by Aja James
Clara looked once behind her to make sure he was really there, afraid he might have poofed into thin air again when she wasn’t looking.
He was.
All six-foot-something unsmiling warrior swathed in long black hair and black clothes, with skin so pale it was white like paper and lips barely closed over the tips of his fangs.
He looked like a creature out of a gothic novel, something dark and dangerous, possibly with evil intent. The bold, slashing brows and glittering obsidian eyes didn’t help, combined with his stoic, unreadable expression.
And yet, Clara didn’t feel threatened.
She felt safe with him. Safe enough to bring him inside the home she shared with her most treasured little girl.
She couldn’t explain it. She didn’t understand it. She just trusted her instincts and Annie’s too, for the little girl had already given her approval of Eli in the park over ice-cream cones.
Annie’s sleeping nook with her twin-sized mattress was relatively secluded from the rest of the open-space loft, closed off by a pretty curtain that provided some additional privacy.
Clara’s queen-sized platform bed was also tucked away in a built-in notch and shielded by a pair of delicate French screens.
Off to the left was the bathroom, which had an extra-large, claw-foot bathtub and a removable-head shower off to the side. A stacked washer and dryer took up one wall of the bathroom, and the floor was tiled with two drainage areas, making the entire space a multi-functional wet room.
Which came in handy now, when a very large, very dirty male needed to be hosed down, scrubbed, shampooed and washed thoroughly and repeatedly.
Clara guided Eli into the washroom and instructed in a no-nonsense tone, “Take your clothes off and get under the shower. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She didn’t wait for his confirmation before closing the door, leaving only a crack. She then changed quickly into her one-piece bathing suit, thought of propriety and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts over them, gathered a few extra bottles of hair and body cleansers, a brand new scrubber puff, and went back into the bathroom.
And just about had a heart attack.
Holy Mary, Mother of…
Eli had done as she’d instructed, and was now standing naked beneath the strong blast of the shower, his face tilted up to the water, his eyes closed as if in relief.
His beauty was overwhelming, it was true, but Clara hardly registered it. What she felt instead was a blast of carnality so raw, so all-consuming, saliva pooled in her mouth as other fluids pooled below her waist.
All that masculine beauty and power was not something she could view objectively. His body called out to her, begged to be touched, caressed, stroked, kissed and sucked by her. And that primitive female animal within her growled with a voracious hunger: mine.
He tilted his face down and opened his eyes, piercing hers with their black intensity.
“Are you here to take care of me, Clara?”
*** *** *** ***
Eli grew longer and thicker and harder as he took in the undiluted lust in Clara’s wide, hungry eyes, the pupils having dilated completely, all but swallowing her irises.
His enormous erection bobbed in greeting, boldly demanding her attention as her eyes darted across his naked form from top to bottom like a caffeinated rabbit, thorough and methodical, missing nothing, then back again for a couple more, slower perusals.
This was the second time in Eli’s memory (though that wasn’t saying much) that his body had hardened without his conscious permission.
Only around Clara.
Normally, the sexual arousal of a red-blooded male in his prime when he was near an attractive female of age should not be terribly surprising, but Eli knew by now that he was not quite normal.
To put it mildly.
Some unremembered part of him knew that his body obeyed his will like a well-trained machine. His cock would only stand if he consciously gave his permission.
But with Clara, his body had a mind of its own. Conscious or unconscious, it obeyed only one master—her.
She licked her lips and a breath whistled out between them, as if the inferno of lust that had steamed up the bathroom had sucked out all the oxygen, and she was left too light-headed to draw proper breath.
“Uhn…”
Apparently, she was also too light-headed to formulate coherent words.
And then Eli noticed her attire.
“Why are you fully clothed?”
Wasn’t she here to fuck him?
Her body obviously craved his—he could smell her sexual arousal, see her quivering with wanton desires, feel the heat of her blood pour through her veins like lava, sensitizing every nerve ending, preparing her for pleasure.
In return, perhaps she’d Consent to give him her blood again.
He was so weak with hunger and thirst he could barely hold himself upright. The bit he’d taken from her before was not nearly enough to fulfill him. After two weeks, his wound still hadn’t completely healed, whereas at full strength, he somehow knew that he would have been whole within a day or two at most.
If she wanted his cock inside her again to pleasure herself, he’d readily oblige. He’d do almost anything to have her blood again.
But he was lying to himself, Eli knew.
He wanted to be inside of her just as badly, if not more, as he wanted to quench his thirst with her hot, sweet blood.
He felt…something…when she held him inside, with her soft arms wrapped around him.
He felt alive.
She gave her head a quick shake as if to clear it, and blinked rapidly to dispel the fog of ravenous lust swirling in her eyes.
“I’m here to help you get sparkling clean,” she said in that no-nonsense voice again, a teacher’s voice.
“And I’m dressed this way so I’m not tempted to take advantage of you,” she added with a genuine smile, both self-deprecating and wry.
How she could possibly take advantage of him when he was ten times stronger than her even in his weakened state he didn’t understand.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on it as she efficiently poured some cleanser onto a rough looking sponge and began to scrub up and down his body with vigor.
For a long time, they were both silent, him standing still under the shower and giving her full access to his body, lifting his arms when she wanted, widening his legs when she got there, and her, methodically scrubbing his skin with soap and sponge, over and over until he was squeaky, sparkling clean from head to toe just like she promised.
She lingered gently over his wound, the outer skin having stitched together, while internally, he was still healing. There was a dark purple bruise around the area that had been skewered, but the epidermis was smooth.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked, a hitch in her breath, as if she hurt just thinking about his pain.
He didn’t understand why she cared about someone she barely knew.
“No.”
It wasn’t quite the truth. But Eli was used to pain. So used to it, he barely registered it. He didn’t want her to worry because of him. He didn’t want her to hurt because of him.
He also didn’t understand why that mattered.
At last, she turned to his long, thick hair, which had pasted itself to his back, hips and buttocks like a tangled second skin.
“Bend down, please,” she instructed in that teacher’s voice as she soaped up her hands with a large squirt of shampoo.
He obliged, and almost moaned when her ingenious fingers began to knead the shampoo into his scalp.
“You have strong hands,” he noted, unable to hold back a sigh.
“I have lots of practice to make them strong when I work with clay and make pottery or sculptures, or with my wood and metal works too.”
“Have you done this before?”
Her fingers were magical. Surely she was some sort of sorceress, for he’d do just about anything to have her keep massaging his sca
lp like this.
“Wash someone else’s hair, you mean? Yes, I’ve washed a lot of children’s hair, including Annie’s, the little girl who’s staying with me from now on. She was with me the other night.”
“And your males’ hair?”
He didn’t know what made him ask the question. It sounded like he was fishing, as if he were jealous.
“Males?” she laughed a little at the very thought. “What a strange way to put it. Just how many boyfriends do you think I have? As if I were a female sultan with her very own harem?”
He pulled slightly away from her to look into her eyes, and the fierceness in his gaze made her stop teasing.
“I never washed my boyfriends’ hair,” she said solemnly, though a small smile remained on her lips, as if she were pleased that he was jealous.
“And just so we’re clear, it’s not as if I’ve had all that many boyfriends. A couple, that’s all. And they weren’t very serious.”
“Do you have a male now?” he growled, then wanted to kick himself for asking the question.
She tilted her head to regard him as her smile spread wider.
“I don’t know, do I? Would you like to apply for the role?”
He lowered his eyes and then his head in response, submitting to her wonderful touch again.
Dutifully, she massaged his scalp some more, her fingers kneading the back of his neck and trapezius muscles, making him shudder all over.
“Like my touch, do you?” she said, obviously pleased.
He liked it so much he’d endure years of torture to have her keep touching him.
She moved on to wash his hair in sections, then just as thoroughly, massage almost an entire bottle of conditioner into the heavy, wet curtain.
“There, that should do it,” she said finally, after almost an hour in the shower with him.
“I’ll leave you to wash all the soap out. You can use the towels on the rack there. They’re clean. I don’t have clothes for you—and I’m getting rid of the ones you were wearing the first chance I get, no laundering will fix that mess—but I’ll think of something, maybe a sheet—”
He took hold of her arm in a gentle but unrelenting grip when she was about to leave.
“I need…I need blood.”
He hated to put himself in a situation that made him beholden to others. And he doubly hated to ask for more when she’d already given him so much.
But he was quite desperate at this stage.
He didn’t know what he’d do if she refused him. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold back the bloodthirsty beast inside.
He wanted to devour her. Clara.
He wanted her so badly he seethed with barely leashed bloodlust.
“You may have it,” she said without hesitation, holding his half-crazed gaze. “After we dry you up, okay? Then you can take what you need, and if you’re still hungry—for food, that is—I can go downstairs and fix you some supper.”
Why was she doing this? Why would she so willingly help him?
“What do you want in return?”
She blinked at him as if confused, then took a step closer and put her hand around the wrist of his much larger one that still held her arm imprisoned.
“I want you to be well, Eli,” she said sincerely, staring trustingly into his eyes.
Gently, she stroked his wrist with her fingers, magically soothing away the tension that radiated from his every pore.
He let go of her and stepped back under the spray of the shower.
She smiled reassuringly at him and left him alone to finish washing.
Before she lost all self control.
Chapter Six
Clara did want Eli to be well.
But she also wanted his body over hers, under hers, all around her, and deeply embedded inside of her.
She wisely kept that bit to herself.
It took inhuman strength to hold his gaze when he’d asked her that question and not let her eyes wander to his magnificent erection, jutting prodigiously like all her deepest, darkest fantasies come true, from his hairless groin.
That was what she wanted.
He was who she wanted.
In the most carnal, erotic, primitive way possible between a male and a female.
But she’d seen the guardedness in his eyes when he’d asked her the question. She’d sensed a deep-rooted vulnerability and self-derision.
She recalled in vivid detail the last time they’d been together, and she’d had two whole weeks to mull over it repeatedly until she could grasp it better in her mind.
He’d put himself inside her body to give her pleasure as he took her blood, which in of itself, had given her immense pleasure already.
But he’d taken no pleasure in return.
It hadn’t been an equal exchange, as far as Clara was concerned. And it hadn’t been a true connection between two people despite the intimacy of parts.
It hurt her heart that he’d use himself in such a way just to survive.
She remembered vividly the small smile he’d given her that night when she’d asked if she could return the favor, give back some of the unbelievable pleasure he’d given her.
It hadn’t been a smile of amusement or joy. It had been a sad smile. A mocking smile.
As if she’d asked an impossibility. As if pleasure itself was an impossibility.
For him.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to focus on what she needed to do to make him more comfortable.
There were no other places to sleep except to share her bed. All of her furniture was small, given the limited space in her apartment. She didn’t have any couches or chairs that would be comfortable for him to rest on.
She had a small sheepskin rug by the side of her bed that wasn’t pushed against the wall, but the rest of her apartment was cold concrete floor downstairs, and slightly warmer, slightly less hard wood floors in her loft.
Sharing her bed it would have to be.
Clara tried not to hyperventilate with anticipation and glee.
She wasn’t going to take advantage of him, she told her inner slut firmly. She was only going to help him get back on his feet, recover to his full health.
She quickly changed out of her wet clothes and pulled on panties and one of her many long, well-worn sleep shirts. She searched through her small wardrobe and drawers for anything that he could wear or cover himself with, and landed on a large Minion beach towel she’d tucked away for that Florida vacation she never seemed able to save up enough money to take.
This would have to do.
Just as she opened up the beach towel to check for size, Eli came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, as he rubbed another towel over his hair.
Yummy yum yum. Come to mama.
Clara unconsciously licked her lips.
“Here,” she said, holding up the beach towel and effectively shielding him from her covetous gaze, “you can wrap yourself in this after you dry off. It’s the only thing I can find. We can go shopping tomorrow. I only have a couple of lessons early in the morning, then no classes until the evening.”
He took the towel and secured it around his lower body while she kept her gaze safely lowered.
“I cannot go out in the daytime when I’m weak,” he said, and she looked back up at him.
“I require sleep during the day.”
“Do you need absolute darkness?” she asked, her mind scanning what she knew of vampire lore.
But the popularized fiction on the subject was obviously wrong, because she knew he didn’t turn to dust in sunlight. She’d seen him in daytime before, albeit closer to evening, but definitely before the sun had gone down.
He shook his head. “It’s better to have absolute darkness, but I will be fine indoors.”
“I’ll go shopping with Annie, then,” Clara amended. “I think I’ve got your measurements. I’m very good with sizing things up.”
As an artist, she had to be. But
as a hot-blooded woman, every inch of his body had been seared forever into her mind over the past hour.
She knew his size all right.
“I have no money to pay you,” he said quietly, lowering his eyes. “I will leave you alone after a day of rest—”
“And go where?” she interrupted, coming to stand immediately before him, close enough to touch, but she resisted, just as her hand involuntarily reached out to him.
“You don’t have money, and from the looks of things when I found you on the bench, I gather you don’t have a place to stay either. What will you do?”
“I will find my own way.”
“Do you have a job?”
“No.”
Even though he seemed to be a practicing psychiatrist, he only had one patient, and he couldn’t find any deposit records from his various bank accounts of money earned from this practice.
“Do you have friends and family who could help you?”
“No.”
He couldn’t remember if he had anyone else. Somehow he doubted it. He didn’t seem to be the type of person who trusted and relied on others.
“You have me and Annie though,” she corrected him, finally unable to resist taking his much larger hand in both of hers.
“We’ll help you, Eli. You can stay here until you’re fully recovered.”
He looked back into her eyes.
The dark centers of his own had receded enough to show the light green of his irises. Clara had never seen such a shade of green before. Immediately, she thought of paints that could combine to replicate that color.
It was her new favorite fragment of light.
“You don’t know me,” he rasped low, his tone dark and forbidding.
“You don’t know who or what I am. You should not be so careless with your welfare and that of your charge.”
“How long does it take to know a person?” Clara asked in turn. “A moment? An eternity? I know enough, Eli. I still want to help you.”
He didn’t understand it, why she had such ridiculous, unfound trust in him. He didn’t know himself; he couldn’t remember his past, the things he did, the kind of male he was. He didn’t know what he was capable of.
All he knew was an unquenchable thirst and hunger. A disturbing lack of emotional connection to everything around him. The ability to kill and evaporate into air.
