Chapter 9 Christine #3
With one gloved hand, he unzips his pants and pulls himself out. He’s thick, uncut, smooth. I curl my fingers around the shaft, relishing the heat of him.
My claws are still out, and he hisses through his teeth behind the mask. He has every reason to be afraid, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping him: He wants this, too.
I stroke him once, eliciting a low, tormented rasp from his throat. Then I reach under my skirt, pull aside my underwear, and settle myself back into place astride his hips. I guide him inside me, nudging his cock head between the wet lips of my pussy, sinking slowly onto him.
I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve always insisted that my victims take me to a cheap motel at the very least, and I don’t fuck them.
But this one is different. Mesmerizing. Delicious.
My eyes drift blissfully shut as I sink down all the way, wholly full of him—his blood, his cock.
I need his cum, and then I think I’ll be sated.
My lips find his throat again. I prod the wounds with my fangs, teasing out a little more of that addictive blood. I’m drunk, I’m high, I’m out of my mind, and I tell myself that’s why I cling to his shoulders, my mouth sealed to his neck, while I lift my hips and fuck myself on him.
His gloved hands grope beneath my skirt, finding my ass, grasping both cheeks.
I let him take over, lifting and lowering me in a swift rhythm, using me like a toy to get himself off.
It’s so fucking hot, I can hardly breathe.
I tuck my nose beneath the corner of his jaw, reveling in his scent.
The edge of his mask grazes my cheek as he works me up and down.
I sheathe the claws of my left hand and tuck it between my legs, rubbing my clit while he fucks me. I’m whimpering through my fangs, through blood-wet lips, drenching his cock in my helpless arousal. It’s the messiest I’ve ever been, and it’s everything I need.
When I come, it’s like a firework in my brain—the kind where each separate streak of glittering gold bursts into its own shining explosion.
I scream faintly, and I bite him again, tearing his flesh cruelly.
He comes inside me with a convulsive jerk of his body and a hoarse cry of pain and pleasure mingled.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, bathing the jagged wound with my tongue, selfishly savoring the fresh rivulets of blood that stream down his throat, soaking the collar of his coat. “For what it’s worth, I hope you don’t die.”
He doesn’t speak, but his cock flexes inside me again. It feels good, and I squeeze around him in response. He gasps, then releases a long, slow sigh of relief.
I cling to him a moment longer, letting myself enjoy the fullness of cock in my pussy and the richness of blood in my belly. My second heart is hard at work, pumping the fresh supply through my veins. His blood sparkles through my limbs and glistens in my brain. It’s absolute bliss.
But I can’t stay here. My predator self is receding, and my rational self emerges with concerns about where I am and what I’ve done.
Reluctantly, I lift myself up, letting his length slide out of me.
I stand up, swaying for a moment on trembling legs.
Cum is dripping down my inner thigh, so I scoop it up and smear it across the front of his coat.
Then I reach into the little purse at my hip, take out a wet wipe, and clean the blood from my mouth and chin. My fingers are shaking.
I ball up the wipe and tuck it into a tiny side pocket of my bag. After a quick fix of my underwear, I look down at the masked man. He’s still breathing. Panting, really.
I’m starting to unravel, to panic, but I can’t let him know that. I keep my voice as steady and casual as I can. “Well, this was a pleasure. Do I need to kill you, or can you keep this quiet?”
He lifts one gloved finger to his lips, a silent promise that he won’t tell. Since I don’t want to kill him, I’ll have to believe him.
“Good boy.” Swaying a little in my boots, I manage to walk out of the alley and down the street. I’m still buzzed on the blood I drank from his veins. My panties are damp, and I can still feel the phantom shape of his thick, warm cock inside me.
What did I just do? That wasn’t me. I don’t have sex with strangers in alleys.
It’s not that I’m worried about STDs. Vampires don’t get them, or if we do, our bodies eradicate them almost instantly—a perk of having special regenerative cells.
And I’m not worried about pregnancy either.
A vampire’s fertility window happens way less frequently than a human’s, so I should be fine in that regard.
My lack of self-control tonight worries me.
I waited so long to hunt that I couldn’t stop myself from fixating on Raoul.
I’d have attacked him once I got him in the alley.
I might have even drained him dry. I was lucky that masked stranger intervened.
Biting my attacker was only natural—I was in hunting mode, nearly out of my head with the blood-craze.
But screwing him? That was something else entirely.
I don’t fuck where I feed. And I certainly don’t feed on guys who are conscious.
What if he remembers my face? It was dark, but it’s possible he was able to make out my features. And he heard Raoul call my name.
Shit…why did I let him live? Since when do I trust anyone else to keep my secret, much less a stranger?
My steps slow as I come to terms with the unfortunate truth. I need to go back and kill him.
I don’t want to. The only people I’ve ever killed were the wannabe gang rapists who cornered me in that alley several months ago. I’ve come close to murder a few other times, but I’ve always managed to avoid it.
I turn back, still warring within myself—my moral code against self-preservation. A herd of laughing, drunk girls teeters toward me in their cheap pink cowboy boots, so I step back and lean against a building until they pass.
My attacker’s blood left me feeling stronger than usual, as if I could lift a truck or a whole-ass building. It’s more than enough strength to take down one masked man.
But I still can’t decide if protecting my identity is worth the murderous stain on my soul.
Suddenly, a pickup truck pulls to a halt near the curb. The passenger window rolls down.
“Christine!” Raoul’s bright smile is like a bolt of lightning, a shock to my wicked heart. He’s popped up twice tonight. It’s like fate, like something out of a rom-com—or maybe a horror movie.
“Are you stalking me?” I force a smile.
He laughs. “You’re the one who came to watch me play.”
“By accident. I didn’t know it was your show. I just heard the music, and I…” The memory of his soothing voice and those delicate chords vibrates through my mind. “I was kind of obsessed.”
“The way you looked at me…I thought you might want to, um…talk.”
Is he blushing? That’s too fucking cute.
“I did,” I admit. “And then I got to thinking it might be weird if you and I…talked…since I’m part of the cast now.”
“Right.” He winces. “I guess that could be perceived the wrong way.”
“For sure. But I’ll see you Tuesday night, yes?”
“Yeah. Hey, can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“My car’s just up here. I’m good.”
“All right then. Good seeing you, Christine.” His voice lingers over my name, turning it warm and golden.
Impulsively, I take a step toward his car—and at the same moment, the breeze swirls against my back, whisking my hair past my cheeks, flowing toward him.
Raoul’s nostrils flare, and his handsome face tightens, his eyes wide and alert. His gaze locks with mine, half confusion, half challenge.
My heart flutters with the foolish terror that somehow, he knows what I did in that alley. But he couldn’t possibly know.
He stares at me a second longer, and then a car honks as it swerves around his truck.
“Sorry!” he calls to the other driver, then says tersely, “I should go.”
He guns the engine and roars away without another word.
I return to the alley, still uncertain what I plan to do. But when I reach it, the masked man is gone.