Page 6 of Vampire so Virtuous
She gasped at his bite, but as his serum rushed into her brain, the sound eased into a languid sigh. As ever, he was grateful his ability triggered pleasure and not pain or fear, like some of his kin.
It made feeding so much easier for both of them.
Within seconds, her body surrendered, and the sigh became a moan, thick with want. Her blood gushed into his mouth, the thick liquid coating his tongue and flowing down his parched throat. Antoine echoed her moan; she tasted even better than he had anticipated, with subtle nuances of spices and minerality. Exquisite.
An unintended benefit of going so long between feeds.
He knew he mustn’t take too much. He needed to stop before she was weakened to the point of vulnerability. Her blood was so rich, so vibrant and healthy, that it took a significant act of will to finally draw back. If she were unable to stagger home it would raise too many questions.
He placed a lick across the wound, the act donating a little of the healing enzymes his body produced, and the twin holes in her neck began to close. He ran his tongue over the last drops, savoring each taste, and there wasn’t even a trace of red on her clothing. But then, it was hardly his first time.
She moaned again, arching back into him.
Out of idle curiosity, he’d once looked into the science. Something about dopamine, oxytocin, vasodilation. A cocktail of pleasure hormones and spiked blood pressure that made the experience intoxicating. He barely remembered the details, only caring about the effect: increased blood flow, compliance, and quiet.
Antoine lowered her carefully to the ground, her legs unable to support her. She’d need some minutes to recover from the sudden blood loss, though less delay before she regained cognitive awareness.
He leaped, energized and reinvigorated, expecting to use a ledge half-way up the three-story building to spring to his perch. Pleasantly surprised, he soared high with a single effortless bound to the rooftop. Potent blood indeed. It might keep the craving at bay for longer.
Once more crouched above the alley, wreathed in his shadows, Antoine watched her limp form. Normally, he’d have already left, but tonight he felt uncharacteristically protective as he savored the intoxicating taste of her blood.
Such a delightful morsel didn’t deserve to be abandoned so, but he had his rules, and never fed from the same source twice. Though in her case, he was sorely tempted to break them.
“Because, my pet, rules are just rules.”
The memory intruded, and Antoine blinked. It had been years since he’d thought of her, and still her words plagued him, the lilt of her French accent as it echoed in his mind not deadened by time or distance.
Another set of footsteps marked the approach of a new visitor to the alley. The man walked with haste—until he saw the woman on the ground. He halted, but there was no concern in his stance, no instinct to rush to her aid.
“Well, well.” His words drifted through the quiet night, easy for Antoine to hear. “Fortunate indeed. I thought I’d lost you there.”
The woman didn’t respond; she hadn’t recovered enough to be capable of speech. She was barely on the cusp of consciousness, unaware of what was occurring.
The man drew closer, his steps measured, deliberate. He crouched beside her. “You hardly drank anything.” Antoine heard the words as clearly as if the man were standing beside him. “And yet here you lie, helpless. A gift.”
The man looked over his shoulder, as if confirming they were alone. The alley remained silent. “I think you owe me,” the man murmured, though whether to himself or the woman, Antoine wasn’t sure. The man reachedout, brushing a loose strand of hair from her unresponsive face, then trailed his fingers down over her cheek, along her neck, to her throat. He didn’t seem to notice the mark Antoine had left; the wound had already healed, the remnants subtle, and the alley was dimly lit.
But the gloom was no impediment to Antoine, who saw everything with perfect clarity as the man’s hand trailed lower, flicking open the top button of her blouse.
Antoine clenched his jaw. She was merely chattel, his latest prey. Nothing more.
So why was he still here?
He didn’t linger with mortals. He didn’t watch them afterward. Yet now, crouched above, seeing the man’s fingers trail lower, something about the scene needled at him.
Perhaps it was the way her body remained limp, left like discarded prey. Or the fact that she’d still be walking upright if not for him.
Whatever it was, it coiled low in his gut and refused to dislodge.
She was a fighter, a warrior, which he could respect. She wouldn’t be in this situation if not for him. A man like this wouldn’t have come anywhere near her under normal circumstances—which likely explained why she was walking home alone. A jilted lover? No, she wouldn’t have risked the alley. An ex? No. He couldn’t imagine her ever lowering herself to that.
Ah. A rejection.
That better fit the man’s mutterings.
And yet he’d followed her. With such haste.
The man slipped another button free. Still she didn’t stir. A hint of dark blue lace glimpsed against her smooth, creamy skin, and his fingers unfastened the next button.
