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Right then and there he lifted his head to meet my pussy, and his face disappeared as I made my touchdown and held on to the goalpost. I mean, bedpost. And believe me that he said he was going to go so deep and so good that he would leave his face print. I would have told anyone to take a mirror and see whom they saw looking back at them from down there. After that, the rest of the night was pretty much a blur. I don’t remember how or when my bra came off. I do remember riding his dick and reaching behind myself to massage his balls because that always made his dick harder and larger. I never got to do my other performance piece involving the sucking of dick extraordinaire. Unbeknownst to me, the night was supposed to be all about me. My baby had an agenda of his own. It was my night to be pleasured to the tenth degree. What was clear was that baby had fucked me so long, hard, and good that when we came together, he had so much dick in me that my screams and moans became inaudible. Once it was over, we were still shaking and weak from the physical explosion of the love we had just shared. He stayed as long as he could before taking the highway back home in the wee hours of the next morning. I will never ever forget one moment of my dream vacation. I wrote the vision so long ago. And this summer it was realized.
Breath of Love
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Gaston showed up for our first official date at eleven, later than I’d normally start an evening out. I’d been dozing on the couch waiting for him. But if you’re going to date a vampire, you have to get used to odd hours.
I could have got up and met him at the door, but it was more fun to buzz him in and then watch him strut, in all his café-au-lait elegance and long legs in black jeans and supernatural hotness. Gaston doesn’t walk like mere mortals do. Even when he’s not trying to be impressive, he moves like the bastard child of a martial artist and a runway model. When he’s trying, he throws in some prowling panther for good measure, and tonight he had his slink on but good.
He’s not tall, but he carries himself like a prince. He was never one, just a prosperous free black man in Louisiana back when it was still a French possession. But, in his day, that was enough to make you royalty in a small territory. Tall or not, he was plain gorgeous.
He’s also technically dead, animated by a symbiote from another dimension that lives on sexual energy and blood.
A little off-putting at first, sure, but once he explained that the blood-drinking was kind of like a tapas bar—a little here, a little there, not enough to do any harm to the donor—I decided I was all for helping Mr. Friendly Symbiote get its regular hot-sex fix.
Not that we’d gone there yet. We’d met online (in an email group for people interested in African-American history), discovered other interests in common, and hung out a few times. Each time, it had got harder to keep our hands off each other, and each time I’d got more and more intrigued by what lay inside the gorgeous shell, the intelligence and depth that seemed to go way beyond his years. (How was I supposed to know he was over two hundred when he looked younger than me?) The last time we’d seen each other, we’d confessed our mutual attraction and made out like horny teenagers. Then he’d outed himself as a vamp, touching my heart with his trust in me. That was taking a big risk. I mean, I did think he was probably nuts. Until he showed me his fangs, that is, and then I wondered if I was the one who was nuts, because I still wanted him. I was attracted enough—and intrigued enough by the man beyond his good looks—to take the chance.
Then, in one of those frustrating twists of fate, I had to leave because I was off on a crack-of-dawn flight for a weeklong romance writers’ conference, then had to work desperately to get a book in for a deadline. That was two-plus weeks ago, and we were finally able to get together in the flesh to consummate the teasing we’d been doing via email ever since.
Okay, I was a little nervous about how I’d actually react in a clinch to the whole lack-of-heartbeat and cold-skin aspect. But I’m a thirty-plus single woman in New York City. I’ve dated men with worse issues than a slight case of death. (Impotence? Check. Severe fear of commitment? Check. Criminal record? Check. Over thirty and still living with his mama? Check, and that one made Mr. Criminal Record look good by comparison.) Dead or not, Gaston was dead sexy and, more important, seemed stable and sweet. Plus, he was a primary source for the historical romance I was working on. Research and a boyfriend in one sexy package: now that’s efficiency!
“Good evening, my little flower,” Gaston said. (The “littl
e flower” thing is absurd, especially since I’m Amazon-size, a tall woman with broad shoulders and childbearing hips, but he could call me his little jar of peanut butter in that slight, adorable accent and I’d still get all swoony.) He drew me into his arms and kissed me.
Ugh!
Bad breath.
Beyond bad breath. I didn’t remember it being anything like this horrific before, and we’d done more than enough serious kissing for me to get a good sample.
Stale blood, and death, and rot, all blending together in one putrid mess. Kind of like the way our dog’s breath used to smell when it found a nice, overripe deer carcass in the woods upstate.
I pushed him away.
He didn’t budge.
Turns out that trashy novels and B movies are right about vampires having exceptional strength. You can’t actually push a vamp unless he wants you to.
So I turned my face away instead, muttering, “Brush your teeth, Gaston!”
“But I’ve missed you so much. I have been saving myself for you since we made our date!”
The words were corny, but what he was doing wasn’t corny at all. He ran his hands down my body, grazing the sides of my breasts in the most teasing way possible. Then he gripped my butt with a sure hand, pulled me closer, and ground against me. His symbiote-enhanced little friend, always eager to go, was hitting right where it counted, even through his jeans and my suede skirt, and since I’d been whiling away the early evening writing a particularly racy scene in my new novel and fantasizing about a moment like this—sans the killer breath, of course—parts of me were very happy about this.
If it weren’t for the halitosis from Hades, I’d have been all over him.
As it was, my body wasn’t sure how to react. On the one hand, a hunky, romantic, intelligent vampire was doing the “forget dinner and a movie; let’s make love” dance while hitting a few of my hot spots. And face it, I’d been deep inside book deadlines for a while. I hadn’t even been hitting my hot spots myself, let alone having a handsome man do it for me.
On the other hand, that miasma coming from his mouth…
I extricated myself from his arms, despite messages to the contrary from several body parts that lacked a sense of smell. “Gaston, baby, your breath…”
“I know, ma chère. It is not minty-fresh.” He gave a shrug, far more French than it should really have been. Under other circumstances, it might have been charming.
“Not minty-fresh?” I meant to be nicer, but as he spoke, he wafted a goat-choking cloud over me. “Baby, if you breathed on Iraq, the UN would be called in to investigate chemical-weapons violations. Toothbrush. Now.” I pointed toward my bathroom.
He still moved like a cat as he slunk to the bathroom, but less like a proud panther and more like a housecat who’s been smacked after someone caught him on the kitchen table tearing into the chicken. I felt bad about it, but a girl’s gotta have her limits.
