Blood Wine (The Blood Bond Series Book 2)

by Aimer Boyz

  The defiance flowed out of Michael, drained away. “Please, Symon,” he said, a chastised puppy with its tail between its legs. “I’m ready.”

  That word, that tone in Michael’s voice, it made Symon’s dick ache. For the first time in forever, he was finding it hard to maintain control. Not over Michael, over himself. He skated a hand down Michael’s back, ghosted it over his ass. “What is this about, Michael?”

  Michael sighed, one long exhale of surrender. “It’s about what you want, Symon.”

  “Yes.” His own dick hard enough to crank open a coffin, Symon ran both hands down Michael’s back, slipped one hand under him, and wrapped it around his cock. Michael’s sigh filled the room, his hips pumping as he fucked Symon’s hand. Symon waited, absorbing the rhythm of Michael’s thrusts, and on Dimple Man’s next downward plunge into his fist, Symon swung his free hand at the firm globe of Michael’s ass. All sound and no fury, the slap delivered a sting that turned to heat, warming Michael up.

  Surprise stiffened Michael’s shoulders. Shattered his rhythm. Symon waited for Michael’s body to relay the information from his nerve endings. Pain or pleasure? The answer came back between one breath and the next, Michael’s hips thrusting, plunging his cock into Symon’s fist, and Symon’s hand came down. They danced the synchronous duet together, hand and ass bound by the sting and heat of skin-on-skin.

  “Symon…Please.”

  That word on his lips, Michael’s voice ragged and needy. Come sunrise, Symon knew he would be taking that memory into his dreams. He leaned over Michael, nuzzled into the nape of his neck. “Now, Prey. Now,” he said. He pulled Michael into the curve of his body, gathered him up, and laid him back down on the bed positioning him so that his ass rode the edge of the bed. Michael didn’t need any urging to hook his legs over Symon’s shoulders.

  “Yes, fuck yes, please.” Michael tilted his hips up, raised his ass and Symon was there, slicked cock pressed against his entrance.

  “Michael,” Symon said, pushing past the ring of muscle. “This is about you.” He marched into Michael’s body, stretched him open, and filled him up. He tagged his gland on every thrust, took his prey to that place where nothing existed but the building pressure of the impending cataclysm.

  They crashed and burned together, Symon falling onto the bed beside Michael. He listened as Michael’s heartbeat slowed and his breathing evened out. He watched as Michael turned towards him, flashed that dimple.

  I could keep this one.

  Right. Keep the psychic, ‘cause that’ll work.

  Chapter 5

  SYMON STOOD IN the doorway watching his prey sleep, in his bed. Technically, it was the hotel’s bed not his, but either way, Michael shouldn’t be in it. He shouldn’t be curled around Symon’s pillow with his hand tucked under his chin and the duvet snug around his shoulders.

  Michael had slipped into Symon’s bed the same way he had slipped into his mind, as if he had every right to be there. He had crawled under the covers, told Symon to wake him before sunrise, and passed out. Instead of dumping his sleeping ass on the floor, which he should have done, Symon had lain there for an embarrassingly long time. Listened to Michael’s heartbeat, watched the rise and fall of his chest.

  Asleep, with no challenging glint in his eyes, no smart-ass smirk on his face, Michael looked younger. Symon had studied the man’s face, the sweep of his eyelashes, the curve of his lips. He’d noted that one eyebrow was slightly longer than the other, and smiled at the discovery, wondering if anyone had ever noticed it before. When he’d caught himself counting the freckles splattered across Michael’s collar bone, Symon had thrown some clothes on, and made himself walk out of the room. That had been over two hours ago, and since then Symon had spent more time standing in the doorway watching Michael sleep than he had sitting at his laptop in the next room. So much for boundaries.

  Oh, Etienne would fucking love this. After all the shit Symon had given him about playing human. And Andrew? Andrew would laugh himself into eternity to see a human curled up in Symon’s bed. Not that either one of his blood children were ever going to know about this aberration because Symon was going to wake Sleeping Beauty as requested and boot his perfect ass out the door. So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye. He wasn’t looking to adopt a pet no matter how pretty his eyes were, or how sweet his mouth was sliding down Symon’s cock. It took more effort than he cared to admit, but he turned his back on the man in his bed and sat himself down at his laptop.

  Symon wrenched his mind back on track, opened the website for Santos Wines. A small family run winery with an excellent reputation, Santos was having a hard time competing with the larger wineries. Bad for them, good for Symon. If he was serious about ice wine, he’d have to buy a vineyard here. Canada, fridge that it was, had the right climate. Italy didn’t—

  His cell phone vibrated, Etienne’s number flashing on the screen, and Symon swiped the call open. “Beloved.”

  “Sire,” Etienne responded, greeting him in the old way.

  “Hey, Dad,” Andrew said. “How’s Niagara-on-the-Lake?”

  It had started as a joke, Andrew calling Symon Dad, but it had become a bond between them. A marker that signified the relationship they were starting to build. A relationship as different to what he had with Etienne as the two men were from each other. Symon had never held Andrew captive in a ship’s cabin for weeks on end, never held him close in the dark, or guided him through the fledgling years. They would never be lovers and they were not quite friends, but Andrew was forever and always blood of Symon’s blood.

  “It’s a post card of the town time forgot. Victorian houses dusted in snow, fairy lights in the trees. It’s a freaking stage set from the Nutcracker ballet, too perfect to be real.”

  Andrew laughed. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It’s pretty,” Symon said, condemning the town with one word.

  “So, come to Toronto. Grey skies, grey buildings, grey slush melting in the streets, you’ll love it. You’re welcome to stay with us.”

  Symon smiled at that. Yes, he was welcome now, but just last summer Etienne had tried to throw him off the balcony of his condo. He’d frozen Symon out for two years because Symon had committed the unforgiveable sin of ensuring that Etienne’s human boyfriend didn’t fucking die on him. Ungrateful bastard.

  “Thanks, that’s the plan. I’ll finish up here and stop by Toronto before I head back to Italy.”

  “Did you remember to contact Julian,” Etienne asked.

  “You mean check in with the local vampire border control? No.”

  “He is not asking for your passport, mon ami. A simple text would be sufficient.”

  “I don’t need Julian’s fucking permission.”

  “You do not,” Etienne agreed. “He merely wishes to be informed when a nightwalker crosses into his territory. It is not an unreasonable request.”

  “Since when do you give a shit about what Julian wants?” Symon asked, knowing he was the one being unreasonable, not Julian. He’d be pissed if a strange pair of fangs wandered into Verona without giving him a heads up.

  “Since Julian spent the night pouting on our couch the last time you were in town,” Andrew said, laughing.

  “He may do more than pout if you continue to disrespect him,” Etienne said. “He is not without his followers.”

  “He’s a self-important ass.”

  “A self-important ass with the council’s backing.”

  Symon sighed. “Is the pissant on WhatsApp?” he asked, wishing vampire politicians could emulate their human counterparts. They, at least, had the decency to eventually die.

  “No,” Etienne said. “He is not on—”

  “How’s the ice wine project?” Andrew asked, yanking the conversation onto a safer subject.

  “It’s looking good. The wineries here in the Niagara region have produced some excellent vintages. The climate is perfect. I’m thinking about purchasing a winery in the area, adding a vampire-
friendly ice wine to the Bradewey label.”

  “Awesome,” Andrew said. “I haven’t had anything sweeter than a B negative since I started the night life. Think you can work your magic on chocolate or, oh my God, ice cream?”

  “No, sorry, Little One,” Symon said, purposely using Etienne’s pet name for Andrew because he knew it pissed him off. “I can’t give you back your Ben & Jerry’s. Wines can be infused with chocolate, but that won’t work for us. We can’t digest chocolate. Maybe the pretence of chocolate, some artificial flavour…I might be able to build an ice wine around that. Give me fifty years or so, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sure. No problem, just let me add that to my Google calendar.”

  Symon was still smiling at Andrew’s response when Etienne asked, “When can we expect you?”

  “I’m staying through the end of the festival so, two weeks?”

  “We will be here.”

  “What’s the food like in Niagara?” Andrew wanted to know. “Any local delicacies?”

  “The food here is surprisingly good.” Symon had no intention of saying anything else, but the words slipped out anyway. “Long legs and a dimple, he’s interesting.”

  Silence for a heartbeat, two—

  Andrew and Etienne spoke on top of each other, Andrew gasping, “Oh, My, God.”

  “Interesting? You think a human is interesting?” Etienne said.

  Okay, yeah, now that Etienne had underlined the word with a big yellow highlighter, Symon realized that had sounded bad. Prey weren’t interesting, but Michael was.

  “So, the fuck what?” Symon said, hoping he was the only one who heard the defensiveness behind his bluster.

  “What’s his name?” Andrew asked.

  “Michael, why?”

  “He knows his name,” Andrew said, in a hushed aside to Etienne.

  “You know this human’s name?” Etienne asked, as if Symon hadn’t just said as much.

  “Yes, I know his name. Fuck you both, I have manners.”

  Not true. Michael was the one with manners. He had introduced himself; Symon wouldn’t have thought of it.

  Andrew’s laugh burst through the phone. “Right. Because calling them prey, yeah, that’s polite.”

  “Excuse me if I’m not on a first name basis with my fucking dinner.”

  “You’re a racist…”

  Andrew kept talking, but Symon got lost in rewind. Michael looking over his shoulder at Symon, taunting him. Clear that you’re an arrogant, bigoted, racist asshole? Yeah, got it. Fido. Eyes closed, Symon lingered in the memory, touched his tongue to the bumps behind his eye teeth, and wanted to bury his fangs, his cock, himself inside his prey all over again.

  “Symon?” Andrew asked, his spiel on political correctness, apparently over.

  “Yeah, yeah, prey are people too,” Symon said, shoving the memory away. “I’ve heard.”

  “I may have mentioned it,” Etienne admitted.

  “Bring your human with you,” Andrew said.

  “He’s not my human, he’s dinner.” The denial was automatic, but Symon couldn’t deny that the idea of Michael being his was—not going to happen. Ever.

  “Yeah, right, because soup and salad are interesting,” Andrew scoffed. “And this interesting dinner, did it happen to come with dessert?”

  If dessert meant sprawling across a hotel bed, talking about ancient Rome, or Michael laughing as he climbed back on the bed after toppling off it, or Michael saying please in that way that made Symon want to take the man apart, then yes. His meal had come with dessert and Symon wanted second helpings.

  “Oh, my God,” Andrew exclaimed. “He’s still there isn’t he?”

  “Watch it, fledgling.”

  “Just saying—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Andrew,” Etienne said. “We should we drive out to Niagara this weekend, see the Winter Festival of Lights.”

  Symon swiped the call closed, dropped his phone on the coffee table.

  Assholes.

  He was still getting used to this mirage of a family that Andrew insisted on. He and Etienne had been good with the occasional visit, every other decade or so, but not Andrew. No, Andrew texted, and sent emoji, and celebrated birthdays, for fuck’s sake. He still reeked of human and Symon rode his ass for it, but he had to admit when his phone lit up with a stupid smiley face the night was a little less dark.

  Symon worked into the early hours of the morning, chasing link after link, and found that producing ice wine was a risky proposition. The weather was paramount. The grapes had to freeze on the vine and freeze had a legislated definition, minus eight degrees Celsius or colder. Too cold, or too warm, and the whole fucking crop was useless. Weather wasn’t the only issue. On the vine until the first freeze, the grapes were susceptible to the ravages of rot and wild animals. Also, fermentation was a much slower process than it was with regular wine.

  Symon snapped his laptop closed, rolled his shoulders, and stretched the kinks out of his neck. He didn’t have to check the time; he could feel the dawn approaching.

  Back when he was newly made, the coming of day had fucking terrified him. He’d lay there, hands clenched, heart jumping in his throat, the claustrophobic tendrils of day spreading over him like a cancer. Paralyzed with fear, he had thought each night his last. At the time, the only faith he knew was about stone buildings and gold crosses. Neither of which encouraged him to believe that he would wake again when the sun set. Night-after-night, he rose again and as the years passed, he began to believe that he always would. Over time, Symon learned to appreciate the stealthy brush of almost day against his skin. To savour the same eerie itch that used to terrorize him, trust it to keep him safe.

  He pushed off the couch, crossed the small sitting room into the adjourning bedroom, and sat on the bed watching the man under the covers. He felt bad about having to wake Michael, but he hadn’t survived for six centuries by being careless. He wasn’t about to leave himself vulnerable to some human, dimple or not and—Michael had known that. Why else would he have asked Symon to wake him before sunrise?

  Symon considered the human in his bed, his mind picking at the problem that was Michael. Dimple Man was way too comfortable under his sheets, way too comfortable with the fangs, and the feeding, and fact that Symon walked the night. For all the reaction he’d had to Symon being one of the undead, you’d think vampires were just another tile in Canada’s ethnic mosaic.

  What aren’t you telling me, prey?

  As if Michael had heard Symon’s question, his eyes blinked opened. “Hey, you’re real.”

  Symon had to smile back, because dimple. “I’m real.”

  Michael rolled onto his back, glanced over at the window. Even with the hotel’s black-out drapes, the dark around the window was a little less dense. Dawn was coming. “How long do you have?”

  Symon didn’t need to look at the window. “Just under an hour.”

  “I should go.”

  “Yes.” Symon didn’t move.

  Michael waited, his eyes flicking down to where Symon’s ass was glued to the bed. He looked up again, his face a question mark.

  Symon looked into the grey eyes, but he wasn’t the psychic. “You believe in the Easter Bunny?”

  Michael blinked. “Huh?”

  “The Easter Bunny, leprechauns, unicorns, Super Man, all fiction, right?”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, why?”

  “But vampires are real?”

  The grey eyes swept over Symon and the dimple flashed. “Obviously.”

  Symon refused to be side-tracked, not this time. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? Before tonight, I mean, before you met me, you knew?”

  Michael sat up, pushed a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s stupid, okay. You’re not going to believe me.”

  Symon edged that bit of force into his voice, the tone he knew Michael liked. “I decide what’s stupid.”

  Michael’s grin said he knew the Dom v
oice for the manipulation it was. “Hot.”

  “Talk.”

  Michael heaved a sigh. “Okay, you know my family is…different.” He looked around the room as if the words he wanted would be written on the walls and not finding them, turned back to Symon. “When you tried to delete my memory, you know, right after you…” He tapped the side of his neck. “I knew it wouldn’t work.” Jaw tight, chin tilted up, he waited for the fall out to that statement.

  Symon had plucked this man out of the bar because he looked good, and yeah, the sex had been sick, but he found himself impressed by the man inside the body. Michael expected Symon to laugh at him, to discount him as delusional, but he spoke his truth anyway.

  “How?” Symon asked. How had Michael known something he hadn’t?

  “When we were kids and my grandmother babysat, she’d tell us this story. We’d get into our pyjamas, jump into our parents’ bed, and she’d turn the lights out, do the spooky voice. You know, the whole campfire thing. The story always started the same way.” Michael pitched his voice higher, imitating his grandmother. “Her name was Eleni,” he recited, smiling at the memory. “She really rocked the drama, my yia-yia.

  “The story goes that Eleni worked as a bar maid in the old county. One night, on her way home a vampire fed on her. He ordered her to forget, sound familiar?” Michael asked, smiling at Symon. “She faked him out, acted like she’d just stepped out of the bar, asked if he needed directions to the local inn. Eleni was my yia-yia’s great-grandmother. Please tell me you weren’t in Greece about two hundred years ago. Because ewww.”

  “I think we’re safe. I like my meals with bigger muscles and smaller breasts.”

  Michael grinned. “Man meat?”

  “Total carnivore.” Symon stretched out across the width of the bed, propped himself up on one elbow. “Kids grow up. They stop believing in fairy tales, but not you?”

  “My family does strange for breakfast. What’s a little blood here or there?”

  “Your whole family believes this legend?”