His Captive Mortal (A Vampire Romance)

She reached for him, pulling his head down to reward him with a deep kiss. Kisses she reserved for him. No other man touched her lips. Ever.

She opened her robe and let it fall to the floor, standing only in her corset and stockings.

“Mmm,” Charles murmured appreciatively, pinching one nipple through the fabric. He twisted the little nub, causing her to gasp at the sharp pain. “Show me your thanks,” he said, pushing her to her knees.

“I thought I was.” She reached for his trousers, opening them to free his spectacular cock. She swirled her tongue over the head of it. “Do all vampires have such beautiful cocks?” she asked him.

His breath grew ragged, and he gripped her hair.

“Hmm?” she asked, taking as much of his length as possible into the pocket of her cheek while using her fist to squeeze the base.

He tightened his hold on her hair. “Stop talking,” he ordered, but her power over him was evident in the deepness of his voice.

“I love to suck your cock,” she cooed, moving one hand to his balls.

“Naughty witch,” he said, lifting her to her feet. “I think you must desire my punishment.” He pushed her over the edge of the bed and picked up the riding crop he kept there for their fun. “Count them,” he ordered.

No matter how many times they had played this game, she always felt a shiver of fear. Perhaps that was the appeal of Charles as a lover. He was not wholly safe. He turned animal when angry or when blood starved. He thrilled her with his ability to overpower her, and yet he never, ever missed knowing when she’d had enough or what was too much.

He brought the crop down smartly across her derrière, and she drew in her breath. “One,” she murmured. He snapped it down again. “Two.” The first weal began to burn as she felt its full effect. “Three!” she cried when the next stroke fell. “Slow down!” she gasped.

Charles lifted her head with a fist in her hair. “Who is in charge here?” His voice was low and sultry, his fangs glittering in the flickering light.

“You are?” she whispered.

“I am.” And to prove it, he laid the next five strokes too fast for her to even count.

She screamed into her silk bedspread. “Forgive me,” she gasped, writhing over the bed, her aching breasts enjoying the friction, the fire across her bottom only stoking the one between her legs.

“That’s better,” he purred, sliding the tip of the crop between her legs and rubbing it back and forth over her honeyed opening.

“Oh,” she moaned.

“Climb up on the bed and spread your legs wide,” he ordered.

She crawled on her hands and knees to the center of the bed, where she sat, leaning back on her hands and spreading her feet wide with her knees bent.

“Touch her,” he said, pointing with the crop to her sex.

She reached in front and slid two fingers into her folds, rubbing her rosebud of pleasure.

Charles startled her by blurring between her legs, his hands grasping her thighs, his tongue licking into her with the authority of ownership.

“Yes, Charles,” she whispered, her head falling back.

He licked and nibbled and sucked until she screamed. At the moment she crested the peak, he plunged two fingers into her cavity and struck his fangs into her inner thigh, sucking deeply with the pleasure of a climax. Her muscles contracted and released until she fell onto her back in bliss, the sensation of his licking the wound closed, a delicious completion.

Aurelia

The orgasm wakes me. I’m lying on my belly with one hand between my legs, drool moistening the pillow. Good gravy. Fortunately, I didn’t wake Charlie with my lusty dream this time. He’s cold and stiff as a marble statue beside me.

Charlie. Charles.

The memory of the dream rushes back to me. Charlie whipping my bare back with a riding crop and biting my inner thigh. I slip my legs out from under the covers and inspect them. No sign of bite marks.

Just a dream.

But it was so real. I try to recall other details of the scene. I’d been in candlelight—no, it had been an old-fashioned lamp, and I’d been wearing a corset and stockings, like the ones Charlie bought for me. It must have been his insistence that I wear them that inspired the old-fashioned dream. But what had happened before he’d come? Something I’d wanted to hide from him. Another man? That didn’t make sense. I can’t even handle one man, much less two. And I’ve never cheated in my life. Unlike Wilson, my asshole ex.

I scurry up and get ready for work, but I’m reluctant to leave. Charlie’s suggestion I quit the job suddenly doesn’t sound so bad. But that’s ridiculous. How would I support myself? Would Charlie support me? And what does he do for money, anyway?