The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  Then Lare raises a single brow. She doesn't speak, only inclines her head toward our block, with an obvious question in her eyes. I nod, heart throbbing in my chest, and I grip her hand tightly. Together we begin to stroll back toward my house, Helly just behind us, tail wagging now that his walk, at last, is done.

  I unlock the door, and slowly, carefully, as if I have all the time in the world, I set up Van Helsing—with water, a blanket, the stuffed cat toy that Colette never acknowledges—in the guest bedroom again. I double-check, before I close the door, that Colette is occupied elsewhere, and I'm relieved to find her stalking a shadow in the hallway. “Have a nice nap, Helly,” I whisper.

  When I glance down at my hand on the doorknob, I realize that it's shaking.

  I think every atom in my whole body is shaking.

  When I summon up the courage to walk to the threshold of my bedroom, I draw in a quavery breath.

  Lare is seated, legs crossed, on the edge of my bed. She's leaning back on her hands, and her head is tilted to one side; red waves spill over her shoulder. The lights are off, but sunshine filters through the filmy curtains, illuminating the planes of her face, the soft curve of her breasts. I notice, with a flush of heat, that the buttons of her lavender shirt are already undone, top to bottom...

  I cross the space between us, and slowly, reverently, I kneel down in front of her. When she gazes at me, my breath catches: the deep, dark, silver-blue of her eyes pins me in place. Waves of desire shudder throughout my body as I brush my hand over her calf, then curl my fingers around her leg and trace gently, softly, up into the warm curve of her knee, along her thigh. Lare exhales and opens her legs in one smooth, silent motion.

  I move between her legs and angle my face up, drawing one arm around her neck, pulling her mouth down toward me. I taste her, kiss her, find her wanting me just as much as I want her. Her tongue moves past my lips, seeking.

  Lare moans as my hand finds the button of her jeans, as I undo it and peel down her zipper. She shimmies, and I tug her pants over her rear, her legs, her ankles, discarding them in a messy pile at the foot of the bed.

  I sit back on my heels then, hooking my fingers beneath the hem of my t-shirt. I pull it over my head, my loosened hair falling against bare shoulders, causing me to shiver. Lare stares at me with those all-seeing eyes, eyes that reflect me as I lick my lips and unclasp my bra.

  And then she's here, right here: she slides off of the bed, eases on top of me. She removes my bra with expert grace as she kisses me hard, tossing the confection of lace and silk aside. I groan as her hand finds my left nipple. She squeezes my breast, and she's between my legs, but I'm still wearing my jeans...so she teases me, taunts me, supernaturally resisting the urge to press her hips against my own. She straddles me, then, staring down at me with a toothy, mischievous grin as she shrugs out of her own shirt, letting it slide over her shoulders.

  I reach up, brushing my fingers against her soft curls, but Lare interrupts, taking my wrists and pressing them down gently into the carpeting on either side of my head.

  She arches over me, and her hair drifts over my face in a perfumed cloud: lilies, sugar, sex. I feel her teeth around my nipple and cry out, biting my lip as she bites down, tugging, tugging. I bend my head back; I can feel her smiling against my skin.

  She traces a pattern of kisses, of gentle, lovely bites, back and forth between my breasts, leaving a wet trail between them. She lets go of my wrists, kissing lower and lower, trailing her tongue lower and lower, until she laves against the indentation of my belly button. I gasp as her fingers curl under the hem of my panties, tugging them down over my hips with an insistent pull.

  Lare, too, removes her bra, her bottoms, her actions desperate, evidence of need. She can't wait anymore. I can't wait anymore. When our naked bodies collide, I hiss out in pleasure as I spread my legs, wrapping them around her so that my center and hers make exquisite contact. She presses down, and I can feel how wet I am against her, and when she moves, rising and falling in an undulating rhythm, my pulse pounds through me, concentrating on that perfect place where our bodies blend and burn.

  She pauses, panting, her mouth open, her eyes as dark as night. I shiver beneath her, glimpsing the power, the raw desire in her stare. Lare reaches down with a slow hand, prolonging her desperation, my desperation. I hold myself as still as possible, but I tremble with anticipation. And then her nails are against my stomach, seeking down, down, until she finds and claims my wet curve. Jolted, I spread my legs further, aching, asking. Lare smiles into my shoulder, and I can feel the points of her teeth against my skin.

  I breathe out in a moan, feeling my wetness accommodate her fingers, feeling my body shift and respond to her. Lare presses her mouth to my ear, kisses me softly there as she finds a new rhythm, curling her fingers inside of me, pressing her thumb to my clit with delicious pressure.

  I cry out her name as the rhythm intensifies, as the length of her body, of my body, meld into one being. I know where she is, where every inch of her is in relation to me, even though my eyes are closed, even though my head is thrown back, even though I'm floating in a perfect, incandescent darkness.

  Then I feel her teeth at my neck again.

  And in this moment, I realize something shocking: I would let her drink from me.

  I have lain myself bare to her in every way, and I would let her join me in every way if she wanted to. But she doesn't want to. I feel that truth in my bones. Lare is a vampire, yes, but she's dedicated her career to finding an alternative to blood, to raising her species up, to trying to make things better. For everyone.

  I don't know how other vampires make love to humans—my sister, typically a fount of information, is close-lipped about her sex life with Marcus—but I do know that this experience is unlike any I've ever had before. I can feel the hardness of her teeth at my neck as she curls and curves her fingers inside of me, flicking her thumb in a maddening cadence as I wrap my arms around her shoulders, tighten my legs at her waist, as the two of us move together, merge together.

  When the orgasm comes, I see stars, bright points of light that explode in my vision, dissolving everything else, all that I am. The build-up of pressure, that perfect, sweet release, sweeps through my muscles in undulating waves of pleasure. I feel open, discovered...undone.

  Lare holds me tightly, teasing wave after wave out of me until I'm trembling, weak, until I arc past the edge and feel too much sensation, too much grandeur...

  And then, intuitively, she stops. As if she knows me, inside and out. As if she can read me like a well-loved book.

  She trails her wet fingers up my leg slowly, slowly, along my side, shaping them to the curve of my hip, tracing a shining line over my skin as I pant beneath her, as I try to catch my breath. Arching over me, Lare brushes her lips against mine.

  I return her kiss—gently, softly. I just want to taste her, marvel at her. She presses little kisses to my jaw, the hollow under my chin, my neck, the curve behind my ear, and then she moves down my neck to my clavicle, my sternum, my breasts, kissing me over and over again as I sigh, in wonder, beneath her.

  She says, “You move like all the right words,” her French accent pronounced, her words low, thick. I wrap my fingers in her hair, letting the caress of her satin curls tease my skin. “You move like the perfect line in a book,” she goes on, whispering, her head tilted to the side as she rests her chin on my breast, pressing a kiss to my peaked nipple. “I want to learn your every line,” she tells me then, her voice fervent. “I want to memorize every line of you.”

  I sit up on my elbows, strength and need and want surging back into me.

  I don't say anything, because I can think of nothing to say. Instead, I kiss her hard, aching for her all over again.

  Breathless, I crawl on top of Lare, pressing my body against hers. Beneath me, her red hair fans out around her head like sunbeams, and when I bend down to kiss her, I dwell in her warmth: the warmth of her skin, of her red mouth, of her
curves.

  We fit together like two gold-gilt pages in a rare, secret book.

  Chapter Ten: Trust Me

  I wake to the toe-curling sensation of a warm mouth pressed to the slope of my neck. My eyes flutter open, and my body curves toward Lare's, as if by deep instinct.

  “Courtney?” Lare whispers, her voice low and soft in my ear. “I'm sorry. I hate to wake you. But I have to go and wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Oh...” I blink, then sit up on my elbows, glancing at the bedside clock. It's half past four in the morning and still pitch dark outside. The light from the hallway casts Lare's face in shadows. “What's wrong?”

  “Don't worry,” she tells me soothingly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I got a page from work. There's been an emergency.”

  “What? Another—”

  “They just need my help with something. So I told them I'm come in.”

  I wrap my fingers around the collar of her white shirt, already buttoned up. She's fully dressed, and wet curls drape over her shoulders, as if she just took a shower. Leaning down again, she presses her mouth to the tender place where my neck meets my shoulder.

  I swallow, holding tightly to her. “Just...be careful,” I breathe into her ear.

  We made love Saturday evening and spent a languorous Sunday in bed, rising occasionally to eat or drink or tend to Helly and Colette. Decadent hours, and a sublime shiver of pleasure moves through me as I realize that this is only the beginning. The beginning of many, many hours together, learning the languages of our bodies and our hearts.

  Lare stares down at me with soft, shimmering blue eyes and an intimate smile. A smile meant only for me. “I'll be careful,” she promises, touching her lips to my bare shoulder. “And don't forget that today is Monday, my dear bookseller,” she teases. “I have to admit, I lost track of time this weekend... And it was lovely.” Her gaze pierces me. “So lovely. Like a dream.”

  I offer her a lopsided smile. “And now we have to return to the real world.”

  “Ah, but the real world is more beautiful now—don't you think?”

  “Yes,” I agree, pulling her close.

  She presses her mouth against mine, but the kiss is too short: sighing, she pulls away regretfully. “I'll see you after work, ma chere,” she says, and then she moves through the open bedroom door. The hallway light filters through the copper strands of Lare's hair, and my heart rises as she turns, silhouetted, to give me one last glance of farewell, her hand lifted, her mouth curved into a secret smile.

  And then she's gone.

  I ache when I hear the front door close, when I hear Lare's engine start up outside.

  I miss her already.

  Funny how everything can change so quickly, so unexpectedly. I've always been a planner—but how could I have planned for this? Impossible, because I couldn't have imagined such soul-deep happiness in my wildest dreams.

  I sit up, stretching. Every inch of my body is sore, swollen with kisses. I lean forward, arms around my knees, smiling to myself.

  Colette jumps onto the bed and glances at me with a smug expression, her whiskers pointed toward me as if to say, in a snooty accent, “You've lost your head, young lady.” I laugh lightly as I scratch her behind the ears. Then, with a resigned sigh, I stand up and prepare for the day—starting with a long, hot shower.

  Once I've dressed, eaten breakfast, and fed Colette, I step outside to face down my car with a doubtful frown. But, weirdly enough, Colonel Mustard starts without complaint, ready and rumbling. Even my old clunker is in a good mood today.

  Weirder still, as I drive to work, I catch myself whistling.

  Whistling? I can't remember the last time I whistled...

  Have I ever whistled? I chuckle to myself. Apparently, Lare triggered a dormant urge to whistle inside of me.

  Or maybe I've just never felt this happy before.

  When I walk into Banks' Books, warm vanilla latte in hand, I'm greeted by a long-armed wave from Azure, who's shelving books in the history section. Her military-style boots are planted firmly on the ladder. I notice that her earrings are mismatched, and her purple mohawk looks a little squished—but Azure traditionally loathes Mondays.

  “How's it hangin', boss?” she calls out, casting a half-glance in my direction.

  Then she stops, freezing in place, and drops the book in her hand. Her brow is furrowed, her head tilted to one side, like a dog tuning in to a distant, high-pitched sound. “Wait a second,” she exclaims, hopping over the rungs to land squarely on the floor. She picks up the dropped book and brandishes it at me. “Courtney...were you just whistling?”

  I stow my purse under the front desk and bat my eyes innocently. “Is whistling a crime?”

  “No, but...” Her mouth hangs open for a long moment, a comically long moment. I bite my lip to hold back my laughter. Then her face lights up like a Christmas tree—that's been set on fire. “Wait a second!” she says again, holding up a finger in perfect imitation of the cover illustration of a Sherlock Holmes book we have in stock. “Something outrageously outrageous must have happened to make you so damn cheerful on a Monday morning.”

  She taps her boot on the floor, squinting at me, considering the case. Then her eyes fly wide open; she leans toward me, mouth smirking in triumph. “You broke up with Mia, didn't you?” Her voice is low, conspiratorial, like a kid asking her parent if she's going to get a puppy for her birthday.

  I stare her down and tilt up my chin. “Yes,” I say, hands on my hips. “Good work, detective.”

  Azure leaps around like a bunny on a trampoline, shooting her hand into the air to give me a high five. “That's awesome. I mean, seriously awesome. God, that's so awesome. I mean...awesome.” She pauses to bite her lip, studying my expression. Then she tries—and fails—to look penitent. “Sorry, sorry, I know this is a big deal for you. It's hard to break up with anyone, even a bi—I mean, a person like Mia. I should try to be more—”

  “Hey, throw a party, if you want.” I smile weakly. “I'm struggling with some issues related to Mia right now, but none of them has to do with our breaking up. Mia...really isn't who I thought she was. I don't even think she's who she thought she was,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair.

  Then I lean forward on the desk. I'm too excited not to talk about it, and Azure, as my best friend, deserves to be in the loop. “Guess what else happened...”

  “Cripes!” Azure places the back of her hand on her forehead, as if she has a fever. “Courtney Banks, playing guessing games? Am I hearing things? Are you feeling all right?” She moves her hand to my forehead. “You are kind of warm. Kind of...blushing. God, it's like you've got a crush or something. Now, I know you don't have a crush on me, so...” Azure trails off as my smiles deepens, and then she's grabbing my hands and squealing, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Courtney Banks, did you sleep with the vampire?”

  I don't have to answer her: my head-duck and deepening blush give me away.

  “Way to go, bookworm!” Azure picks up my limp arm to give me another high five. “This is ah-may-zing. You have to tell me all about it. I mean, right now. We should close the store for the day, make some popcorn, and then let's go sit in your office so you can spill every sordid, juicy detail—”

  “Breathe, Azure,” I laugh.

  Then she grabs me by the shoulders and draws me close for a rib-crushing hug. “I have a good feeling about this, Court.” When she lets me go, she gazes deeply into my eyes, her features uncharacteristically serious. “You look different, you know. I've never seen you so—I don't know—bright. So happy.” Her voice is low, awed.

  I smile. “Thank you. But we have other things to talk about besides my weekend. Azure, you were incredible on stage—” I begin, but my phone starts to vibrate inside of my purse. “Sorry.” I sigh, snap open the purse, and then fish out my cell. “How many phone numbers did you get up there, anyway?” I ask Azure, grinning, as I select my text messages folder. “And how many bras?”


  “Oh, you know, a lot,” says Azure, with a small shrug and a wicked smile.

  Laughing, I glance down at my screen—and the world falls out from under me.

  The text is from Mia.

  Baby, it reads, look...I left the group. I'm done with Drew. She was so wrong, and I'm so sorry. Please come to my apartment? I want to talk, part on friendly terms. Don't let us end like this. I know I messed up. I just want to apologize in person. I really do love you, Courtney.

  Without a doubt, the longest text Mia has ever sent me. And the most heartfelt. Her previous messages were something along the lines of, Sex, your place? Or, In the mood for Italian or Chinese?

  As I stare down at the phone, I know, without question, that I'd rather walk over burning coals than go to Mia's apartment. Still, I'm surprised. Surprised that Mia broke up with Drew, especially after I saw her hanging off of Drew's arm like one of those fish who suction-cup their mouths to the belly of a shark.

  I grimace, sliding the phone back into my purse. What probably happened is that Drew broke up with Mia, and now Mia realizes that all of the things she did to me were pretty rotten. She just wants to clear her conscience.

  Be that as it may...I hate the way we ended things. And I, too, want some closure. More than that, I want answers. I want to know why Mia cheated on me, and I want to ask her if she vandalized Lare's house. Maybe her fingers were blue because she'd just eaten blueberries, or been to a painting class, or—I don't know—arm-wrestled a Smurf. Unlikely possibilities, granted. Mia told me once that she hates blueberries, and she's never been into art of any kind, aside from writing. As for Smurfs... Well, to the best of my knowledge, they're fictional creatures. But, admittedly, I've been proven wrong before.

  Regardless, I need to know the truth—for Lare's sake. And for mine.

  Mia's apartment is a ten-minute drive away. I'll take my lunch break early, and then I'll have a built-in, and honest, escape plan, because I'll have to return to the shop within half an hour. Just one half hour in my ex-girlfriend's presence, and then I'll be able to get on with the rest of my life.