Chapter 6 Venom
VENOM
With one final, torturous motion, I sink down onto him. A guttural sound escapes Angel's throat—a mix of a groan and a surprised roar—as I take him fully.
At first I thought this was a simple hate fuck, but now I know it's something different.
I don't know what they're teaching these private school boys, but he has no business being this good at sex. Angel is no angel in the sack.
I always thought rich guys were too lazy to try.
After all, they don't need to charm a woman into bed.
A thick wallet will make up for a lack of thickness in the pants department every time, but he's giving this maximum effort.
Like he's worried that an Olympic committee is going to hold up scorecards at the end, and he's going for gold.
His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, and the rhythm of his rotating hips is ungodly.
But it's his mouth that shocks me. After days of quiet brooding and trauma bonding, his silver tongue is getting the workout of a lifetime.
The things he's been whispering in my ear are downright sinful.
"Mmm...qué rico estás," he murmurs as he thrusts up into me. "You are so delicious, Sophia. You feel so fucking good wrapped around me..."
I moan because I can't think of anything better to say and almost roll my eyes when a third orgasm hits me out of nowhere. Rippling through me in wave after perfect, exhausted wave.
Angel's on top of me. Pinning my arms above my head and kissing my neck as he slows his rhythm. I pull him against me, hooking my ankles around his waist and wait for the pulsing aftershocks to subside.
I never thought I'd say this, but I think I've hit my orgasm limit.
The first one was incredible, the second an unexpected surprise, but the third is like.
..okay, bud, what are you trying to prove here?
Vampires can go all night if we want to, but we both need to eat, and the poor guy is still running a fever.
Not that it seems to have had any effect on his stamina.
He's been giving it his all. We've been flipping back and forth.
Me on top. Him on top. Him behind me, etc.
I'd considered getting behind him, but I think that would be a bridge too far in the fight for dominance.
Both of us want to be in control. Both of us love losing control.
It's a perfect little dance, like an Argentine tango.
"Your turn," I say, rolling him onto his back. "I'm starting to get hungry, and we need to feed soon."
He tilts his pelvis up and groans. "Then bite me again? Then we never have to stop."
"You wish." I laugh, throwing my head back. My curls cascade down my spine, tickling vertebrae like fingertips.
"Do I need to say please again?" he asks as he reaches up, curls his fingers in my hair, pulling my face close to his neck and offering himself up to me. A whispering chant ringing in my ears. "Please. Por favor. S'il vous pla?t. Please..."
I scrape my teeth against his skin—a teasing, barely-there caress along his jugular vein. He shudders, his breath catching in a sharp gasp. His blood surges beneath the thin layer of skin, which flushes pink and calls me in.
Just a little more.
I bite down, and his hands fly from my hair to find my waist with bruising strength. His fingers dig into my flesh as he tries to hold on to me. My hips still rotate a perfect figure eight as I drink from him.
"F-fuck," he gasps, the word barely a whisper as his eyes glaze over.
It takes no time at all, and he starts to pulse beneath me—a deep, resonant thrum that vibrates up through my body and into my soul. The room fills with a series of powerful, guttural groans as he slows, surrenders, and finishes.
I pull away tentatively, the two tiny punctures weeping dark red beads and put my thumb in my mouth. "See?" I whisper, running a gentle venom-coated thumb over the wound. "Good things happen when you say please."
"I think you're ready to take more blood," I call over my shoulder as I squeeze the thick coppery liquid into the warm milk. "You're tolerating the mixture well, so I might as well up the concentration."
Angel is stretched out on the bed, his arms raised above his head and watching me as I work in the kitchen.
His eyes lazily rake over my body as I awkwardly bang into things, stumble over my own feet, and leave spilled pools of lacrimae on the counter.
Something about being watched so intently makes every ounce of grace evaporate from my already clumsy body.
"You can take your time, by the way," he purrs. "I'm enjoying the view."
"You need to get a better hobby." I laugh as I turn to him.
He never takes his eyes off me as I slink over to the bed, two mugs of blood in my hands, liquid sloshing against the ceramic.
"When will I drink...just blood?" he asks.
"It depends, but you'll get much thirstier in the next day or so. We can try it tomorrow if you'd like? We'll start small to begin with and gradually add more. How are you feeling?"
"Fine, I guess. I still don't have much of an appetite."
I don't know how to tell him that the thirst should be burning through him by now. That the thought of drinking blood should be all-consuming. But he's not exactly turning on schedule. At least he no longer looks like he's at death's door.
He sips the mixture, still tentative, but when the first few mouthfuls pass without incident, he relaxes and gulps it down with gusto. I think I must be getting the hang of this turning stuff. Maybe I'll even get a performance bonus for keeping Angel well fed and well fucked at the end of it all.
He lifts his arm, making space for me in the nook, and I curl my legs up under me and get comfy, pressing my chest against his side.
I'm only in a tank and underwear, and he's just in his boxers.
If you were to take a candid photo right now, we'd look like a human couple having breakfast in bed on a Sunday morning.
Sprawled among rumpled white sheets, sipping freshly pressed coffee over the newspaper.
That beautiful kind of intimacy where you're totally at ease in each other's company.
Except he's not my husband. He's the man I'm supposed to be guarding, and I'm in danger of crossing yet another line with him. Sex is fine. Sex doesn't mean anything. Drinking from him? I don't know, I guess I was just hungry.
But this? Whatever this is? I shouldn't be doing it.
I swirl the sweet, chocolate-tinged blood around my cup and watch it coat the sides.
It tastes great, but I'm not enjoying it, and the liquid sits like a block of lead in my stomach.
A knot of anxiety born from making a decision I'm starting to regret.
I tilt my head back and drain the remainder and make a move to pull away, but Angel pulls me tight against his side, and I feel powerless to resist.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
"I need to clean the kitchen," I mumble.
"You don't need to do anything. Just sit with me. Talk to me."
I narrow my eyes. "I'm not going to bite you again, if that's what you want."
He looks hurt. "No, Sophia. That's not what I want. I want to talk. To know more about you. I want you to tell me more about your world. About what it means to be a vampire."
I shift against him. "What do you want to know?"
A warm laugh rumbles through his chest. "I don't know? Everything? Until a couple of days ago, I didn't know vampires were real. Now I guess I need to learn how to be one."
"It's really not that complicated. It's mostly instinct. One day it takes over, and you just know what to do. You can already feel it, can't you? The shift that's happening inside you? The way your senses are starting to dial up a notch?"
He nods. "I think so. Earlier...when we were... It was like I was feeling things more intensely."
"Like how?"
"Well, for a start, I could hear every tiny little noise you were making, and you were making plenty."
My cheeks flush. "Erm, yes. Okay...moving on... What else?"
He tilts his cup so the contents catch in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. "This blood mixture tastes good. It's more complicated than it was yesterday. I'd even go as far as to say it's...nutty?"
I signal for him to bring it to me, and he obliges by wafting the mixture under my nose.
With a sharp sniff I confirm it. The lacrimae is more concentrated, but it does have hints of macadamia nut and almond.
I'd bet on the donor being a vegan New-Agey type who gives blood willingly under the guise of spiritual enlightenment.
"You're right," I say. "You're a natural. Next time I'll expect you to get specific about the type of nut. Fuck it. If you get it right, I'll give you a cookie."
"We can eat cookies?" he says as he arches his brow.
"Not if you want to keep the contents of your stomach, no. Human food is disgusting to vampires. You can still have it and live, but by the end of this week I doubt you'll want to."
"Oh," Angel says as he sets his mug down on the bedside table. "Okay. Good to know. No more human food for me."
"Anything in particular you'll miss?"
His reply is instant. "Breakfast sandwiches."
"Sausage or bacon?"
He gets a misty, faraway look in his eyes. "Two slices of bacon. One egg over medium and a single perfect slice of American cheese in an English muffin. Finished with a good shake of chipotle Tabasco."
"My condolences," I say, making the mark of the cross and casting my eyes heavenward.
"Thank you. I'll grieve for a while." He shifts positions so he's looking right at me. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but uh...what else am I giving up?"
I take a breath so I can have a second to organize my thoughts. I don't want to lie to Angel, but it's going to be tough to hear this next part. "Well, there's the sun, obviously. You'll never have a beach vacation again, and I'd recommend staying away from tanning beds."
"Noted. What else?"