Authors: Lydia Michaels
When her second orgasm
came upon her it was twice as intense as the first. Christian tortured her with
his mouth, relentlessly making her take more and more pleasure until she feared
she might pass out. When she finally regained her senses, she attacked.
A bark of laughter left
Christian’s smiling mouth as she tackled him to his back. He was so beautiful
when he was happy. She didn’t want it to end, but feared at some point the
other shoe would drop and they’d be at each other’s throats once more.
Reaching for the tray of
food she snatched up the glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and took a sip.
“Mmm, sticky.”
He watched her
carefully. Tipping her shoulder innocently and batting her eyes, she tipped the
glass on end sending a narrow yellow waterfall of juice over his tight stomach.
He hissed and those rigid muscles covering his front bunched and flexed.
“Uh-oh. I seem to have
spilled my juice. I better clean it up,” Delilah said in a sugary voice. She
ran her finger through the small puddle forming rivulets over his navel and
six-pack—
two, for, six, eight—
correction,
eight
pack.
Jacob Black step aside.
I’ve moved on to team Amish.
Dragging her fingers
over the fresh squeezed citrus she cupped his length with her sticky hands.
“Oh, no. I’m making quite a mess. However will I clean it up?”
His eyes were wild as he
watched her. He seemed suspended somewhere on a breath of hope and excitement.
As much as he’d tortured her minutes ago, she couldn’t drag out his punishment
much more. Leisurely, she lowered her body and took him into her mouth. He
nearly shot of the bed.
“Delilah!”
She smiled around his
cock and bobbed up and down over him, taking him deeper with each try. He
tasted like sweet, sticky, oranges and she licked up every last drop. His flesh
pulsed over her tongue and his fingers wrapped into her hair. A sense of power
filled her. She could make him wild using only her mouth.
She sensed him getting
closer and doubled her efforts, but found herself being yanked off of him and
tossed onto her back. Christian towered over her and grabbed her ankles,
pulling her ass to the very edge of the bed.
“You have a wicked
mouth,
pintura.”
“You already knew that.”
He lined his cock up
with her sex, holding her tightly by her hips, suspending her bottom in the
air, and slammed home.
“Fuck!”
she yelled.
“Language!”
“Fuck my language! You
just worry about fucking me!”
He drilled into her,
pulling her into him with each thrust. The bedposts beat against the walls and
with each echoing thump came a cry of ecstasy. There was something so raw about
the way he fucked her, so animalistic. That’s when it struck her. She was
immortal. He couldn’t hurt her.
He came at her with such
speed she wondered if it had been like this the first time and if she simply
hadn’t noticed. No, no way to miss that. When they came, they came together in
a rush. He collapsed over her and Delilah weakly draped an arm over his
shoulder. They breathed together and her heart raced.
“Is it…like that…with
all vampyre men?” she panted.
“No. Other males have
surprisingly small anatomy and stamina similar that of a fruit fly’s life
span.”
She stilled. “Christian,
did you just make a joke?”
“I’m afraid I am being
completely serious. You are very lucky you were called to me as your mate.”
She laughed.
Finally
,
he was getting sarcasm!
Chapter Eight
The next few days were
amazing. Delilah could honestly say she could not recall a time she was so
happy, which in turn, scared the ever-living shit out of her, because it made
the thought of leaving abhorrent.
Christian was nothing
like the man she’d arrived on the farm with. He was sweet and funny and
generous and more observant than any other man she had ever known. They took
turns doing kind things for each other.
Sometimes Delilah cooked
and sometimes Christian did. Whenever he made something with meat in it, he
always made an attempt to make something special for her that adhered to her
diet. They had sex like rabbits and she had never been so satisfied on so many
levels.
The only thing on her
nerves was her finicky stomach. Last night when Christian made a small roast
for himself of something that was once cute and fuzzy, and a filling salad for
her, she almost attacked him and ripped the leg of whatever creature he was
eating right out of his mouth. She could smell the blood and juices plumping
the meat and it had been incredibly difficult not to drool all over her Amish
apron.
She was working on
several physiological theories at the moment. One, she definitely had a case of
Stockholm’s going on. He’d kidnapped her, changed her, dictated to her, and
yet, she found herself less and less willing to leave him—actually dreading it
at times.
Two, she was going
through some sort of Pavlovian reflex. All Christian had to do was appear and
she wanted to rape him. On top of that, every time the oven turned on her mouth
watered and she secretly hoped he was making some
savory—juicy—dripping—plump—delicious—
meat
.
She was turning into
Homer Simpson and had to stifle many of the unladylike gurgling sounds she was
often tempted to make in the presence of Christian eating meat.
It was the blood. She
knew it was the blood. There was no rationalizing the hunger twisting her
insides. It was relentless and ever present and if she didn’t have something
with blood soon she was going to find a cow and kill it.
No. She couldn’t kill a
cow. That would be just mean. Poor Bessie. Maybe a pig.
They
bite. She
was losing her mind.
Anna had come by with
Gracie one day while Christian was working in the barn. He was probably killing
some sort of chicken or something. Maybe it was some big, fat Foghorn Leghorn
type chicken that was practically man size. A person could live for days on
that kind of poultry. Too bad she wanted to eat poor Foghorn raw with a side of
uncooked Daffy and finish it off with a cup of fresh squeezed Bugs Bunny.
What is wrong with you?
She shook off her
Silence of the Lambs thoughts—
Ooh, lamb!—
and went back to sorting
through the items Anna and Gracie had brought her.
They delivered an
enormous box filled with paintbrushes and various jars of different colored
paint. Delilah hadn’t told Christian. She wanted to surprise him. Stowing the
box of art supplies in the spare bedroom, she’d waited all morning for him to
leave so she could find what she needed.
She took an armful of
jars and brushes into the bedroom and went to the water pump to retrieve a jar
of water. Laying out her brushes, she sat back and examined the plain green
wall. She hated green.
Once she found the
perfect place to begin, a nondescript spot just to the left of the dresser, she
uncapped a jar of deep brown and began to paint. Her eyes followed the line of
each stroke and she lost herself in the monotony of it all. Her fingers swayed
and the narrow bristles of the brush became an extension of her. Disconnected
marks connected and formed indentations on a landscape that had never existed
before.
Tall trees took shape on
the invented horizon and tiny clusters of shapes formed horse drawn carriages
in the distance. She worked and worked until the dresser needed to be dragged
away from the wall and the hideous green was cut into tiny segments of images.
Rinsing out her brush,
she found a pale yellow. In an empty jar she diluted the color until it showed
as translucent as sunshine. Once she had it the perfect consistency she filled
the mural’s skyline.
Next came the whites and
grays to make up the wispy fleece like clouds. Purples created shadows and reds
made warm puddles of heat. Browns and greens combined to form their own
patchwork patterns of earth. Every detail was so carefully delineated the realism
of it all began to take shape.
High in the pale pink
and yellow sky floated silhouettes of geese and low on the horizon hung insects
lazing by the fields. The wall came alive and the beauty of it all was
mesmerizing, even to her critical eyes.
When Delilah sat back
and looked at the completed mural, her gaze was drawn to the marvelous section
of clouds in the upper right of the wall. Gold beams of light filtered through
the cotton candy clouds blushing low in the sky. Dappled shadows of bullion
yellows and hues of rose caressed the tops of the trees. There was something
breathtaking about that part of the mural, yet she couldn’t place what it was.
Looking down at herself
she flinched. She was a mess. Paint smeared her arms and speckled her fingers.
Her clothing showed dashes of every color of the rainbow. The sun was setting
and she guessed Christian would be back soon. She should have probably thought
about making something for dinner, but she had been so engrossed in painting
for him it had completely slipped her mind.
The front door opened
and closed and she flinched. Too late to clean herself up now. She quickly
gathered up her supplies and scurried to turn the room back to rights. The
dresser would need to be moved to the other wall.
A wave of lightheadedness
nearly knocked her to her knees when she tried to move it. She was getting
incredibly weak. Sooner or later she would have to do the one thing she’d been
trying to avoid. Feed. She didn’t want to think about that now, however.
Thinking about feeding made her resent what she’d become, what Christian had
made her, and today was about doing something nice for him.
Heavy footsteps climbed
the stairs and Delilah panicked. She tightened the lids on all the jars of
paint. When she turned the mural overwhelmed her. What if he hated it? What if
he was angry she painted his house without asking?
The knob on the door
turned. Suddenly afraid of what he might say, she tossed the paint onto the bed
and threw herself at the door. It slammed shut and Christian grunted.
“Delilah?”
“One minute!” she said
frantically.
“Is everything all
right?”
“Umm, I just need a
minute. I’m not dressed!”
He chuckled and the knob
again twisted. “Delilah, I’ve seen everything—”
“Please don’t come in!”
“Delilah, what is
wrong?”
“I…did something.”
“Something?”
“Yeah. I did something
and I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
He was silent for a
beat. “What did you do?”
This was stupid. She
meant to do something nice. If he couldn’t appreciate that, then it was his
fault. Yet she still didn’t want to upset him. She bit down on the corner of
her mouth and hissed. Touching her lip, she pulled her finger away and saw
blood. What the hell? Her fangs were out. She needed to eat.
“Delilah, I want to come
in.” He no longer sounded pleasant.
“Promise you won’t get
mad.”
“How can I promise that
when I don’t know what it is you’ve done?”
She fidgeted. That
didn’t make her feel any better.
“Delilah, I’m coming
in.”
She tensed and the door
opened. Christian paused at the threshold observing at her messy state.
“What—what happened to you?”
He sounded stricken. She
looked down at herself and realized a good amount of paint was muddy shades of
red.
Mmmm, like blood!
“It’s paint,” she
quickly explained.
“Paint?”
“Yeah, paint. I painted
you something.”
The tension in his brow
unknotted. “You did?”
Okay, that was not the
voice of an angry vampyre. “Mm-hmm. But I might have gotten a little carried
away.” She waved her hand toward the wall with the mural.
Christian stepped in the
room and came up short. “Oh, Delilah…You did this?”
“Do you hate it?”
“No, I do not hate it.
How could I hate something you created for me? It is beautiful.”
He stepped closer and
lifted a hand.
“Don’t touch!”
Lowering her voice, she
said, “It’s still wet.”
He nodded and continued
to stare at it. “This is spectacular, Delilah. I’m speechless.”
“So you like it?”
He frowned at her. “Like
it? I love it. How could I not, when you made it?”
Warmth spread through
her chest. Her heart raced. She tugged at the neck of her gown. Christian
turned back to the mural as if in awe. Delilah noticed a smudge on the floor.
She focused on the dribble of paint and her vision blurred.
“Christian?”
“Yes,
pintura,”
he said without turning away from the painting.
She licked her dry lips.
Her shoulders grew heavy. “I don’t feel so good.” Her legs went numb and the
floor rushed her vision in a blur as she collapsed and the world went black.
The rapid touch upon her
cheek jarred her back to consciousness. “Delilah, can you hear me? Open your
eyes,
pintura.”
Her lashes fluttered and
Christian’s face, wrought with concern, came into focus. He sighed. “Oh, thank
the Lord.”
“Shouldn’t take the
Lord’s name in vain,” she mumbled weakly.
He didn’t laugh.
Pressing his lips together he shook his head as if to say, now is not the time.
“Delilah, you need to feed. I do not want an argument. Your pulse is erratic
and you are weak. If you want I can use compulsion to make it easier, but you
need to have blood.”
Funny, her stomach
didn’t recoil. In fact, her belly seemed to cry out with happiness right at
that very moment. “Okay, Christian,” she said tiredly, her eyelashes fluttering
shut again.
“Okay you want me to use
compulsion or okay you will feed?”
“Okay.”
He sighed and mumbled
something she couldn’t make out.
* * * *
Christian’s heart was
going to burst out of his chest. First the painting and now this. He had never
been so touched by anything in his life. The mural was breathtaking and she had
done it for him. He already loved her, but in that moment, seeing her so shy
and insecure about his reaction, so fragile and longing for his approval, he
fell for her all over again. Then she collapsed.
He caught her before she
hit the floor, but for a split second he was seized by sheer terror. He
shouldn’t have let her go on without feeding for so long. She was small and a
new transition. Why had he ever conceded to let her determine when her body
would need sustenance? She was stubborn and had probably been feeling weak for
days.
He gently plucked open
her eyes. She was out cold. “Please do not hate me for this,
pintura.”
He bit into his wrist
and placed it over her lips. She latched on so fast he jumped. Her small hands
curled around the back of his wrist and held him to her mouth as she pulled
from his vein. Her body hummed and she moaned as his essence filled her.
“That’s it, love, take
what you need. Get your strength back. Whatever you need from me, it’s yours.”
She drank like a babe.
His body buzzed with the rush of having her take from him. Lightheadedness set
in with that specific sense of euphoria that came with feeding one’s mate. He
became drunk with each sip she took as though he was the one consuming.
His body hardened and he
ignored it. This was not about him, but about meeting her needs and seeing that
his mate was healthy.
As she drank he stared
at the painting she had made for him. It truly was a work of art. She had
talent like he’d never seen before. If this was what made her happy he would
let her paint the entire house.
Sluggishly, her pulls
drew farther apart. Her cheeks regained their color and she sighed contentedly
in his arms. Her mouth released his wrist and like a true vampyre, she closed
the wound without even waking. He should lay her down so she could rest, but he
wasn’t ready to let her go.
Christian cradled her in
his arms, his fingers sifting through the silken strands of her dark hair. She
was perfect. And she was his.
He looked at her arm and
frowned. Just above a dash of paint, the teal rose that wrapped around her
forearm showed, no longer vibrant indigo, but now a faded shade of cornflower.
The shape remained, but the blue that filled the bloom was fading. How odd. He
looked at the rest of her body. The other markings still appeared the same. But
this one was definitely fading.