“Your cries are delectable, my dear.”
Sonia pushed herself to her feet and took a step toward the figure, her body taking on an aggressive posture. As she advanced, she realized the other person was even shorter than herself, which was an unusual sensation. She glanced at the face and then down the body. It was a boy. He couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen years old, skin as black as oil and clothes as luxurious and tailored as a prince.
The boy put out a hand and lightly touched Sonia’s chest with a delicate fingertip. “There is no need to fear, and even less reason to bring on conflict.” With those words, the figure raised dark eyes and met Sonia’s gaze.
She let out a gasp. Those were no child’s eyes. They were the oldest eyes she’d seen in her short vampiric existence. It felt as if she could see countless centuries in their depths. So many centuries an irrational fear crept over her that she would be lost in eternity if she didn’t look away.
“I am called Gwala.”
Uncertain why, Sonia bowed her head. The boy reached out, pressed the tips of his fingers to the apex of her skull. “Rise, servant.”
She returned to her full height but kept her eyes averted.
“Have you heard of the Vampire Cathedral, child?”
She shook her head.
“Truly?” His voice pitched upward, causing him to sound even more feminine.
Sonia shook her head again in confirmation.
“Who is your sire?”
She could barely raise her voice above a whisper. “I do not know his name, master.” She was unclear where the term “master” came from, but it felt right. The small part of her that balked at such a subservient exchange quickly dissipated.
Gwala mulled over her words. Sonia wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Maybe turn her back over to the monster who’d made her? Possibly kill her? She wasn’t sure, but for whatever reason, she wasn’t afraid. In fact, she felt more at ease than she had since transitioning.
“You belong with me.” The boy stretched out his hand. “Take it.”
She did.
Seventeen
FINN DE MORISCO
Comingdown wasn’t as easy this time. In addition to the dizziness, my skin felt like individual needles were sinking into each and every pore. Just the pressure of the stone slab under my ass and hamstrings in my seated position was near agony. Even the high wasn’t as good. In some ways it was. Everything was better—the colors, the sensations, like stepping into an existential fantasy movie. The only difference was this time I knew what was going on. I remembered buying Spor in Head Shop, or at least trying to. The clerk took one look at me and refused to accept payment, said it was on the house. Maybe that was it; maybe the quality wasn’t as good. Or maybe being mixed with the man’s blood the first time had increased its potency. Either way, being aware of what was going on stole some of the wonder of it all. No matter how many attempts, I couldn’t reach that same level of euphoria as the experience in Balboa Park. And if the pain increased with each withdrawal, I couldn’t understand why it was the supernatural drug of choice.
The sinking needles switched from pinpricks of agony to erogenous points of penetration.
Warm hands encircled my chest from behind, gliding over my collarbone and covering my left pectoral. Fingers flicked my nipple with quick violence, spiking the pleasure, then spreading out to cover more area of my skin. My cock hardened down the leg of my jeans. I wasn’t sure how many times over the past few hours, maybe days, it had been released, but the tenderness as it lengthened against the denim only intensified the sensation.
Looking down, I took in the large masculine hand that lowered over my stomach, trailed by a massive forearm covered in golden hair. The skin glowed. Whether it was some species with efflorescent skin or just a byproduct of the remaining Spor in my system, I couldn’t tell, nor did I care. The forearm tightened around my chest and pulled me backward. Against the bare skin of my back, I felt chiseled chest muscles twitch as the arm lowered farther. The man’s chest hair against my skin banished the residual pain and sent sparks of neon color flashing across my field of vision. This was more like it.
I groaned as teeth clamped on to the base of my neck. Vampire! For a moment, everything cleared and a streak of terror rushed through me. Just as quickly, the Spor turned the emotion into lust, causing my cock to twitch, the tender skin nearly exploding at the feeling.
Releasing my neck and pulling his hand back over my body, the man circled to stand in front of me as I sat on the stone slab. Behind his head, the flickering lights of the back room blurred like hellish Christmas lights, forcing me to strain in order to make out his features.
He was solid muscle, and naked. The same soft gold down covered his broad chest and flat stomach. His penis was long and full, the thick shaft already leaking and twitching as he looked at me.
He grasped my chin between his fingers, painfully yanking it up until I looked into his face. Blond hair hung down over his forehead nearly covering his blue eyes. Roman nose over full, wide lips. Strong, square jaw covered in reddish stubble.
His mouth closed over mine in a warm claiming, his tongue filling me with a hot, musky taste. He pressed his chest into mine and slid his arm around my back, pulling me flat against him, his warmth and hair covering my skin. His wet, throbbing cock pushed into my lower belly. A guttural growl emanated from him, filling the core of me with warmth. Not a vampire. Werewolf.
He pulled his lips from mine, leaving me feeling empty and aching. He waited until my eyes found his, then arched his left eyebrow. I didn’t need any clarification.
“God, yes.” I reached out, attempting to pull him back to me. “Please. Now.”
He pushed me back with one swift shove, and I connected with the top of the slab hard enough to make my head crack on the stone. Without unsnapping the button or lowering the zipper, he ripped the jeans off my body. I cried out as the sudden yank pulled at the raw skin of my dick, separating where it had been stuck to the material from previous fluid.
