The Vampire's Seduction (2 page)

“Time for me to be the vampire,” I answered, making the words sound flip, yet meaning every syllable.

The lamb on the table knew my voice. She arched her back with a restless sigh, pulling at the leather, offering, wanting.

The girl would have to wait. Waiting was part of the play, and I would not disappoint her.

I turned to my hostess and held her gaze. In response, my Eleanor, she who must be obeyed, lowered her eyes like a fainthearted human virgin. A ruse at best. She
was
human—but even if she truly feared me, she would never have shown it. Her lack of common sense was one of the things that had drawn me to her from the beginning.

“I’ll be up shortly, when I’m finished with this one,” I said. I used one finger to trace the edge of Eleanor’s dress, then the tail end of the snake tatoo curling high on her breast over her heart. Her heartbeat fought the weight of my finger, anticipating our game.

She pulled away, turned with a swish of expensive lace, then looked back over her bare shoulder, her mouth dressed in the smile of the devil’s own gypsy mistress. “Take your time. We have all night.” Eleanor left the room, and the subtle musky scent of promised sex followed as she closed the door and locked it behind her.

I shifted my mind’s deliberation back to the delicacy at hand. My body’s hunger hadn’t for one moment forgotten her. I could feel my own cool veins relaxing, warming, anticipating the feeding. Still, I resisted. Two slow steps brought me to the elevated table. “Hello, morsel,” I said as I began to unbutton my shirt. No use bloodying the fabric; better to be flesh against flesh. Easier to clean up afterward—a courtesy to Eleanor’s staff. I let the material slide off my shoulders and draped it across her bare thighs. She trembled at the contact.

“Hello,” she answered in a faint whisper.

Lightly dragging my fingertips from her belly to her heart, I fondled her left breast. “Have you been waiting long?” I asked as I absently watched the nipple grow hard from the touch of my cool skin.

“Forever,” she said in that whispery voice.

I eased my hand upward until my fingers encircled her neck. The fat carotid artery pulsed against my palm and I had to fight my own anticipation. I was exquisitely empty—needy.

And under her pale skin . . . blood. Warm and vital. The tiniest pinprick would bring it rushing into my mouth, filling me, intoxicating me, redeeming me. I bent my head to where her left hand was tied to a metal ring and took one of her searching fingers into my mouth.

She jumped, whimpering as I bit and sucked—a teasing taste.

“Please . . .” she pleaded.

She tasted like life—dizzying. My own skin prickled with lust and I shut my eyes against the barrenness inside me, clamoring for more.
Take it all,
I heard whispered in the relentless voice of my sire. And I
could
take it all, like a greedy child, and still not be filled. But I would not—for my own reasons. I ran my tongue over the small wound to close it, ready to move on to greater satisfactions. “Just
please,
” I said. “Please what?” I asked, playing with her.

Not yet.

Humans always wish to negotiate for their pleasure, and their pain. The predators of the world are beyond negotiation. They take what they want, when they want it, victims be damned. In my case, slow was a torture for us both to enjoy.

I stretched out next to her on the table, lowering my face close to her satin-covered cheek. We were breathing the same air, two creatures who craved what the other could give but who would never know each other outside this room. Just the voices, the sighs. The heartbeats . . .
thump . . . thump . . . thump.
And the taste.

“Please what?” I taunted again, low and close to her ear.

Instead of answering, she twisted her head away from me, baring—no—
offering
her beautiful, pulsing neck. My jaw ached with the need to bite. But I licked instead, from collarbone to earlobe, making her jump in surprise. I could see the faint scars from other nights, other offerings. No need to lull this one with sweet distracting visions. She expected pain, wanted it, would bargain for it. She would risk even death for her perverse pleasure. But this was my game, and I would oblige in my own time.

And the time had come.

Finally, I would give us both what we wanted. I placed my cold right hand flat over her heart and pressed her down. Her gasp quickly turned to a moan as I bit hard, holding her fast with my teeth. In her world of pain she made a gurgling sound then bucked against the weight of my hand as her sweet flowing blood flooded my mouth. Rich. Intoxicating. If she knew how delicate the line was between life and death, and how easy it would have been for me to suckle until her empty heart stilled—obsolete—I could not say. If she knew death had come to visit, would she plead for me to stop? Or beg me on?

As any gentleman would, I held myself back. While the thick living essence gushed into me, I concentrated not on the changes in my body, but on the lamb’s.

Blood for pain—our corrupt bargain.

I scraped my fingernails across both her breasts, raising welts and a long bleeding scratch just under one nipple. Her tears, leaking from under the satin hood, mixed with tiny splatters of blood and ran into my mouth. It made me want to sink deeper and longer, knowing she would never, ever ask me to stop.

Blood for pain and pleasure.

Nearing my own self-imposed limits, I shoved downward, pushing my hand between her thighs, sinking damp, warming fingers into her sex.

Her muscle-clenching orgasm sent one last tantalizing shudder of blood into me as payment and—I withdrew, licking the punctures to gather the final drops before leaving her. Replete, too weak to move or call for help, she remained still. Only the satin of the hood fluttered as she whispered, “When may I return?”

“When I call for you.”

“I’ll do whatever you want . . .”

“Yes, morsel, you will.”

Have I mentioned that this river city, Savannah, is mine? My home, my sanctuary. The enduring connection between my existence and the empty darkness beyond. Savannah is rightly called the most haunted place in America. Blood has been shed here—some of it by me. To be fair, however, humans have needed no help in the bloodletting. They have proved by war after war that they are up to the task. The spilled blood of the past lies thick and moist over the cobbled streets and savage gardens of Savannah like the heavy mist covering a grave. The effect can be . . . suffocating. The residents here are used to the unusual, however. There are times—at equinox or All Saints’—when spirits brazenly walk the streets and unseen worlds open their invisible doors under the dark of the moon.

Then again, perhaps it’s all rubbish. Humans can be so fanciful at times. Myself? I’m a realist. I see beyond the charm and the glamour, the human and the not-so-human. I pace the darkness, moving through the city’s stick-at-nothing history in perfect step with the invisible ones. Ghosts don’t hinder me, for I am death wearing seven-hundred-dollar shoes.

But tonight, now that I am fed, my interest is—excuse the pun—
firmly
set on sex. Up these stairs, my Eleanor awaits. She who has sworn to kill me, if she can. Without knocking, I turn the handle and open her private door. We have six hours until dawn.
Let the games begin.

Candles are lit around the room, giving off the scent of magnolia. Still, I can smell her. And I do not need candlelight to find her. I would recognize the distinctive rhythm of her heartbeat in the dark of a dungeon. Tossing my shirt over the Queen Anne chair placed strategically opposite the bed, I hesitate before sitting down to shed my shoes.

Someone likes to watch. But not tonight.

The fluffy cloud of a bed has shed its usual satins and silks. On this night, for me, Egyptian cotton bleached to a snowy paleness. Frankly, a splash of red blood spilled on pristine white still turns me on, as you moderns say. Especially when the blood is my own.

We all have our kinks—even the undead.

I flex the warm muscles of my back, offering the perfect target before standing to shed my pants. It’s too soon, I know. But perhaps she’ll surprise me tonight. It’s downright difficult to surprise a being who has lived for five hundred years; however, I always like to give Eleanor a head start, just in case. After that, I depend on her enthusiasm.

Naked, I take my time stretching out on the boat-size bed—my body humming with energy, lust. Sleeping is the last thing on my mind.

“Eleanor . . .” I whisper. “Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .”

In the silence I hear her breath catch, yet she doesn’t move. In a feigned expression of boredom I slide my arms behind my head, baring my chest, my immortal black heart exposed to her whim. The room grows quieter—my Eleanor holds her breath before rising like an exquisite, tattooed viper from the floor beside the bed. Her lovely body is bare except for the artwork and the long beaded strands of her black hair. Mesmerized by the look of hot promise in her dark eyes, a man might not notice her concealed hands. But I’m not a man—haven’t been for a very long time—and I notice. It doesn’t stop me from beckoning her with my eyes and my will.

Slowly, in an act of submission, she brings her hands forward and shows them palm out. They are hennaed and empty of weapons. Then her fingers are on me, teasing, tantalizing. Then her mouth. She knows her business after all. And we both know the game. Her skill at seduction is legendary; but there is more than just that for me, and only for me.

Balanced over me, she slides sinuously, the length of our bodies matched—the smoothness of chest to breasts, the heat of sex to sex. When her mouth reaches mine, her tongue darts in, following my own tongue, touching teeth, fangs, and I feel her surge of excitement. She tastes blood and wants more. She would be mine across the shadowy future if I called her. But she knows I will not. I have an ancient hate, which I must starve and defy. Besides, permanent death holds even odds against the hope for immortality, and I will not take that chance—for her sake. Possibly for my sake as well. Being already damned doesn’t mean I don’t have a conscience.

When she flicks her tongue against the sharp edge of my fang, I taste her blood, her ultimate tease. And the flavor of her intent sizzles through my bloodlust like a firestorm of promise. If I’m not very careful, she’ll succeed, with my blessing, in killing me. Either that, or in forcing me to kill her.

I suck her tongue, pulling her essence into my already dizzy senses. She presses into me, harder, then shifts her lower body, taking me inside her. We are locked together in a silent, primal dance of sex and death. Both of us drawn to the edge.

She stares boldly into my gaze. Most humans don’t have the backbone to look death in the face. She calls me beautiful, and in her view I must be, yet I don’t remember my own face—have not seen the otherworldly glow of my soulless gaze. My reflection was lost on the night of my making. “My beautiful, green-eyed, killer angel,” she whispers.

Then she teases with a wistful smile. “Or are you the devil wearing a movie star’s face come to steal what’s left of my soul?”

That’s when I feel her concentration shift, her hands move. One slides through my hair, dragging sharp fingernails along my scalp, while the other leaves me little time to prepare. In reflex, my left hand tightens around her throat as I shove her upward. I could kill her by squeezing my fingers, yet even as she straddles my hips, her tight warmth surrounding me, her arms are in the air above her head, holding an ornately carved ash stake. Meant for my heart.

With our gazes locked, I see one nearly my match. Not because she’s stronger or smarter than most humans, but because she’s done what few others over the centuries have managed. She’s found a weakness in my defenses. Eleanor has discovered my fascination with wanting to die. To trade one undead version of hell for another.

Her chest rises and falls as she struggles to draw breath through my grip on her throat. In the candlelight the snake tattoo seems to slither to life on her skin. Cleopatra clasped a snake to her breast . . . and it killed her. I pause, enjoying the killing lust almost as much as how it feels to be hot and hard inside her. For the first time in our game my excitement exceeds hers.

With a scream she plunges the stake downward.

To me, her movement unfurls in slow motion—in dream time. Those few seconds become like minutes in my altered perception. That lovely ability allows me to enjoy every facet of the action, from the small smile preceding the scream to the way the muscles of her chest shift, making the snake look as though it is striking as she moves.

The stake penetrates my skin and strikes my breastbone before I knock it from her grip. Both of us breathe as though we’ve run a race. The pain from the wound is minimal, and the tremor that shakes me to the core has more to do with yearning and loathing. I loathe the weakness that causes me to yearn for death—the final sum of my rebellious equation. And this woman understands both.

Eleanor’s gaze is brilliant with triumph as she takes her now empty hand and runs a finger through the blood welling from my chest. Still the seductress, she brings the finger to her mouth and sucks the evidence of my weakness. She knows what comes next, as do I.

Fury, sex, and something akin to submission on my part, since now I can’t stop. I won’t allow her to drink from my wound, only from my lust. With a flip of my wrist she’s on her back. Trapping her under the cage of my arms it’s my turn to tease with a few long strokes inside her until she is crying out for more. As I feel her orgasm build, feeding my own, I lower my mouth to her neck, catching her skin with my teeth. The scream this time is louder and mindless. Death or life, either seems to be pleasure at this point. She and the lamb have more in common than they realize.

As I hold my Eleanor down, filling her without feeding, my hands ripping the sheets to ease the spasms tearing through my very much alive body, I feel almost human. Not a particularly elevating thought since humans have so many . . . flaws. But human I once was, and for that brief time, I was happy.