Bite Me: A Vampire Anthology

by Cain, Addison

  Another one.

  Yes, more, please…

  Even though the light swirled, she turned to see him. This man was silken, smooth skin over solid strength. As his dark hand braced on the pale stone, her gaze roved lower, and she felt the ghost of a smile on her dry lips. His fingers went inside her first. Two, then three, and she moaned, hips lifting as she groaned, wanton and hungry.

  “Fuck, yesss…”

  No response. No glance to offer an expression of delight at her response, but he moved above her anyway, fat cock head promising bliss. Then a rough thrust, delirium even with the ache. His heavy breaths marked each snap of his hips, and soon she felt the crackle of energy building. Squeezing him inside to hurry herself toward the precipice. Mouth open, gasps echoing his own harsh breaths, she felt the tension snap, and then she was awash in another orgasm. Her thoughts cleared once more in the brilliance, and panic leaked in, driving back the thick, cloying clouds inside, but she promptly told her mind to go the fuck to hell.

  This felt good… better than good.

  Better than anything she’d ever felt. She offered herself to the stranger above her, the man stretching her almost to the point of pain on each complete plunge. There were those annoying thoughts inside her, fluttering things, like moths drawn to a flame that would only burn their wings away — yet, her brain continued to offer them up, just to let them collide with the blazing fire of her desperate hunger and be destroyed over and over. Repeating, repeating, repeating.

  Just like the thrusts and the fucking chant. Constant and never ending.

  Then another agonized absence, body heat torn away with a sudden jerk, leaving only the depraved ache between her thighs for a few moments.

  “Please fuck me, please, please…” She was nodding, pleading, ignoring the way it made the light swirl like Picasso was having a field day in the air above her. Above her, the statue seemed closer, and for a moment she thought it might have opened stone eyes. Vacant, but somehow not, it now stared down at her.

  Before her muddled mind could focus, another cock was answering her prayers. She rolled her head, tugging against the cuffs, but only because she wanted to touch. Wanted to pull hot, male skin against hers, to feel those hard planes of muscle crushing her to the table as he fucked her, held her in place, bent her the way he wanted so he could move deeper, stretch her wider.

  But she couldn’t do anything chained to a damn table.

  So, she keened, growled, demanded him to fuck her harder. It felt better when it hurt, it felt real when they didn’t hold back with all of their hard-earned physiques. She existed only on a light-saturated island of endless sensation surrounded by black.

  Just the table, the light, and the statue.

  Had its legs always been shiny and blacker than pitch?

  She tried to twist, to look under the arm of the man who held himself above her, abs working to satisfy her wanton, shouted pleas, but he shifted and blocked her view of honed stone. Teeth snapping, she bit at the air between them, jerking hard against the cuffs in her urge to see the oil-slicked statue. That’s what it was, what it had become. Oil. Sleek, black, shining in the blaze.

  “Finish!” she roared, clenching around hard cock until his whole body stilled, shuddered, and then he pulled out. Hysterical laughter bubbled up her throat, the swirls of light becoming an illustration for the razor-edge of her need. Watching the gorgeous man working himself with his fist, muscles shifting under his skin, she bucked in offering, fighting the cuffs, desperate.

  Her eyes landed on the statue’s fat erection, and she groaned, called to it, sputtering nonsense as she stared. Stone hips were now inky black, reflecting the lights like marble polished to the highest sheen. The unfathomable pitch was spreading over the monolith, inching along the impossibly thick, long erection carved at its hips.

  Here she was chained in blazing light, and the statue was being eaten by glimmering shadow.

  The chanting grew rushed, altering in pitch for the first time since it had touched her ears. Still, her eyes were only on the stone beast, traveling over its carved form, higher and higher, until she stared straight into the dull gray stone of the creature’s face — lurking so far above her, malicious eyes glaring down. A vicious expression, hungry, its pointed teeth bared like a promise.

  Warm liquid splashed across her stomach, and she gasped, screeched when another wash of it came from the other side of her. There were several men in robes, hoods up. Would they unchain her so they could take her more than one at a time? The deliciously dirty thought was cut short when one of them lifted a wide bowl made of black stone and tossed the contents onto the statue.

  Dark. Red. When her dry tongue flicked over her lip, she tasted the copper drips that had fallen near her mouth. Blood? Definitely blood.

  “Please,” she begged, chains clattering as she reached for them, cunt empty and needy, but they simply returned their voices to the chanting.

  The men retreated, but she was only alone in the pool of light for an instant before the next man walked out of the darkness. Like an addict, she twitched, twisted against the cuffs, knees lifting the little they could.

  It dawned slowly as the man beside the table disrobed and laid his warm, brown hand into the puddle at her hip, that she was completely covered in blood. Soaked with it. Vibrant red running across her thighs, a dark pool of it at her belly button, but the man above her didn’t flinch — or if he did, she couldn’t see as he positioned himself between her thighs like all the rest.

  How many had there been? Ten? Fifteen? More?

  None of it mattered as he filled her, his cock turning red with blood as he pushed it inside with each thrust. Her growl practically feral, Grace knocked her head back against the stone hard enough to make the lights above swim just a little more. The ache in her skull blended, blurred, twisted until it was one with the pleasure of his cock stroking that crucial place deep inside her.

  “More,” she hissed, half pleading, half commanding — as if she had any power here.

  He answered her with his body, not his words. None of those who’d used her had spoken, but they didn’t need to as long as they did this. Nerve endings threatened a revolt as he leaned closer, smeared the wet slick of the blood over her clit, crushing her to the table with his weight for just a moment.

  But a moment was all she needed.

  “YES!” Grace screamed, completely free as ecstasy shattered her thoughts to pieces. Wild, grunting as her meager awareness returned to the wet slap of his hips against hers. Eyes rolling in her head, riding the trailing edge of her orgasm, knowing without question that another waited, she stared up at thick, oil-black arms. Powerful, ending in curled hands tipped in dull gray fingers with claws instead of nails.

  Her head swam, something pressing for attention. Urgent, important, but every time her thoughts tried to turn toward it… it slid away. Slipped, shifted, lost in the haze.

  The latest withdrawal had her hissing air between her teeth, groaning desperately as she writhed on the slick stone beneath her. Unsure how much of it was her, how much of it was the blood, and completely uncaring about the answer — she screamed. Raw. Desperate. Clit pounding to the steady beat of her heart… not racing, despite the numerous orgasms, but insistently tapping at the inside of her ribs. A reminder that she was alive. Breathing. Feeling. Needing.

  “Please.” It was hard to get the word out, muscles too tight to make her jaw work right, but there was another. Was there an infinite number in the endless black surrounding them? How many voices in the chant? Were they all like this? Different shapes, different skin, different sizes — but all gloriously perfect in their own way?

  Something shuddered deep inside her that had nothing to do with the cock sliding in, working slower than the others. Bigger, much bigger, but she opened herself up to it, whining through the ache, reveling in it, urging him onward with twitches of her hips. Large hands braced under her arms, dirty blond hair pulled into a top-knot, trim beard co
ating his cheeks as he stared down between them. Across her blood-smeared stomach to the place where they were joined, where his huge cock was still easing in, inch by inch.

  “Do it,” she hissed, and the muscles in his shoulders twitched just before he drove in hard.

  It hurt and brought her perfection in the same breath. A cry escaped her throat, so dry, but she tightened her hands into fists, toes curling as she came hard underneath him. The rough planes of his body didn’t stop moving, almost a full withdrawal before he slammed back into her. Another fevered jolt of pain as he struck deep, pulled back, struck again.

  There was a rumble in the air, a bass note to the chanting that had her clenching tight around the invader. A masculine shout of pain snapped her eyes open, and she saw oil-black fingers tipped in claws wrapped completely around the blond’s neck. A crunching noise and the man was tossed like a ragdoll off the table — yanked out of her.

  She was empty again, hallucinating that the statue was moving in her delirium. Her need pulsed inside her, begging to be filled. Oily black, shimmering, from the razor-sharp tips of its horns, down across a lush mouth in a harsh face, all the way down to its hips.

  It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be… and yet she wanted nothing more than to be fucked by it.

  Clawed hands took hold of her ankles and, with a bulge of muscle in its sleek arms, the chains ripped free of the stone.

  “What—”

  No words. There were no words, only louder chanting, the sound competing against the terrible rumble of the thing above her. The thing bent her knees toward her chest, pushing them wide, claws pricking her skin as they moved and dug into her thighs. It brokered insanity to watch the sheer bulk of the creature moving onto the table, which suddenly seemed too small. Much too small.

  She was too small.

  “Oh God, wait…” she whispered, already knowing it meant nothing as those slick black hips moved between her legs, keeping her wide. Its clawed hands landed between her wrists at the top of the table, the thing too tall, too disproportionate, but it made it easy to look down and see the monstrous cock bobbing as if it were real flesh and not stone. Pressed to her entrance, she could feel heat, not cold stone, but burning — or was that her burning? The stretch was intolerable from the first inch, her body seizing, muscles locked as her arms fought the tether of the chains.

  Too big. Holy shit, too big.

  The rumble became a growl, and she could picture the canines behind those lips baring at the empty air behind her as it gained another inch. With the next, she screamed, pain waking up inside the haze, and the chanting faltered. Her head lolled to the side to see the perfect oval of light broken in places with the edges of robes, and then a bare foot stepped into the light and the roar from above her shook the air. She felt it in her bones, and when her eyes opened again the edge between the light and the dark was pristine.

  Alone. With the table. The light. And the statue.

  But it wasn’t a statue. It was alive and horrific, just like the weeping angels.

  Corded muscle rippled across a glossy black chest, and its hips jerked, forced another inch or so inside, and she felt only pain for a flash, thighs straining against the impossible, immovable weight. Tears ran hot and slow into her hair as she tried to breathe, to prepare. Looking between them was a mistake — still too many inches.

  “I can’t,” she whimpered, but the rumble in its chest was all the answer she received before it continued. Inch by terrible inch, filling her where there was no more space to fill — until it made space. Slow, so incredibly slow, but it still hurt as the beast fed itself inside until she was shaking, pleading incoherently, sure some of the blood between her thighs was hers as pain ricocheted from her cunt up her spine.

  A clawed hand landed on her chest, fingers wrapping around her throat, the difference in size almost ridiculous. She shook her head as she stared up into pure black eyes and saw only hunger. Need. Every vile craving she’d been shouting for what felt like hours.

  Its body was bowed, bent to look at her while it forced another piece of it inside and she screamed out her agony, sure that it was tearing her. She whimpered as it slid back, then forward again, a little deeper, heart racing as her entire body shook. Slowly, those fingers tightened, and Grace felt a surge of panic in the haze as it forced her head to the side. Ripping at the cuffs to no avail, she strained her eyes to look at it.

  “Please,” she whispered, trying to plead with the monster above her, but it only tilted its head, angling those sharp horns into the rapidly blurring light — and then it dipped low and pressed its mouth to her throat. There was a brief flash of pain, and then ecstasy. Brilliant, heart-stopping bliss as it thrust and the darkness swallowed her whole.

  Chapter 2

  Grace

  I’m dying! I’m dying! I’m dying!

  Gasping, Grace twisted and pulled at the things holding her down. Soft things, smooth. Her eyes opened to the familiar scent of her laundry detergent, head buried under her pillow, legs tangled in her sheets.

  “What the fuck?”

  Sitting up, she kicked the sheets away and looked down at her body. Her heart was still racing, the panic from the nightmare digging into her lungs with sharp claws, but… it had only been a nightmare.

  There was no blood smeared across her stomach.

  No marks on her wrists or ankles.

  She pushed herself out of bed and stood, immediately realizing how much she ached. Joints and muscles sore like she’d worked out too hard, and between her thighs she felt a dull throb. Reaching one hand down, she found herself soaking wet, clit twinging at the light touch. Grace shook her head at the strange ache, the almost painful sensitivity, and looked around.

  Everything in her bedroom looked normal. Everything in its place.

  She was the only piece that felt wrong.

  Glancing at the clock, she cursed aloud and rushed toward the bathroom, starting the shower so the water could warm. Tossing clothes for work onto the bed, she grabbed underwear and hurried back into the bathroom to get ready. Thirty minutes and she had to be out the door.

  The shower felt too good, hot water cascading over sore muscles, but there was no time to relax in it as she hurried through her routine. Drying her hair until it looked decent, she put on the minimal amount of make-up required so she wouldn’t look as exhausted as she felt. Then with one last brush under her eyes to erase the smear of eyeliner from her first fuck-up, Grace walked into her bedroom — and froze.

  Beside her bed was a man in a coal black suit, her pillow held up to his face, eyes closed as he breathed deep. Her cell phone was still on the table beside him, and she swallowed slowly, far too aware she was standing in only a bra and underwear. Glancing to the doorway, she took a single step toward it and he dropped the pillow.

  They stared at each other and she felt fear wrap around her spine like a fist, squeezing with icy fingers — but down low, between her thighs… heat bloomed. This stranger in her apartment was gorgeous. Dark hair, impeccably cut, and dark, powerful eyes that caught her and wouldn’t let go.

  “Hello.”

  He spoke and her knees almost went out from under her. Some kind of accent, old but familiar, caressed the simple word and made her body tingle. Everything about him was enticing, and dangerous — very dangerous.

  Stumbling backward, Grace caught herself on the doorframe to the bathroom. Panting, fear and arousal warring inside her as he stalked around the bed, moving toward her, she thrust her hand out and shouted, “Stop!”

  The man halted where he stood and tilted his head. Dark, ravenous eyes slid over her body, and she pressed trembling thighs together, crossing her arms over her chest. When he slowly smiled the soft curve of his lips was only enhanced by the sharp line of his jaw, and it was irritating that her intruder was so stupidly attractive that she was finding it hard to function.

  Get it together, Grace.

  “How did you get in here?” Her voice felt steadier, but whe
n his gaze met hers again, she almost crumpled.

  “Easily,” he answered, and she felt her forehead wrinkle.

  “What— GET OUT!” she screamed, pointing at the door, but he didn’t move. Jesus, he was hot. Broad-shouldered, muscles straining against the very expensive fabric. He was gloriously tall, dark, and handsome. But… who the hell dressed in a suit to break into someone’s apartment?

  “I don’t think I will.” The man looked down at her bed, casually trailing fingers along her pale, flower-patterned comforter.

  “I’ll call the police!”

  “And what will they do?” he asked, unconcerned. Then he took another step forward, and another, and Grace pressed her back against the doorframe as he took over her personal space. Towering over her, the scent of him was something like burned chocolate chip cookies.

  Sweet but ruined.

  “They’ll arrest you,” she whispered.

  “No, they won’t,” he replied as if it were a fact, a foregone conclusion. Smiling, dangerously beautiful, he tugged the cuff of his shirtsleeve into place and then spread his arms slightly. “My name is Nicomachus.”

  “What?”

  “You may call me Nic if that is easier on your tongue.” The man was too close, barely six inches away, and Grace had to crane her neck up just to meet his dark eyes. She’d call them brown… except they weren’t. They were black. From the white of his eyes to the center. No pupils discernible.

  “Who are you?”

  He made a cooing sound, soft and indulgent. “Nicomachus but, as I said, Nic may roll off your delightful tongue easier.”

  “No.” Shaking her head she tried to press herself through the wall, anything to get some breathing room that didn’t smell like burned sugar. “Get out of my apartment.”