage.
“Benz.” He mumbled.
She got the door open and he collapsed inside. She ran around, climbed in, started up the car.
“Don’t speed,” he said, his voice thick, slurred.
“I won’t,” she said and forced a smile. “I’ve been evading the police off and on for close to a year now.”
The next 30 minutes were silent. Too silent. She kept sending him looks, terrified he wasn’t going to make it and a few times she almost started to panic, because he wasn’t breathing. Did he even have to breath? But then his lids would move, he’d shift and her heart would start to beat again.
When he spoke up, his voice was strong, cutting through the silence. “Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m sitting here buck naked. Sooner or later somebody might notice.”
A familiar blue sign reflected back at her as her headlights splashed across it. “There’s a rest stop in a mile. I’ll pull over there.”
He was quiet. Didn’t speak at all as she pulled over at the rest stop or as he reached behind the seat and grabbed a bag, hauled it up and dressed. He managed to do both gracefully and silently – not easy considering he was sitting in the passenger seat of a car. Luxury car or not.
“We ready?”
“Not quite.” He grabbed her and hauled her into his lap, his eyes focusing on her face. His fingers closed around her wrist, unwrapping it. Tossing the bloodied, ruined shirt aside, he lifted her wrist and studied the gash. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, lifting her wrist to his mouth. She hissed as he licked it, and she automatically tried to pull away.
“Be still,” he said.
“You’re licking a very sore open wound,” she said dryly.
“Hmmm. It will help it heal, keep it from getting infected.” From under his lashes, he shot her a look. “Why did you do this?”
She went still. “I . . . I don’t really know. But I had to. I couldn’t stand to think about you dying.”
He brushed his fingers across her cheek. “You said you needed me. How can you need me? I’m a vampire. We’ve spent exactly eight days together. One week last year. And today. How can you need me?”
She licked her lips, leaned in and pressed a kiss on his cheek. “I don’t know, but probably for the same reason that I couldn’t hurt you. Probably for the same reason you told me to leave you there to die.” Looping her arms around his neck, she cuddled against him. “You’re OK, right? You’re not . . .” A sob escaped her lips and she buried her face against his shoulder.
“Shh.” He stroked a hand up her back. “I’ll be fine. Thanks to you.”
She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. Wasn’t. Wasn’t. And after about two minutes and dashing away her tears and sniffling, she almost believed it. Lifting her head, she self-consciously wiped the damp tear tracks from her face before looking at him.
“So you what?” He asked.
“I think maybe you should take me with you – wherever you’re going. After all. I’m not exactly safe to let put around you vampire types.”
A faint smile curled his lips even as he shook his head. “You don’t want that, Sara.”
“Why not?”
“You come with me. I won’t ever let you go.” He sighed, laid a hand on her cheek. His flesh was still cool, too cool.
Laying her hand over his, she whispered, “Promise?”
His eyes glowed, for just a second, reflecting golden light back at her. “Sara, you’re asking for trouble.”
“You’re trouble. Sexy. Broody. Not entirely truthful when we first met. Vampire. And I’m asking for you, so yeah, I am asking for trouble.” She pressed her lips to his, forgetting that he’d had his lips pressed to her bloodied wrist. By the time she remembered, she didn’t even care.
“We don’t really even know each other,” he muttered against her lips.
“So? We’ve got time, right?”
He laughed softly. �
�Yeah. We’ve got time.”
Remember the Blood
Vicki Pettersson
Ina moves through the crowd as if leashed and muzzled, careful to make eye contact with no one, to touch no one. Sensuality is her perfume – as it won’t be long now – so she can’t fault people around her from undressing her with their eyes. She can barely refrain from touching herself. Although knowing better, yesterday she opened a door she shouldn’t have, entered a club packed with people desperate to start their New Year’s celebration early and paid the price in mounting frustration. Dozens of bodies had ground against her, hands sliding over her waist, across her belly; seeking, too, the outer curves of her breasts, her ass. Fingers had pressed and kneaded, searching for something they’d never possess, begging with wordless, tensile strength, as if Ina were a living talisman.
The crowd tonight is different. No one dares to touch her at a black-tie event. Not even at a New Year’s Eve gala, when Dom flows as freely as water. Not even when she’s dressed in silk so thin it outlines her nipples. Not even though she’s so aroused she’s sure some of them can smell it on her.
Still, they watch. She feels their thoughts – pretty fireworks going off behind curtained gazes – rising into the air to explode with coloured lust and hopes and dreams. And that’s just the women.
Being at the centre of a desire that borders on worship is hard to describe and, if someone had asked her to, the closest Ina could come is this: she is more than woman; she is goddess. There are others like her, but she is uncommon enough to be idealized, the humours at such perfect balance inside her bodily vessel that she is at once both at peace with eternal life and kissing cousins to lumbering death.
And yet, and yet . . . Ina has found herself unexpectedly living in a world that worships girls. All of a sudden, to open one’s thighs is to declare yourself a woman, and to capture it in video or print is to make it true. If she’d known how lonely this would cause her to feel, displaced rather than elevated, an eidolon rather than a deity, she may have chosen to remain an innocent, ignorant girl herself.
