19. Winnie #2
I allowed my hand to slip into my panties, quickly finding my clit. I moaned into the darkness, imagining Conrad’s mouth on mine. Imagining his hand moving up my thigh and slipping between us. God, he’d felt so good before, his warmth against my cold skin.
I imagined him whispering, “Whatever you need, Winnie. I’ll give it to you.”
I slipped a finger inside myself, imagining Conrad’s large finger pumping, curling to rub my G-spot.
My hips bucked upward, wanting more, wishing Conrad was on top of me.
I imagined him licking the tip of my nipples as I ran a finger over my breast. How fucking good would it feel for him to part my legs, to press his cock into me?
I moaned again, biting my lip to hold back a whimper.
I slipped another finger inside while my left hand found my clit. My hips surged forward rhythmically.
“Conrad,” I whispered into the dark casket. “Fuck yes.”
I imagined him grabbing my ass, lifting me into the air as he fucked me, thrusting harder and deeper.
My fingers worked their magic until I came hard, feeling my internal walls squeeze my fingers, wetness flowing down my hand.
My fingers still moved, more lazily now.
The orgasm seeped into every part of my body, like a plant soaking up water after days without rain.
The sensation was both familiar and foreign at once, comforting yet oddly emotional as I came to terms with the truth.
Conrad Lawrence would never want a vampire. Literally only in my dreams.
After another twenty minutes of failed sleep, I gave up and got out of my casket with all the grace of a crypt creature experiencing post-masturbation insomnia.
The cottage creaked around me as I moved barefoot through it.
My attention drifted toward a new photograph resting on my kitchen table.
It was freshly printed and not framed yet.
Billie grinning wildly with mud on her face.
CJ holding up his notebook. Bianca pretending not to smile while standing beside the garden pavilion.
A blurry Conrad in the background, looking at all of them as though they’d hung the moon.
This was exactly why I kept my distance. Exactly why. Immortality demanded eventual loneliness. Humans aged. Humans changed. Humans died. Even the magical ones perished eventually if one waited long enough.
And me? I remained—watching, remembering, and leaving before the leaving could happen to me first. It was safer that way. Except lately safety felt suspiciously similar to misery.
I busied myself making tea to avoid thinking. Chamomile, honey, and a touch of valerian root normally helped with sleeplessness, but my brain remained determined to torture me.
I had almost told Conrad the truth. There had been a moment after the kiss where I genuinely intended to do it. Tell him everything.
Conrad, thank you for the emotional intimacy and inappropriate kitchen activities. By the way, I was born before indoor plumbing was a mainstream thing and occasionally drink blood.
Very normal conversation starter.
I pressed both hands against my face. “Oh God.”
The worst part was that a little piece of me thought he might have stayed. Hope had ruined better women than me.
By the time Saturday evening arrived, I still had not slept properly, which meant I was emotionally fragile and would therefore be absolutely doomed once I returned to the children Monday morning.
They had taken this entire vampire revelation far too well.
Far too well. The first day after the break-in, I’d expected panic, terror, and immense amounts of crying.
Instead, Billie had asked if I could turn into a bat.
CJ wanted to know whether vampires had to pay taxes.
Bianca requested a reading list to delve into the subject more deeply.
The children had adapted to the knowledge that their nanny was undead with alarming speed. Apparently, I’d underestimated both their intelligence and their complete lack of self-preservation.
I smiled, remembering Wednesday afternoon.
“Can you hypnotize people?” CJ had asked while eating apple slices.
“Technically.”
“Cool.”
“You are not hypnotizing your teachers,” Bianca had said immediately without looking up from her book.
“I wasn’t going to,” CJ pouted.
Billie had gasped dramatically from the floor. “Can vampires explode?”
I had blinked. “Not usually.”
She accepted this solemnly before returning to drawing fanged dinosaurs.
Somehow through the excitement of it all, they had kept my secret. Not even accidental slips. Though Billie had come dangerously close Thursday night by loudly announcing, “Nanny Winnie eats weird.”
Conrad had barely looked up from his laptop. “How weird?”
“She drinks blood.”
My entire undead existence had flashed before my eyes.
Then Billie continued. “Like mosquitoes.”
Conrad had simply nodded distractedly. “Sounds unpleasant.”
I’d nearly ascended directly into hell from the stress of it all.
The children’s questions had only increased from there.
Could I see in the dark?
Did garlic actually work against vampires?
This one took some time to explain, considering they’d seen me cook with garlic on numerous occasions.
“It depends on the intention behind the garlic. If it’s fresh and it’s being used toward a vampire who has ill intentions, it works as a deterrent.
But I can cook with it and be around it in the kitchen. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Had I ever met Dracula?
Could vampires get braces?
Did I know any werewolves?
Could zombies and vampires date?
That last one had resulted in a forty-minute debate between CJ and Bianca involving disease transmission, decomposition rates, and “cross-species romantic logistics,” which I had to shut down quickly.
“The zombie would smell bad,” Billie contributed.
Honestly, valid point.
By Sunday evening, I finally forced myself out into civilization because I needed my monthly blood ration before I started making deeply irresponsible choices involving Conrad Lawrence’s extremely sexy neck.
The funeral home sat two towns over beneath a flickering sign that had looked mildly haunted since the nineteen-eighties. Holloway & Sons Funeral Services. Comfort Through Compassion.
The basement beneath it smelled faintly of antiseptic, clove cigarettes, cold stone, and expensive cosmetics.
Emil looked up from embalming paperwork when I entered through the side door.
“Well,” he drawled. “You look emotionally drained.”
“I came for blood, not therapy, Emil.”
“Same difference.”
Emil had been thirty-eight for approximately ninety years and somehow managed to look both elegant and exhausted at all times. Silver threaded through his dark hair at the temples. His shirts were always immaculate. His moral ambiguity remained inspiring.
He slid a small, insulated case across the counter toward me. “Hospital stock this month. Type O.”
“Bless you.” I opened the case carefully. Four sealed bags. Enough for several weeks if rationed properly.
“I also acquired fresh plasma from a magical practitioner with extremely good iron levels,” Emil added.
“How romantic.”
“You mock me, but sourcing ethically is difficult.”
That was true. Most vampires operated through black-market feeding circles or willing donor arrangements. I preferred Emil. He was discreet, professional, and only moderately criminal.
He leaned against the prep counter, watching me closely. “You’re distracted. What’s going on in that pretty mind of yours?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You just stared at that blood bag like you hadn’t eaten in ten years.”
I sighed heavily.
Emil’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“You’re attached.”
I took a step back. “I am not. Why would that be your immediate first thought?”
“You started baking, didn’t you?”
I scowled. “That is completely unrelated.”
“It’s never unrelated.”
I glared at him.
Emil folded his arms. “Human?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” He winced. “That’s bad.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well? Is he hot?”
I hesitated.
Emil pointed immediately. “See? Just as I suspected. Dangerous. Very dangerous grounds, Winifred. No wonder you look so hungry.”
“He’s a widower with children,” I admitted. I rubbed tiredness from my face. “I almost told him the truth about who I really am. He deserves to know.”
Emil went still. “That,” he said carefully, “is substantially more serious than simple yearning.”
I hated that he was correct.
Emil sighed softly before walking toward the tiny office kitchenette tucked into one corner of the basement. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good. You look one emotional inconvenience away from performing an interpretive dance, and I don’t have time for that shit.”
A few minutes later, I sat across from him, nursing a cup of chamomile mixed with blood. Rain tapped softly against the tiny basement windows, and it reminded me so much of the time when Conrad and the kids had been sick, and I’d slept in the basement with the rain pounding outside.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted quietly. “There are children involved. It was never my intention to get so… invested.”
Emil studied me over the rim of his mug. “Do you love them?”
The question hurt because the answer came instantly. “Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“And him?”
I stared into my blood-enriched tea.
Emil sighed again. “Oh dear.”
Exactly.
Oh fucking dear.
The conversation shifted to the blood supply chain and Emil making a new contact at a hospital one state away. I tried to listen and show interest. After all, he provided my sustenance. Unfortunately, Conrad’s face—specifically his lips—kept interrupting my concentration.
The rain followed me home. Water rolled gently across the windshield. Old jazz played low through my car speakers, and for once, the drive wasn’t lonely. Complicated, certainly. Emotionally catastrophic, according to Emil. But not lonely.