NYC VAMPS (The Italians): Vampire Romance (Book Book 2)

by Sky Winters

  No.

  She touched his cheek, feeling how cool it was, how smooth. He went absolutely still. Her fingertips traced the single tear’s path down his face...and then she leaned forward and brushed it away with her lips.

  He shuddered, his head falling back and his chest heaving once. His eyes opened, still shimmering with a blue radiance, like captured moonlight. They were full of astonishment. “You...did not run away….” he whispered breathlessly.

  She shook her head, not certain what she could possibly say to even explain herself. All she knew was that the idea of leaving him, here, in these first sweet moments of their being together, was more terrifying and painful than facing what he was. Instead, she slipped her hand up his chest, and then laid her cheek against it. No heartbeat. But he was trembling even harder now, and when she found herself swept up in his arms like she weighed nothing, she wasn’t even that surprised.

  Chapter 5

  She could barely breathe. He was like an animal now, low growls in his throat and his eyes luminous as he carried her down the hall. She expected to feel his fangs again, but instead there was only the firm grip of his hands around her thighs, his clinging, near-smothering kiss, the moments when he lost restraint and pressed her against the wall to feel the whole length of her body against his. She tried to keep up, even as his lips grew bruising at times, but often she couldn’t caress him so much as hang on for dear life as he bore her away to one of the near rooms.

  He pushed the door open with a bang and swept through with her; she saw his music room, piano by a wall of windows and a rack of lesser instruments behind glass on the wall. Shelves and shelves of music, a mirror reflecting the window wall--and one broad, low divan in dark blue velvet, which he headed for even as he nipped and nuzzled her from her jawline to the tops of her breasts. She heard cloth tear, knew her uniform was ruined, and then whimpered as his fingers slipped up her bared back. He lowered her to the divan, angrily yanking away the intervening fabric until she panted up at him wearing just her bra and skirt. He stared down at her, then reached a shaking hand out, gripped the front of her bra--and snapped it, under-wires and all, freeing her breasts and leaving her trembling.

  He buried his face in her breasts as he crouched over her, his tongue cool and silky over her skin but his gestures those of a starving man suddenly offered a hearty meal. Little groans mixed with his growls, and he caught one of her nipples in his mouth, his fangs just brushing it before he started sucking. She let out a low, astonished wail, half sitting up, the unfamiliar pleasure coursing through her like electricity. He paused, and then got a little of his self-possession back, chuckling against her skin. Both hands reached down to cup her breasts, and he kneaded and kissed them in earnest, switching his mouth from one to the other when she started getting sore.

  More fabric ripped; her skirt was gone. She made a small noise of protest, her shyness welling up, but he simply raised his head and stared at her before very deliberately reaching down to caress her thighs. His fingers traced her skin, then started stroking and kneading her through the fabric of her panties. He kept at her breast as he worked, and she whimpered and moaned, hands in his hair, breathless. The doubled sensation mixed inside her body and left her straining and trembling under him, her skin hot, her head spinning, and her voice...ah, yes, that was her voice, begging him to go on, begging him not to stop.

  He was no kinder to his own clothes, tearing his shirt with his impatience, buttons flying. His trousers he yanked open and down, destroying their zipper, not seeming to care. He was barely undressed enough for the act when he threw himself over her.

  His smooth, cool body pressed her into the divan’s velvet cushions, and she felt him enter. She had expected pain; there was only a little ache, though, drowned out by sweetness--and his reaction as her soft, warm flesh accepted him. He let out a long, anguished moan, eyes widening, body going rigid as he clung to her. He fought for control, his body shaking against hers...and then relaxed slightly, his head tilting down to look at her. His expression was half wild and half tender, like the adoration of a wolf; then his eyes rolled closed and he started to thrust.

  Lucinda had never romanticized the idea of her first time. She was too pragmatic. But now, trembling under her first lover, she felt as if her body was afire. Pleasure and need for more pleasure, the growing, uncontrollable tension in her muscles; the way his rough movements felt better and better with every roll of his hips; all of these things were as strange to her as his fangs and the glow of his eyes. And beautiful, so beautiful. She closed her eyes, fingers digging into his shoulders as he pounded away at her. She felt her breath catch and shudder in her throat--and then her back arched as his ferocious movements drove her over the edge.

  Her long cries echoed off the walls as he moved fiercely against her, the divan shaking, her body writhing under him as her climax tore through her. Her ecstasy touched off his own within moments. He shuddered violently, and pressed down on her hard enough to drive her into the cushions. His voice rose in a scream of mixed relief and joy...and then trailed off, his tremors stilling.

  He sighed contentedly as he gently settled over her. She had just enough strength left to slide a limp arm around him before the world drifted away from her.

  “Are you alright?” Yohan’s voice, soft and drowsy, whispered in her ear, and she realized that she had actually fainted. They lay entwined on the divan, he on his back and she curled up against his side with his arms around her. His cool, dry body felt good against her warm one, and she smiled before leaning up to kiss him under the chin. He let out a little sound of relief, and stroked her hair softly.

  “I’m...better than fine….” she murmured.

  He chuckled, then ventured, “I apologize for your uniform...it has been some centuries since my last time, you see. I fear it left me a little pent up.”

  She giggled, and hid a blush in his shoulder. “You’ll have to come up with something for me to wear,” she pointed out lazily, although she had a feeling his shirts wouldn’t be big enough for her to wander around in.

  He kissed her forehead. “I’ll manage something.”

  As she recovered, he held her, at first quietly. But then, softly and slowly, he began to speak. “I know what you have gone through because I went through it myself.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “You did?”

  “Oh yes. Performers and composers alike have suffered some variant on this problem since musical patronage first began.” He nuzzled her hair, idly twining one of her curls around his finger. “I was a less than successful composer in Vienna when I became as I am...three hundred and twelve years ago. My music was unpopular due to its less than traditional nature. I found an audience only in certain quarters, none of which involved wealthy patrons. I was doomed to obscurity, and had to settle for life as a simple copyist working at a conservatory. And I hated it. I spent my days devoted to preserving the work of others, while my own would never be preserved.

  “I was...dying when Claudia found me. Plague. It was still common in those days. I would have ended up in a lime-pit if not for her. I had no particular desire for immortality. But I did have a family, and when Claudia offered a cure which would allow me to continue to support them despite my illness, I agreed to it.”

  He smiled thinly. “At the time, it was like a miracle. Yes, I required regular infusions of blood to maintain my health, but my strength returned, and with it my ability to work. Of course, only at night. And at evening and before dawn, I could see my wife, and our two little ones. I think the children suspected something. But they were always happy to see me. And Constanze...I could not have withstood being apart from her.”

  He turned his head to stare out the window at the rain. “But time passed, and our children grew and left to make their own ways, and she began to age, while I did not. And never could she see me during the day. A side effect of my surviving that particular illness, Claudia and I explained, but...Constanze was not stupid.


  “All that I could do to keep her was to beg my sire for the chance to make my wife like myself. Claudia agreed...but explained to me that I must first let Constanze know what it was that was being offered to her. It is not in our practice to take the unwilling, you see.”

  He looked at her, his eyes bright again, and sadness written in every line of his face. “And so one night, I showed her. And I told her the whole truth...and she ran from me.” He blinked rapidly and looked away again. “I followed, for she was so frightened, and I feared her running in the dark. Our garden was as black as a tomb, after all. But the harder I tried to catch up, the more desperately she fled from me.

  “I don’t know if she tripped, or struck her head on a branch in a certain way, or what other misadventure befell her before I caught up. But I found her...with her neck broken. Already gone.”

  He was shaking. She ran her hand up over his shoulder, and caressed her way up and down his arm until he calmed and looked up at her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I can see now why you would expect me to run.”

  He licked his lips, nodding slowly. “I have been alone ever since. I mourned her a long time. And my shrew of a progeny Imelda made certain to drive away anyone she thought I might fall for. I’m sure she’ll take a swipe at you as well.” He offered a tight smile. “I wish I could have kept this from you just a little longer. I would have enjoyed...just a little, innocent time with you, without the facts of my existence always imposing themselves.”

  She rolled over so that she lay over him, fingers sliding over his chest. “I don’t really understand all these things. But...I would rather know. You don’t have to hide things from me, Yohan. I...I’m not perfect, and I don’t know much about love to begin with. But I know that if you’re with someone, you have to love them as they are. Not as you or they would want them to be. This is going to take some getting used to. But I’m new at everything to do with relationships, so...I...will just do my best.”

  He sighed happily, and then gasped softly as she kissed his chest. “You are a wonder,” he murmured. “I...never imagined that you would stay. No matter what Claudia said.”

  She propped herself up on her arms and blinked down at him. “She...set us up?”

  He smiled wryly. “Oh yes, curse her and bless her at once, my meddling sire. She’s been setting up these contests to find someone for me. Said she was tired of my moping!”

  “Oh my God.” She blushed and giggled, hiding her face under his chin. “So that’s what this was about.”

  “Yes.”

  “...Wow.” She lay down cheek to cheek with him, looking out at the rain alongside him. “I guess I owe her one.”

  He slid a hand up and down her back as they lay there. “So do I, Schätzele,” he whispered as she started to drift off. “So do I.”

  THE END

  The Dark Duke

  Chapter One

  The great hall twinkled by the light of a hundred candles as the orchestra started up for the final set of the evening. The annual County Ball had been a huge success once again, and the highlight of the social calendar was almost at a close. Abigail Carmichael clung to the shadows that flickered against the back walls of the large ballroom in an attempt to shake off her many suitors—aging, balding and pot-bellied wealthy landowners, exactly the type of man that she did not want to marry.

  Not that she wanted to marry any man, let alone one of her father’s lecherous neighbors; she hated the thought of being any man’s property. Abigail was not considered to be a natural beauty, but there was something wild and magnificent in her manner that men seemed attracted to and wanted to tame.

  Her mother had died giving birth to Abigail's younger sister Janine, and the two girls had been raised by their father and a kindly nursemaid by the name of Anna. Although he had tried his best, the two girls had been left mainly to their own devices, sharing a freedom that other girls of their class and status were not permitted. From a young age, Abigail had roamed freely in the great house but especially in the acres and acres of moorland that surrounded it. She had grown up with a love for the outdoors, the wildness of the land shaping her own nature. She would not be caged, not by any man—especially a man she could not respect or love.

  When the weather had kept her indoors, she had turned to reading great novels, where she imagined herself the heroine; adventure and freedom at the turn of every page. When the books ended, she would sketch scenes from the great outdoors; some from memory, others from her vivid imagination.

  A tap on the shoulder brought her back from her thoughts. Turning around, she faced Henry Driffield—a red-faced gentleman farmer who had attempted to catch her eye all evening. She had made the mistake of offering to dance with him at some point during the night, hoping that she would manage to lose him. Now here he was, wet lipped with eyes shining, ready to seize his prize.

  The room was hot as Henry waltzed her around the floor. Closing her eyes, she imagined that she were a simple country girl, jigging with a young farmhand at a local barn dance, free from duty and obligations and not a care in the world.

  As the dance finally ended, she hoped to escape back to a darkened corner, but Henry had other ideas and kept tight hold of her gloved hand whilst escorting her outside onto the balcony. Protesting tiredness, she tried to stop him, but there was something urgent in his eyes and he would not stop until they stood quite alone in the cool night air.

  "Miss Carmichael, it has been a pleasure to dance with you tonight. I am wondering if perhaps I might be permitted to call on you tomorrow? There is a matter I would very much like to discuss with your father."

  Abigail’s heart started to thump heavily in her chest. Despite the cool air, she felt claustrophobic, cornered like a trapped animal. She knew Henry's intentions; they were clearly marked in his puffed cheeks and glinting eyes. His wife had died a few years earlier and it was common knowledge that he was looking for a new, young wife.

  "My father will be away on business for a few days, but I'm sure his estate manager will be on hand to discuss any business in his absence," she said quickly, feigning ignorance.

  "You mistake me, my dear, it is not business that I seek to discuss with your father; it is something more of a delicate nature. If you are in agreement, I would very much like you to be my wife."

  Abigail had not expected him to be so direct. Usually these country buffoons became tongue tied in her presence, and she had always managed to weasel her way out of potential situations with her wit and clever words.

  "Mr. Driffield, I cannot marry you, I am afraid." Her voice trembled with emotion.

  "Ah, my dear, I understand these womanly protestations of yours,” he continued, undeterred. “By nature, you creatures like to beguile us lesser mortals and keep our passions blazing by holding us at arm’s length. There is no need, my dear. I hold you in the highest esteem and my love for you could not be greater."

  Abigail could hardly hear his words but watched his slick, red mouth open and close as she grew more agitated, hands perspiring inside her white silk gloves. "Mr. Driffield, I do not love you." She tugged at her hand to free herself of the odious man, yet he clung on fiercely.

  "My dear, you cannot expect love to come so easily. I do not expect you to love me immediately. You will find it will grow as the years pass."

  She had held her tongue for as long as she could. Panic was rising in her chest and she could not hold back. "Mr. Driffield, I do not love you and never could. You are an old and ageing farmer, and I would rather remain a spinster than marry you. Your head is bald and your belly fat. I would rather marry one of your pigs than yourself."

  He let go of her hand immediately, his mouth opening and closing but this time with no words, like a fish gasping for air on dry land. His eyes bulged and his face grew redder as he spluttered and coughed in his own embarrassment.

  The great clock struck midnight, and with much relief, Abigail rushed for the quiet comfort of her father’s carriage, which waited fo
r her at the front entrance, leaving poor Henry Driffield behind.

  Sinking back into the carriage seat, she allowed herself to relax. It had been a close call, but Henry Driffield would not be bothering her again. Smiling to herself, she thought of what a good tale she would tell of it when she arrived back home. Janine would be waiting up for her and how they would laugh at poor Mr. Driffield; even her father would see the funny side.

  As the carriage approached the house, she could see all the lights ablaze. Her father must have returned back from London earlier than expected. He had been called away on business and had been gone almost a week.

  By the time Abigail stepped into the dim hallway, her mood had lifted and she hummed one of the evening’s waltzes. Taking her coat, Anna advised that her father and sister were waiting in the library.

  As soon as she opened the door, a chill crept over her, spoiling her mood. Despite the blazing fire in the grate, the room was cheerless. Her father sat at his desk, his face white with anxiety and brow furrowed. Janine sat by the fire, silently weeping.

  The scene before her stopped Abigail in her tracks. Something had happened and it wasn't good.

  Rushing to her sister’s side, she glanced up at her father, her eyes questioning.

  "Janine, whatever is the matter? Father?"

  Janine was two years younger than her sister and although brought up in the same haphazard manner, was more reserved and restrained than her older sister, with a delicate, almost fragile beauty. Abigail hated to see her so upset and cradled her dark auburn curls in her lap as she sat by the fire.