Her Vampire Lord

by Ines Johnson

  Another step closer. My heartbeat kicks up. Again, I feel as though this man is a beast prowling towards me. But me, being me, I do not back down.

  “You will have control over your staff and the finances. I assume it was your father and brother who mismanaged funds?”

  I do not answer. My father is blameless in my eyes. He’d lost the woman he’d loved. He was never quite right after my mother died. I did what I could to keep us afloat. I was so busy with the day to day that I did not notice we were drowning.

  I am so busy in my reverie that I failed to notice that Gaius has come upon me. He rests a hand on my bare calf. I shudder at the contact. I look down to see that he is focusing on the markings on my leg, left by the rope. Though I do not have pale skin, my flesh bruises easily. That mark won’t fade until tomorrow.

  “You are in complete control, minou. I am only here to offer you a hand where you may need it.”

  His voice is hypnotic. If I were a weaker woman, I’d be under his spell. But I am me, so I cock my head to the side and give him a pitying look.

  “I don’t need your hand. What I need is the controlling interest in my company back.”

  Once again, a slow grin spreads across his handsome face. I can’t take my eyes off his lips as they stretch from plump and biteable to thin and wicked. Kissing was the only thing I’d enjoyed in my dating life.

  That, and being held. But none of my partners had had the strong, thick arms of Gaius Serrano. I bet he could hold me tight. Carry me, even. But that’s something I’ll never know. I’ll never allow myself to get close enough to him to find out. That wicked grin might be dangerous to some women; it is lost on me.

  “Name your price,” I say.

  His brows lift. The move is a challenge. I have no idea what he’s about to say, what price he’ll name. But whatever it is, I’m willing to pay it to get my family’s company back.

  “My price is an orgasm.”

  I blink slowly. But as my lids lower, I realize the mistake in that. It would be dangerous to have this man out of my sight even for the blink of an eye.

  “I beg your pardon?” I say.

  “My price. It’s an orgasm.”

  10

  Gaius

  “You’re a pig.”

  That’s Marechal’s response once she finds her voice again. I note that it is not a no. I also note that her nostrils flare, her breath quickens, and her thighs press together. That is all the answer I need to press forward.

  “You do know that pigs are used to find truffles,” I say, “those rare, delicious treats.”

  Marechal sits at the top of the mattress. I remain at the bottom of the bed. My hand is stretched across the sea of memory foam between us. My fingers still graze her calf, feeling the indentations left by the ropes.

  The fact that she hasn’t yanked her leg away also tells me what I need to know about her true desires. Marechal Durand might be in charge in the business world, but in the bedroom, she is completely out of touch with her needs.

  “You do know that a truffle hog can’t actually eat the fruit it unearths,” she says.

  I throw back my head and laugh at this. She is a delight. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to work for it. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of making this woman submit to me.

  She finally notices my hand on her leg. She pulls her calf away, tucking it under her but not rising from the bed. Confusion and anger mar her face. Clearly, her mind knows she should flee, but her body wants to stay.

  “You once said that there was no such thing as an orgasm,” I say while maintaining my distance from her on the bed.

  “It’s a scientific fact based on many research studies.” Marechal’s tone is once again haughty, and no longer breathless. She rises from the mattress and collects her shoes, sliding one heel on at a time. “Ninety-five percent of men experience a pleasurable spasm of the loins, whereas less than twenty-five percent of women report experiencing any such release during intercourse. You simply can’t argue with science, Mr. Serrano.”

  “Not going to argue, Ms. Durand. I simply would like to try an alternative method to see if we can arrive at a different result.”

  “I am not having sex with you to take back my family business.” She stands proud in the center of my bedroom. With her heels back on, it’s as though she’s regained her superpower. Her shoulders are back, her head is high. Her hands are even on her hips in the akimbo pose of a superhero. She is Wonder Woman in a business skirt, no cape needed.

  “I would never make you do anything against your will,” I say, leaning back against the bedpost, allowing my gaze to take her in.

  She smirks as though there’s no way that I could make her do anything she didn’t want to. Little does she know. It would be better for her if I had no interest in making her crawl to me. Now that I have that image in my mind, I know I will edge this woman mercilessly, bringing her to the brink of pleasure and then pulling her back. Over and over again I’ll push her, until her back arches off the bed and she lands in a puddle of bliss at my feet.

  Some protective instinct inside her must see my intentions because she takes a step back.

  “I don’t want to fuck you,” I say, as I rise from the bed.

  She hesitates. Uncertainty is clear in her dark, plum eyes. She winces. Was that perhaps a ding to her feminine pride?

  “But your money is no good with me, either.”

  “So what exactly do you want?”

  “Your pleasure. Give me five minutes of your time. If I can’t bring you to experience this elusive idea known as the female release, then I’ll hand over half of the Durand shares my family just purchased.”

  Her eyes flash. I can’t tell if it’s from the possibility of receiving pleasure, or the potential for getting half the shares back. My bet would be on the latter.

  “Five minutes.” I hold up my hand, fingers splayed. “I keep my pants on. You keep your skirt on.”

  “Then how will you…” She waves her hand between us, her honey-gold cheeks flushing to amber.

  “You let me worry about that, minou.”

  Her fingers curl into a fist. She is considering it. Not that I doubted she would.

  “Why do you want this?” she asks.

  I decide on the truth. “You’re a strong woman, Marechal. Smart—brilliant, actually. Capable. I simply want your attention.”

  “You had my attention when you instituted a hostile takeover of my life’s work.”

  “I’ll give it back if I can’t bring you pleasure. What do you have to lose?”

  “What do you get if you can… do it?”

  “If I can do it then you’ll let me do it again.”

  Marechal tugs at her bottom lip as she’s thinking this over. I know it’s already a done deal. I can scent her arousal. She needs this, and by the Fates, I want to be the man to give it to her. Again, and then again. So much so that my patience is starting to wane.

  As the seconds tick by, I fight to hold myself very still. I want to throw her back on the bed, strap her down, and take her clit between my teeth. There would be nothing she could do about it. And I know without a doubt that I would bring her pleasure enough to make her forget anything but my name.

  “How long did you say?”

  The beast inside of me stirs. I have to swallow down my eagerness to have this woman. I also struggle to keep to the original time. “Five minutes.”

  Marechal takes a deep breath. Slowly, her hands slide down her skirt, evening out nonexistent wrinkles. Her heels clack as she walks to the bed and takes a seat.

  I uncuff my shirt and roll up my sleeve. With my forearm bare, I turn my wrist until the face of my Rolex is visible to both of us. With sure fingers, I set the timer.

  11

  Marechal

  Is this what a prostitute feels like? At least they would receive a cash benefit for their troubles. There is no guarantee that I will reap the reward I’m willing to give up my virtue for.

>   I’ve already given up so much for my family and this business. What’s this one more thing? It’s not like I actually believe in the female orgasm. I can lie on my back while he fumbles around in my lady bits. It’ll basically be like a visit to the OBGYN. If it takes playing doctor with an infantile, grown man to win back what I’ve worked so hard for all my life, it will be worth it. I’ll just have to lie back and think of the vineyard.

  The workday is over, but there’s still a ton to do when I get back home. That’s a casualty of sleeping where you work. I try to recall the mountain of paperwork I have to go through when I get back. There will be bills, invoices, and sales reports, not to mention added payroll now that the nighttime harvest is underway.

  Though each time I try to mentally call up a task and add it to the list, the thought goes hazy. My attention wanders, meandering down long, curved lines of fresh vines until I am back here. In this room. With this man.

  Gaius hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t touched himself, either, the possibility of which had been another of my concerns. He simply gazes at me.

  What? Does he think he can make me spontaneously combust with just that smoldering glance? The asshole. He probably does think that.

  So why do I feel my nipples going hard as he looks down my body? Why do my thighs press together as he cocks his head to peer down? My heels click together like I’m Dorothy, ready to fly home from Oz. The clicking sound reminds me that I’m doing this so that I can get my home back.

  Tick, tick, tick. The only other sound in the room is that of Gaius’s watch. He’s wasted at least thirty seconds in this staring contest. He’s got less than four and a half minutes left.

  The bed shakes as he steps closer to me. He hasn’t taken a seat on the mattress. He’s still standing. I realize the reason the bed is shaking is because of me.

  I have no idea what is happening to me. I must be out of my mind. My brain is only clear when I look at him. My body tingles and tightens with just a glance from him. And now my limbs are trembling, and he hasn’t even touched me.

  And then he does.

  Surprisingly, I don’t jump when his fingertips graze my calf. He touches the center of my right shin, the part where it is more bone than flesh. I shaved last night but I’m so sensitive that I can feel the millimeter’s worth of growth itching for more of his touch.

  His touch is pleasant, but definitely not enough to delude me into a real or imagined inner muscle spasm. I say nothing to dissuade or encourage Gaius. Time is ticking as he moves slowly. Right now, the second’s hand is on my side.

  Gaius’s index finger dips behind my knee. My leg jerks straight on the mattress. The movement causes my back to arch. A low cauldron of heat is starting to burn at the base of my spine. A hum of sensation slowly radiates outward, encircling my hips.

  My eyes are half-lidded. I wrench them open wide to see that his gaze is on my face, not on what he’s doing. In the dim light of the room, his smirk is muted. He smiles faintly, just a curl at the left corner of his mouth.

  Why isn’t he trying to look up my skirt? Why is he so focused on my face? His gaze darts from my eyes to my mouth. He even takes one of his precious seconds to glance at my nose.

  My nostrils flare under his perusal. In an effort to lower the flagging flesh there, I swallow, only to have to swallow again, and then again. My mouth is watering as his fingers trace a slow path to my inner thigh.

  It’s no longer just the pointed beacon of his index finger. The thick pad of his thumb draws lazy circles on my flesh as the long length of his middle finger leads the charge.

  Onward. Upward. His hands climb.

  My lower back continues to arch off the mattress. No matter how deeply I breathe, it won’t relax back down. That cauldron of warmth in my hips has burned a path around to the front of me and is stoking embers there.

  What is happening? Is it possible? Am I going to lose this wager?

  Without any preamble or warning, Gaius pulls his hand away. Not entirely. He rests the full weight of his palm on my inner thigh. If he stretched out his long fingers, he would brush the edges of my sex. Instead of reaching out, he bends down.

  I prepare myself to recoil from his advance. But he comes no closer to me. He simply goes down to his knees. On the floor. Not the bed.

  The way he’s arranged his form puts him on eye level with me. Still, somehow, it feels as though he continues to loom over me. He kneels on the floor as though he’s praying for me. Or mourning me at my sickbed. Both images have validity.

  A few seconds ago, I was ready to call out for a lord and savior over what this man was making me feel. Just the thought of it must mean I’m mentally disturbed, and might benefit from some time in the looney bin.

  There are two minutes left on the clock.

  Less than a moment ago, I thought he just might be able to introduce me to some form of pleasure in the sexual act. Now, with less than half the time left, I know I’m about to win this bet. As soon as I think the thought, my hips jackknife off the bed.

  “S’intaller, minou.”

  Settle down? How can I settle down with his fingers tracing the lining of my thong? His touch is light but it is eliciting a reaction that I am not in control of.

  I don’t know if I’m unsettled by the intimate touch of his fingers, or the out of control jerking of my limbs. I’m not a woman prone to be anything but in control. I don’t know how to react. I don’t know how to think.

  Apparently, I’m not thinking. My mind is empty of anything except sparks of pleasure. My breasts ache. My belly is trembling. There is a pressure building at the core of me.

  And then he stops.

  His hand is still under my skirt. Looking down, I can see the outline of his knuckles beneath the fabric. They are less than an inch away from where I want him to be, where I know I need him to be. I want to scream in frustration, but I don’t dare give him the satisfaction.

  Plus, I need to win. He has less than a minute left in this game he’s playing. It’s a game he has no hope of winning. But I’m starting to wonder if that was his aim.

  When he touches me again, his index and middle finger land on the plumpest part of my thong. The area is soaking wet, and for a moment, I worry I’ve embarrassed myself. That area has only ever been this wet when I’ve gone to the bathroom. But my bladder is empty. All that moisture came from somewhere else inside me.

  With a flick of his thumb, Gaius rubs at the crest of my sex. The skin there is engorged. It throbs under his touch, instantly soaking the top part of my underwear. My mind blanks as that cauldron inside of me blazes ever higher.

  The wetness pouring out of my sex is like gasoline. It covers my entire mons. It spills into the cracks between my sex and my thighs. One more flick of his fingers and the match will ignite, burning me alive in a blaze of pleasure.

  I hold my breath, preparing to be pulled under its heat, to be buried alive in the flames. I can already hear the fire truck’s alarm blaring its warning.

  But no. That’s not an emergency vehicle. It is the alarm clock.

  Time is up.

  Gaius pulls his hand from beneath my skirt and sits back on his haunches. “Ah, Ms. Durand, it looks as though I’ve lost.”

  He doesn’t sound contrite. He doesn’t sound sorry. He looks at me with that same smile as when he made this deal: patient, predatory, waiting to pounce. He’s taken a chunk out of me, and I didn’t realize it until it was too late.

  12

  Gaius

  I bring my hand to my mouth as we eye each other. Slowly, I extend my index finger and take a languid lick. I just barely keep myself from moaning. I’ve eaten a lot of cunny in my many centuries. They are much like the different taste profiles of wine.

  Some women have firm, bitter cunts, like a glass of red. They are best served warm, after riding a sex toy or the tails of my flogger for a long time.

  Then there are the females with the crisp, tart taste of white wine. Best to finger fuck their G-s
pots hard and repeatedly to increase the zest in their juices.

  Women who tend to blush frequently fall somewhere in the middle, like a rosé. They are perfect for a quick snack, as it doesn’t take much to get them off and get the essence flowing.

  Marechal is none of the above. She is like an aged port or sherry, a sweet dessert wine that’s so light and airy that before you realize it, you’ve downed the glass. When you go to stand, you stumble and see that you’ve gone punch drunk.

  I stand now, carefully putting my feet under me. I can’t let her see how much she’s affected me. That would ruin the game I’m playing with her.

  Her body still trembles from the release I denied her. Her dark eyes are saucers of disbelief. I’m moderately surprised her nipples haven’t sliced through the silk of her blouse.

  I’ve only tasted a few vintages such as her. Those women, I kept around for some time. I know then, as I flick my tongue under my fingernail, that I will be going back for more. And the next time it will be for a direct hit of her juices.

  It’s rare that I drink from the same pussy more than once. Why bother, when humans and shifters are so plentiful and at the ready? In the last few decades, I haven’t sipped from the same neck or femoral artery twice.

  I haven’t fucked a woman in that long either.

  Oh, I’ve had them suck me off. But the thought of getting lost in a woman’s body is anathema to me—likely because the last woman I properly fucked liked to dig her claws into my balls and watch them bleed. Even with Domitia gone, I preferred to keep my dick to myself unless I was shoving it deep down a submissive’s throat.

  On the bed, Marechal parts her lips. My dick stands to attention, wanting into that orifice. S’intaller, I tell it. We will both have what we want soon. Likely within the next five minutes.

  “I trust the shares will be transferred over into my name by the opening of business tomorrow?” Her tone is clipped, businesslike once more.