Page 32 of Nosfer-Meet You

“You’re impatient,” he says, then winks at me.

I puff out my cheeks.

“Hah! Yeah, look at you! Who knew you had such a naughty side, eh?”

I smack him in the arm. “Don’t you dare mock me when I’m being this vulnerable with you.”

Scotty positions himself over me and places his forearms down in the grass on either side of my head. “I would never,” he breathes, then kisses my forehead again. It’s sweet, but not what I need right now. He’s right; I am impatient. I’ve waited centuries for someone to look past my disfigurement. “But are you sure this is what you really want?” he asks as he drags the tip of his nose in the crook of my neck, which only makes the ache worse. He’s torturing me. He has to know that. “Because we could always go get something to eat and go back home. Get some rest. There’s no rush, Jules.”

I know that. But there’s also no reason to delay anything, either.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, nodding. “I meant what I said before. Unless you don’t want to. If you don’t, then we can⁠—”

“Oh, I want to,” he interrupts, and captures my mouth with his a second time. This time, however, feels most unholy. Our lips and tongues come together like two dancers in a ballroom, with Scotty doing most of the leading, of course. The man is a good kisser. No, not just good. He’s exquisite. As we kiss, one of his hands runs down my collarbone over top of my hoodie, which I am now cursing myself for wearing. “I also want to taste you,” he murmurs, and I shudder against his body.

Yes, my body says. Yes, yes. More.

His hand finally finds the spot below my navel and strokes along the soft curvature of my thighs. Damn these skirts. Damn these clothes entirely. He continues to kiss me as he moves my skirts up my thighs, exposing my legs to the night air. But vampires can’t get cold. We’re dead. All things considered, we shouldn’t be able to feel anything, but the gods gave us all the ability to feel pleasure and pain in equal measure.

“You already tasted me,” I say, but he presses his fingers against my lips and shakes his head.

“Not what I meant, Jules.”

Oh. Oh.

I swallow again, and he sends his hand up between my legs. His grip is firm but gentle, and his fingers are clearly on a mission. They’re greedy, too, like mine, only more focused as he brings them to the seam of my panties. The thought of him seeing my underwear fills me with shame. Not because I’m ashamed of sex, of course, but because I haven’t anything nice to wear. My creator always made sure I had pretty things to wear, but everything I owned went up in flames. The bits of cloth I wear are things I’ve sewn myself.

Scotty strokes my cleft over the fabric, and murmurs something sweet in my ear. But I’m too distracted by the sensations between my thighs that I don’t hear what he says.

“Jules, try to relax,” he murmurs. “It’s just me.”

It’s just him. He says that as though we’ve known one another for centuries instead of mere days.

“And if you don’t want to continue, we don’t have to,” he whispers before tugging on my earlobe with his teeth. Heat spreads down from my core to the tips of my toes, making them curl inside my boots. But I want to continue. I want to go as far as one can possibly go, and then some.

“I want to experience it all,” I say, and Scotty repositions himself to lie on his side behind me. The “little spoon.” That is what he’s made me. His fingertips tease and awaken my sex, and it’s like he knows exactly where to touch me to get the best reaction. I sigh and groan. Mewl and whimper. He seems to be enjoying all of it as his fingers dance with more intensity until it all bubbles up like a soup pot about to boil over.

When was the last time I’ve felt this good? Actually, when was the last time I felt anything at all? Scotty enters my life, and my life is awash with color, like I was a blank canvas waiting for the proper brush strokes. Now I am relishing in a different kind of stroke, one not even the stable boy in my village could mimic.

Merde. My eyes slip shut as Scotty cups my pussy with his palm. What is he doing? I don’t even care at this point because it all feels too good.

“Fuck my hand,” Scotty growls in my ear. Gooseflesh prickles along my arms and the back of my neck. What did he just say? He nuzzles the shell of my ear with his nose and murmurs darkly, “You heard me. I said fuck. My. Hand. Use me. Pleasure yourself. Now.”

The mere suggestion of doing something so … so wanton … nearly has me climaxing. When I tilt my face to look up into Scotty’s eyes, I notice they’ve darkened into bright red orbs. He licks his fangs greedily like he’s been feeding even though we haven’t eaten in ages. Waiting for me to obey him. I jerk my hips forward and let out a soft sigh as more heat licks through my body and into my throbbing clit. More, my body demands. More, more.

My lashes—the only hair still left on my body—flutter, and my hips buck involuntarily against his hand. I am no longer in control of my body, and the tension within me uncoils like a spring in a toy. My climax is quick but as fierce as a summer storm, and twice as violent. Not to mention twice as wet. I’ve soaked through my undergarments. To quiet myself, I quickly bury my face in Scotty’s arm.

“Oh, gods,” I say, my voice muffled against his body. “You are practiced, indeed.”

Scotty pets the top of my head, then kisses it again and again until I am nearly sick of it. He sits upright and pulls me into his lap and cradles me. In his arms, I feel so … small. Like I could disappear in his jacket, never to be seen again.

We sit in the grass like this for ages until the credits on the screen finally roll. Some of the cars begin to drive out of the lot. No one seems to notice us or what we did right behind them. But I know … and I will remember this moment for the rest of my unlife.

“I feel like a young woman again,” I finally say.

Scotty rests his head on top of mine. He runs his hands up and down my arms, like he’s trying to make me warmer. Silly of him. Perhaps it is simply a rehearsed gesture. An artifact from his human life, to coddle a woman in this way.

“I’m not that practiced,” he says, and plants one final kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t go getting it twisted.” I have no idea what that means. “I haven’t slept with that many women. I’m sure you’re far more experienced than I am. You’re older.”