“Christ, Henri, I’ll be lucky to last—” You broke off with a sharp cry as my finger eased inside, smooth as a whetted blade, and sought your gland. Your blunt fingernails dug into my shoulders, and the full weight of your body leaned on mine as you borrowed from my strength to stand. I massaged your prostate while your cries escalated in fervor.
“Ohhhh my God,” you moaned. Your thighs shook and flexed as you lifted onto the balls of your feet inrelevé.The corded muscles of your abdomen tensed, as did your buttocks. Tight, you were so deliciously tight. Your pretty cock shuddered in my mouth, then poured hot seed heartily down my throat.
I feasted upon that savory nectar while you shivered out your last orgasmic pulses and panted for breath. I nursed you with the gentlest of pressure as you returned to yourself. My finger slowly retreated. One of your grips eased in pressure and then the other. I rose slowly and kissed your mouth, tilting your head to cradle your skull in the valley of my hand. You were so gentle and warm, soft-eyed and sated.
“That was…” You trailed off, still drunk on your own pleasure. “I liked that very much. May I have another?”
I lifted you like a bride and laid you, giggling, on the bed so that you might luxuriate a while longer. I stroked you here and there as it pleased you and drank in your praise, thinking on all the ways I could have you. Not yet, though. Not until you knew the truth of who you were and what I’d done. I demurred when you offered to return the favor, telling you there would be more opportunities later.
I resolved then that when this job was complete, I’d take you to my islands in our ancestral lands, and there, surrounded by the Mediterranean’s natural beauty and our family history, I’d make my confession. I only hoped that when your faith in me faltered, and your gut instinct told you to run, our bond might hold you.
I was not a good man, but I was determined.
19
VINCENT
Ihardly slept at all that night. What had I done to prompt that blowjob and how might I repeat it? Were you just trying to get me to stop asking questions? If so, I was sure that I could think of a million more.
My dreams that night were lusty and confusing, a strange mix of fantasy and reality, so interwoven that it was hard for me to distinguish truth from fiction. I woke up hot and horny, grimy with sweat and feverish with desire. I wanted your blood and sex simultaneously, and I wanted itnow.
But you were passed out cold. I wasn’t brave enough to make the first move, and I wasn’t going to molest you while you slept—I had my limits—so, I jacked off in the shower and tried to cleanse myself of my impure thoughts.
When I got out, you told me to pack up because we were moving locations, but you didn’t tell me where, nor did you address the sex between us or the tension that hung like the scent of blood in the air. My every sense was attuned to you—your smell, your movements, your tone of voice. I was hungry for clues, but you gave me none.
“Do you like it?” you asked as you opened the door to our new suite at the Bellagio.
“It’ll do,” I said with a sarcastically snobbish air and proceeded to inspect every nook and cranny. Was this your elaborate way of avoiding an honest conversation? By distracting me with pretty things? Very effective.
The sheets were soft as silk, and the shower had a million different pressure settings. There were cut roses on the coffee table in the exact same hue as the desert sunsets. That sort of thing didn’t happen by accident. Someone had to devote their artistic energy to make it that way. And apparently, you’d worked out a deal with the hotel to “own” this suite when you were in town, so it was already set up with everything the way you liked it, including a shit-ton of bottled blood just chilling in the fridge. When I asked how that wasn’t breaking one of our rules, you said you had a longstanding relationship with the hotel, that when you’d first requested it years ago, the concierge didn’t even bat an eye, which led me to believe people had asked for much wilder things.
“This place is incredible.” I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my toes in the plush carpet. I was going to need to feed Spooky actual cat food because I doubted she’d be able to find any rodents in our five-star surroundings. She was wrapped around my neck like a little fur choker, refusing to get down and explore. She probably preferred the interesting array of pests and foul smells at the Bambi Hotel.
“I’m glad you like it,” you said with an indulgent smile.
“Hell’s yeah. Bet you don’t even have to pay for the porn.”
“I hope the job won’t cut into your viewing time.”
“It’s fine.” I tossed the remote onto the sectional sofa. “We can watch something together. After hours.” I winked. You looked away, but not before I noticed the flush on your neck.
“I’m hungry,” I said. Food, blood, sex, all of the above.
We split a bottle of blood—Cabernet Sauvignon according to the label—and I tried to feed Spooky (while she glared at me from underneath a chair). Then, at your insistence, we pushed the furniture aside, and I practiced my Aikido in case I needed to defend myself against a perp. You were too skilled for me to completely redirect your attack, but I was able to surprise you with a couple of wristlocks, and one time I actually made you stumble.
“That’s it, Vincent, strike through your target. Extend your arm fully in order to harness your energy.”
You showed me how to throw a few punches and knee someone in the groin, always followed by the instructions to “run” and “escape.”
“What if I want to stay and fight?” I wasn’t completely useless.
You gave me a hard look. “Your body will repair itself, but if you’re trapped in a place where I cannot reach you, you will suffer. To be captured is a fate worse than death.”
“Got it.” I didn’t want to fully imagine that scenario, and I trusted you to know. At the end of our lesson, you presented me with my very own blade.
“It’s adorable,” I said happily and clapped my hands together like this was a promposal. “It looks like a baby tanto.”
“It’s very sharp,” you warned and pressed the very tip to your finger, drawing blood without even depressing the blade. You sucked on your fingertip, and I wanted it in my mouth.
