Chapter 6
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
Florence’s bedroom could be a museum display—apart from the fact there’s no explanatory sign telling you about the occupant’s life or the date they lived there. She wasn’t joking when she said she was interested in the past ...
I’ve read about people who feel like they belong in another era, but I’ve never met anyone who believes it to such an extent. Until now.
To the left is a fireplace with a black lead grate filled with glowing white candles, and in front of it sit two squat leather armchairs.
To the right stands a bookcase stocked with leather-bound books.
A plush crimson-and-gold oriental rug covers the dark polished floorboards, and atop it, next to the bookcase, rests a four-poster bed with thick, carved wooden posts.
A freestanding armoire with a changing screen stands on the far left-hand side.
The entire room is painted deep red, even the ceiling.
The flickering candles, the tick of the antique clock on the mantel, and the shifting shadows in the corners are giving me serious Edgar Allan Poe vibes.
‘This is ... dedicated,’ I say, looking around. And slightly spooky. Who lives like this in the twenty-first century?
‘Do you like it?’ Florence is standing right in front of me, and I blink. Wasn’t she over by the fireplace a second ago? She’s watching me carefully, as if to gauge my reaction.
‘I do. But I feel underdressed, like I should be wearing an evening suit or something,’ I joke.
Florence looks at me steadily and says deadpan, ‘Or you could wear your birthday suit.’
There’s no mistaking that as a come-on, and my cock thickens in my jeans. But I simply smirk at her, and she gives me a coy smile.
Yes, I’m playing the age-old ‘hard to get’ game, which is my fail-safe method when it comes to women (but I also want to keep my clothes on for as long as possible, as it’s freaking cold in here).
However, I have a box of condoms in my coat pocket, and cold or not, I’m itching to kiss her glossy lips and roll around naked in that cool four-poster.
And chat some more about books afterwards, of course . ..
‘Would you like something to drink? I have some port.’ Florence swishes over to the sideboard and uncaps a crystal decanter, and I catch a whiff of plums and spice.
The scent of dried roses is also more potent in here, and it’s making me think of graveyards and church altars.
She must have a dish of potpourri stashed somewhere.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, looking for somewhere to put my coat.
Suddenly, it’s removed from my arms, and a hand snakes around my waist. I glance down to see purple fingernails stroking my rock-hard length.
How on earth Florence managed to get behind me so quickly, I don’t know.
But her hand on my dick feels amazing. OK, she’s a bit quirky, and she lives in a museum.
But if she wants to move things along, that’s fine with me.
Her other hand tugs gently at my hair, and my head lolls back as if my spine were Plasticine.
I feel like I’m drunk, though I’m sure I declined the port.
Or did I? Did we sit in the armchairs by the fireside candles and talk?
My head is all fuzzy, and I can’t remember.
Florence is kissing and licking at my neck as she strokes me, and I groan at how good it all feels.
‘Shall we lie down, Dr Rhodes?’ she asks, massaging my straining cock.
The friction is too pleasurable, and my balls start tightening. Do not come in your jeans, Damian. Premature ejaculation is not appreciated on a first date.
I glance at the four-poster with its red satin cover and array of plump white pillows and nod quickly, hoping I can hold out until we’re in bed.
To my relief, she removes her magical fingers, and I gain a semblance of control.
‘Unless you prefer ...’
I look down again to see Florence, now on her knees, undoing my belt buckle. My eyes widen. But she gives me a sexy grin and starts unzipping my jeans, her mouth inches from my erection, which is throbbing and twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.
Before I know it, my jeans are sliding down my thighs, and I’m in my grey boxer briefs. I panic slightly, feeling like I’m losing control of this situation. Was I ever in control of it?
But she smiles up at me. ‘Relax, Dr Rhodes.’
‘I thought we were lying down?’
‘I changed my mind,’ she purrs, kissing my thigh. ‘Mmm, you’re very biteable.’
Florence nips at my flesh with her teeth, which tickles, but I don’t mind. She can do what she likes down there and seems to be doing just that as she licks up and down my inner thigh and gently squeezes my balls through my briefs.
God, that feels nice. I exhale, my anxiety easing off.
‘Cool,’ I hear her say. ‘I’ll keep going then.’
Momentarily confused about where her voice is coming from, I blink as my briefs are eased down over my swollen length. My cock quivers at being exposed to the cold air.
I tense, waiting for her tongue to warm it up. But she doesn’t. There’s a short pause in proceedings below, and insecurity shoots through me. Is it too small? Was her last boyfriend’s cock bigger? Does it look weird?
Then my boxer briefs are travelling down my thighs to join my jeans on the floor, and she starts kissing my thigh again and cupping my naked balls. I exhale in relief, feeling like I’ve passed some kind of test.
Risking a glance, I watch as Florence’s kisses move closer and closer to the tip of my wet cock, and my entire body trembles with anticipation.
I run my tongue over my dry lips. So much for my rigid rule—here I am with my dick out and my good intentions around my ankles.
But I’m in too deep to back out now. Besides, I’m beyond the point of caring.
I want her to suck me off. It’s going to feel so incredibly—I jerk as a sharp, stinging pain shoots through my upper thigh.
‘Ow! What the fuck!’
‘Sorry,’ Florence murmurs, clutching my bare buttocks in both hands. She presses her lips tightly against the spot on my thigh.
Did she scratch me with one of her nails?
But it felt more like needles ... A wave of dizziness washes over me as I feel blood being suctioned from the wound, and Florence makes a gulping noise. Oh god, I knew it was too good to be true; of course there’s something weird about her.
‘Stop it!’ I push Florence’s head away from my thigh and hurriedly pull up my boxer briefs and jeans, my cock shrivelling like a day-old sausage.
She wipes her mouth and stands to face me.
I grab my coat off the bed. ‘I’m going.’
Florence swallows; the pupils of her eyes are so dilated that they appear black with a tiny rim of violet.
‘Please don’t leave. I’m really sorry about that,’ she says softly, taking a step towards me.
I take a step back. ‘It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just not into kink ...’ Especially bloodplay!
‘Please stay, Damian. We can talk ...’
She smiles encouragingly, and I stare at her teeth—her canines are extra long and sharply pointed. Before I’ve had a chance to get a good look at them, she shuts her mouth hurriedly.
I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.
Florence’s voice whispers in my mind, but her lips are still pressed together.
Things suddenly click into place: her clothes, this room, the slip-up about the Bloody Mary in 1921, the biting, bloodsucking and telepathy.
Fuck, she’s a vampire. But vampires don’t exist! Are you going to stick around and debate that with her, numbnuts?
Heart pounding, I make a lunge for the door and stumble out into the short hallway.
Reaching the front entrance, I check behind me.
The vampire isn’t following, thank God. Bursting out the door into the crisp night air, I sprint down The Mound like the hounds of hell are after me.
A strange energy flows through my limbs, and I run full pelt with my lungs on fire, covering the mile and a half to my apartment on Leith Walk in ten minutes flat.
With trembling fingers, I double-lock the door and pull across the safety chain, then collapse on my living room couch, gasping for breath.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?