Page 11 of Venice Vampyr: The Beginning

“I can only touch one of your breasts as you can see.” He pointedly looked at where his thumb stroked her pearl. Then his other hand captured her nipple and pinched it. “Touch your other nipple.”

Her eyes widened in shock. She couldn’t do such a shocking thing.

“Do it,” he ordered, “and don’t stop riding me.” He thrust his cock upward, plunging deep into her. “I want to see you touch yourself,” he continued, his voice hoarser now. He pinched her nipple again, and it turned hard. “Just mimic what I’m doing. Like this.” And again he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending a bolt of heat through her body and straight to her pearl.

She threw her head back and did as he asked. With her eyes closed, she touched her other breast and hesitantly rubbed over her nipple. It beaded.

“More,” he urged her.

Without thinking, lust guiding her actions, she pinched her own nipple and cried out at the intense sensation. “Oh, God!”

Of its own volition, her rhythm sped up, and she rode him like her life depended on it. The slide of flesh on flesh was like a symphony in her ears, and his hands pinching and rubbing her drove every sane thought out of her mind. Like an animal, she rutted on him, barely recognizing herself. She suddenly was a wanton creature only intent on her own pleasure, on finding that delicious release he’d given her earlier.

Harder and harder, Isabella impaled herself on him. With every thrust, he drove deeper into her, filling her more. And she gripped him, not wanting this to end, not wanting him to escape. And then, with a breathless moan, she greeted the onslaught of her climax. The waves that swept over her nearly knocked her unconscious.

She felt the heat inside her channel and realized that Raphael had joined her in release, his hot seed pumping into her, before she collapsed onto his chest.

His arms instantly imprisoned her. His chest heaved from the effort it seemed to cost him to breathe. She felt a warm puff of air against her temple when he spoke. “You’ve slayed me.”

Chapter Eight

Raphael had never had such an elaborate dream like this one: of angels and heaven, of ripe woman and sexual bliss. Even his sense of smell was still drugged with the scent of her, the beautiful Isabella who’d rescued him. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten home after their intoxicating encounter. Had he taken her again after she’d ridden him into oblivion? And to think that it had been his hands and his mouth that had coaxed all that passion out of her.

He shifted in bed and encountered lush curves and warmth so familiar, he instinctively pulled her into the arc of his body, delighted to realize that his dream wasn’t over yet. Yes, he could indulge once more, take the sleeping woman in his arms and make sweet love to her again while she slept. He could drive his aching cock into her and impale her with it until his orgasm claimed him. And then he would do what he couldn’t do to her in reality: drink from the plump vein on her graceful neck, gorge himself on her rich blood.

Yes, even in his dream he could feel the draw her body had. And even now, with the ghost of her form pressed into him, he was getting hard. Hard for her body and thirsty for her blood.

Raphael took a deep breath. Her scent was still around him, and it felt so real it nearly undid him. Not wanting to wake up from this, he kept his eyes closed. His hand traveled to the soft globes of the imaginary woman in his arms and squeezed. Her nipple rubbed against the palm of his hand and tightened.

His cock pressed against her warm buttocks, and he pulled back to readjust himself. Yes, he could slide into her, his dream woman. Because in his dream, she’d be all wet and ready for him, open to any kind of debauchery he had in mind. He could ravish her even without her knowledge, because she was merely a figment of his imagination. A very beautiful figment.

With his hard length poised at the entrance to her cave, he noticed the warmth and wetness of her honey and pushed forward. Like a tight glove, she engulfed him in her dark depths.

“Oh, yeah,” he grunted to himself. “Let me fuck you.”

The woman in his arms stirred. Her ass moved back to take him deeper.

“Yes, take my big cock into your cunt.” To his dream woman he could talk dirty, and it excited him. He didn’t have to pretend he was refined. “And after that, your ass is next.”

A startled cry came from her as she pulled away. He gripped her hips harder and pushed her back onto his cock.

“Raphael!” Isabella’s voice was so real, it made him stop in his tracks.

Then he felt her hand on his—too real to be a dream. His eyes flew open. Despite the dim light, he could clearly make out where he was: in Isabella’s bedchamber. He’d never left.

Raphael cursed and pulled himself out of her, for once not listening to his throbbing dick. A quick glance at the windows confirmed the worst: it was daytime, and while the shutters and the drapes kept out the rays of the sun, he could see light seep through the sides.

He’d slept in her arms—and slept better than he’d ever had—and missed sunrise. He was screwed.

“You promised you’d leave before sunrise,” Isabella said. He couldn’t even fault her for the accusatory tone in her voice.

When he looked at her, he saw fear in her eyes. He knew what she was thinking: if anybody saw him leave her house now, her reputation would be ruined. And if he stayed, sooner or later her servants would discover him.

But what she didn’t know was that he didn’t have a choice in what to do. His only choice was to stay. The rays of the sun would burn him, and within minutes he’d turn into a pile of ash. He knew, because there had been moments when he’d taken short dashes from one hiding place to another—mere seconds—but nevertheless, his skin had burned painfully. He wasn’t keen on repeating any of it.

He couldn’t leave, no matter what. And somehow he had to make this clear to her without exposing what he was.

“I’m so sorry, my angel. I fell asleep in your arms. I don’t know how it happened.”