The Vampire Narcise

“You’ve vowed not to touch me,” she said, picking up one of the finger-length daggers. She remembered this one, remembered the tiny little cuts that had been made all down one side of her torso, little Xs, neatly and carefully so that a delicate patchwork of red had been left. Time to banish that memory. “And you’ve claimed that I can do anything I wish.”

“Indeed,” Cale replied. His voice, still dark and low, was a bit stronger now. Perhaps a bit wary.

Narcise walked toward him, feeling the hot glow in her eyes and the insistent press of her fangs. She held the slender dagger, sliding her fingers thoughtfully over its hilt. The Devil’s Mark on her own shoulder throbbed and swelled in encouragement.

“Do you like pain, Monsieur Cale?” she asked when she came to stand very close to him. So close that his breath stirred her hair, and she could smell the blood leaping beneath the wound she’d given him. Her mouth watered at the memory of his taste and scent, and she swallowed hard.

His glowing eyes, still dark and intense at the centers, bored into hers. “You may do what you will, Narcise, I will not fight you. But I am not one who enjoys receiving—or inflicting—pain on my lovers.”

The rumbling sound of those last syllables—my lovers—sent another shock of desire into her center. Such a beautiful voice, and the caressing of those syllables was a figurative stroking of her skin. Such an intimate word, so foreign to her, so out of reach. To be one’s lover presumed a span of time. Perhaps even some tender emotion.

And…the bald truth in his words, for she could read it in his eyes, released a last bit of tension she hadn’t even realized existed. I am not one who enjoys receiving or inflicting pain.

“Very well,” she said, and raised the dagger. With a sharp, deliberate movement, she sliced a nick in the soft part of her palm.

The blood burst into a thick red line, half as long as her finger, as Cale gave a little jolt, then went still.

Narcise tossed the dagger away and lifted her hand, the bright red blood shiny and slick on the plump skin. “Taste,” she said, bringing it to his mouth.

He hesitated, and she could fairly see his fangs quivering with need as she brought her hand to his lips. The chains shifted and clanked, and his torso pressed against hers, hot and damp.

“You aren’t breaking a vow. You won’t be touching me,” she said when his only reaction was a slight flare of his nostrils, followed by a ripple in his throat. “Just taste. Sip.”

He moved then, at last, his mouth covering the soft, blood-drenched skin of her hand. His lips were warm and gentle, full but firm, as they covered and caressed the wound there. The effect was the same as if he’d covered her breast with his lips, or her quim with his mouth: sensual and erotic, soft and sleek and cunning. He used his tongue to slip around, just as she had done to him, lapping and stroking the sensitive flesh, sucking and drawing in her blood. The release of pressure that had been building inside Narcise swelled and washed through her as he teased and licked with his magical mouth.

Though his teeth and fangs scraped against her, and though he gave a soft, deep groan in the back of his throat, he never drove them into her flesh, penetrating and taking more than she was offering.

Narcise, her body damp and loose, pressed herself all along the front of him, sliding and rubbing for her pleasure as much as to tease him. As he licked at her hand with full, slick lips, she curved her fingers around his cock, moving them idly up and down the length of it. He jolted and trembled against her, pulling away from her wounded hand to rest his head back against the wall as she stroked faster, then slower, then faster, faster, faster— “Narcise!” he groaned, and she felt his body ready, gathering up.

“Not quite yet,” she warned and slowed her last slide. Then, removing her hand, she drove her fangs into the soft part of his shoulder.

He jolted again, and cursed in pain and relief as the blood burst into her mouth like a hot, coppery orgasm. Narcise’s world turned warm and damp, pounding and pulsing, as she drew on him, hard and fast, desperate and needy. Her vision darkened and became red; her consciousness was filled with the texture of sweet, bloody ambrosia and damp skin, and an erotic mélange of sensation.

Now they were vibrating against each other, the rich smells of arousal thick and full, the taste of his lifeblood filling her mouth, and her own, still on his breath. She released him and bit again, roughly, driven to devour him, to take him all in—taste, scent, touch—singe her tongue to explore those small wounds, the curve of his shoulder and neck, the taste of his skin, salty and hot.

Her bloody hand curved around his cock and guided it to her, as she lifted on her toes. She raised a leg, settling it around his hips, and he groaned in desperation when he was unable to help steady her, to settle her in the right place, and she felt the tension rippling through his body. But Narcise had an arm around his neck, her ankle curved behind him, opening her legs so that he could fit into her. She was swollen and ready and with one measured thrust, she impaled herself against him.

Cale gave a sharp cry, echoed by her own gasp at the intense, brilliant pleasure. Oh my, oh my…was all she could think as every bit of awareness faded into a ball of heat that expanded as she moved against him, and he thrust smoothly, forcefully against her.

She wrapped her other hand around his neck, too, fairly hanging there, and planted her feet against the wall at his hips so she could leverage herself within the pounding rhythm.

The ball of heat and pleasure grew and swelled until it filled her center, rolling into a great undulating explosion of pleasure that had her crying out, and then sobbing with relief and satiation as he shuddered his release against her.

She felt the tremors through her body, inside and against her, for a long time…and after a while, she realized she was sliding down off him, her knees weak and her limbs loose and soft.

The wall was cool and smooth under her fingers, and she heard the faint clinking of the chains, the soft rasping breaths of his pleasure and the stone floor beneath her toes.

After a long moment, she opened her eyes, stepping away from his warmth with a shameful little stagger. Her fingers trembled, but there was a warmth in her belly that had spread throughout and made her want to smile. And perhaps even to cry.

“Narcise,” he said after she’d stepped back and gathered up her tunic and breeches, then turned to pick up the dagger and to return it to the table: focusing on those mundane tasks instead of the tender emotions that seemed to be threatening.

There was an odd note in his voice and she looked over to see—

“How did you do that?” she said. He was standing there, one of the manacles hanging free. A chill raced over her.

She didn’t need him to answer, for she realized that his free wrist was the one he’d clasped inside the manacle. And that he must have connected it loosely or even not at all…so that he could—

“You could have freed yourself at any time,” she said, needing to speak the words out loud in order for them to penetrate. As she watched, he reached over and unlocked the wrist manacle she’d connected. It wasn’t difficult: there was a small little pin that held it closed and could be adjusted by the size of the wrist. Her world had begun to tilt.

“You can trust me, Narcise,” he said.

Something unsteady bumped in her heart and a little coil of fear started in her belly. Her Mark twinged sharply. Now that he was free, now that she’d aroused his lust and shared some of herself with him, he’d take and take—

Narcise shook her head to force away the rising panic, and realized she still had the dagger in her hand, behind her back, and she gripped the hilt comfortingly. The blade was cool against her bare skin, but she shifted so that Cale couldn’t see it. She wouldn’t allow him to touch her. He’d promised.

By now, to her faint surprise, he’d pulled on his breeches, and then scooped up his shirt. “But of course I want to stay, Narcise,” he said, his voice very even and very low, his eyes penetrating. It was as if he could see the change in her emotion: from ease to terror. “However, I’m not going to impose my presence on you any longer, for the temptation to forget my vow is much too great. Particularly after…that.” The low rumble caught on that syllable and dropped even lower as he made a slight gesture toward the wall of chains. “But I’ll return. Until then, remember what I said.” His gaze held hers for a long moment, as if to nudge her thoughts.

Trust me.